Bustling across softball sized rock, as slippery as if they had been dipped in oil, attempting to balance while whipping around a 9 foot pole, with a blinding razor sharp hook on the end, in wind that seems to have an agenda to seat that hook somewhere in your upper torso, all of this happening while waist deep in just above freezing waters in the hope that maybe you’ll get to see the kaleidoscope of colors that acts as a fingerprint painted onto the side of a fish that may be no larger than the palm of you hand, and this attempt just to release that fish back to the steam covered waters from which it came. You may ask why I, or anyone for that matter, would do this?