The elite of the angling world gussy up in fancy regalia-fishing vestments, if you will. They cross continents in pursuit of waters blessed with certain ordained finned life-forms. They lavish entire vacations and wholesale hunks of their savings accounts on the quest.
They stalk, they scheme, they lie in wait; they employ skills built up through hours of video viewing, front-lawn casting workshops, guides' tips, and the inevitable accumulation of tree-climbing, snarl-snipping humility that is the lot of budding fly-fishers. They are daily aquiver with that hunting thrill. Then at the end of the day-ruddy from exposure, whipped by shrubbery, senses tingling with the memories of glinting swirls and jarring strikes and whiffs of trouty bank- they go home and grill up a steak.

When I go fishing, I am hunting down food for dinner. The avocation as art form or therapy doesn't compel me in the slightest.