Most people, but not this person.
As the rivers start the flow the salmon are called upstream by an ancient urge, I too recieve signals from deep in the limbic brain as I follow the fish up past the tidewater where my kayak-body changes, getting shorter, harder, more nimble. As the salmon get darker I get brighter, exchanging earthtone nylon for bright yellow polyethelene, trolling rods for spinning tackle, microbrew for pabst blue ribbon, farm fresh stir-fry for gas station burritos. Waterfalls and steep boulder gardens beckon, along with a seasonal cast of scumbags, deadbeats, and ne'er-do-well's. I am becoming a whitewater kayaker again.