Trip report

We arrived at the river, in the Black Forest, not too far from the Berner
Oberland ( Swiss Alps) but still in Germany, with the family of a lady
friend, her son and daughter in law, her two grandkids, and her black
Labrador. Had my fishing papers, licences etc etc. But no tackle, as I had
not intended to fish.

The river looked lovely, a perfect trout stream, and the kids wanted to see
how to catch fish, so we set about building some gear. A long stick was
procured from a convenient bush, (accompanied by more than ample nettle
stings and bramble scratches, this is part of the essential magic), trimmed
and notched, ( using my trusty Swiss officers survival knife).

One length of white nylon cord, ( about 40 lb BS, from my "Swiss survival
knife kit), one and a half times the length of the rod, was whipped to the
notched ( pointed!) end, and a leader, consisting of a yard length of 15 lb
nylon with a snelled hook, ( once again from the survival kit), was knotted
to this.

Then the real fun began! One length of black sewing cotton, ( from the
survival kit), and, after some slight delay (as the dog did not seem very
happy about the idea, although the kids were enthusiastic), one small pinch
of black hair was carefully selected (from the two large handful's which
had by that time become available) from the dog´s rump. This was fashioned
into a serviceable fly, on the snelled hook, and all were then agog, and
ready to go!

Under strict admonitions to be stealthy and quiet, this magnificent
apparatus was carried with all due ceremony to the river bank, and from
behind yet another convenient bush, which was situated above a nice looking
pool below a small waterfall, a cast was essayed.

The fly floated about six inches, and then disappeared in a ring. One
hundred...... two hundred......STRIKE! The hook set, and the fish took off
for pastures new at a considerable rate of knots!

Such gear, although eminently serviceable in principle, does suffer some
rather unfortunate limitations. Not the least of these is the dearth of
available line. The stick bent over in a perilous seeming curve, and the
fish still kept going. More than somewhat amazed at developments, as
although I have often used such gear, it is not often that one hooks a
"monster" on the first cast! I was obliged to make a rapid decision. Having
made it, with the urgent assistance of the fish, I took a couple of steps
forward, and immediately noticed a number of other remarkable developments.

The air temperature was about 30°C, and I was wearing shorts and sandals,
and a t-shirt. The water temperature, being fed as it was from glacial water
somewhere not too far away in the Alps, was a great deal less than that, and
the shock took my breath away as I went under. Bobbing down the stream,
after coming up spluttering, and trying hard not to be upset at the whole
family laughing themselves sick on the bank above me, my feet touched bottom
briefly, and I paused, or at least attempted to, in order to take stock of
the situation.

As I had somehow managed to lose one of my sandals upon my rather
precipitate entry into this cold and watery domain, yet another of my
previous almost subconscious misapprehensions became apparent. Although the
rocks all looked rounded and smooth from above, they were in fact quite
sharp and jagged upon intimate contact with an unclad foot. Hopping and
bobbing, although rather elegantly and with considerable presence of mind I
thought, considering the general circumstances, and still holding the rod
which the fish was still pulling strongly, I finally reached a rather
shallower stretch, and managed at last to stand up.

During my various trials and tribulations, the fish had, in the
meantime,decided to sulk a bit below a largish rock. "Ah good!" I thought,
"that will allow me a bit of a pause, and further intense consideration of
my tactical position". Unfortunately, just at that particular moment, the
dog, still apparently more than somewhat peeved at the ignominy imposed upon
his person, and the loss of an admittedly rather unreasonable quantity of
rump hair, under considerably less than auspicious circumstances, launched
himself into the river, seemingly with the intention of grabbing the
interesting looking stick which I was apparently waving about for his
delectation and delight.

Unfortunately, he miscalculated! The bloody dog hit me in the chest,
knocking me down again, and somehow managed to get one of his forepaws into
my shorts. This unexpected and seemingly painful turn of events induced me
to indulge in rather loud and not entirely pleasant comment, interspersed
with loud spluttering, while trying to stand up, catch my breath, and get
the dogs left paw out of my pants. I still kept hold of the rod though.

This was a great game, the dog apparently thought, and merely rolled and
twisted, putting me on my back once again.

On the river bank, barely able to stand for laughing, the family slowly and
erratically followed my progress down the river, apparently enthralled by
these events and the kids even crowing with unseemly delight.

After what seemed like an age, but was really only a few minutes, I finally
managed to rid myself of the dog, by the, under the prevailing
circumstances, rather less than simple expedient of pulling my shorts off.
This was followed by more gales of laughter from the bank, indeed, they were
spluttering almost as badly as I was, albeit for different reasons, as the
stupid beast proceeded to tear my shorts to bits, with one paw, and his
jaws.

Always one for maintaining propriety, and indeed for observing priorities, I
struggled to my feet yet again, in my underpants and T-shirt, and proceeded
to apply side-pressure to the fish.

After a relatively short tussle in the shallowish water, I managed to beach
the fish on a stretch of gravel. I administered the last rites with a
convenient rock. More than somewhat surprised that I failed to mangle my
fingers in the process, and then stood holding the fish up. A lovely brown
trout of about two and a half pounds.

They were still laughing, but it was somehow different.

I thought it best to cease further angling operations. After some slight
altercation with the dog, I retrieved my ragged shorts, and a sandal from
the shallow water, and we called it a day.

That evening, we grilled the trout over glowing beech embers, on the terrace
of the house where we were staying, about a thousand metres up the mountain,
looking out over the Rhine valley, and towards the Alps which were just
barely visible in the distance. The Eiger, Mönch and Jungfrau were easily
distinguishable.

The kids were tired, and full of grilled fish! But wanted once last song
before going to bed. Andy ( their father), got out the guitar, and I fetched
the banjo. We played a couple of children's songs, and then it was time for
bed.

We put them to bed, and as we were leaving the room, the oldest of the two,
who is six years old, said to his dad. "See dad, I told you. Opa Mike can
do anything!".

That was an even greater prize than the fish, and equally as unexpected!

The dressing:

Size twelve hook to nylon ( A single, eyed hook might be more propitious).
Thread: Black sewing thread.
Tail: Several long strands of untreated black Labrador guard hair
Body: A small pinch of untreated black Labrador underfur, thinly dubbed to
the thread.
Hackle: A small bundle of longish untreated black Labrador guard hair, spun
and spread as a hackle.

The material is probably best obtained fresh, preferably with the
assistance of two grandkids ( Or any reasonable substitute) and an
appropriate dog.

The kids also christened this remarkable creation, which is henceforth to be
known as the "AA" or "Assi´s Arse". ( The dogs name is "Asterix", but he is
usually called "Assi".

The "Opa mike" was almost as big a shock as the cold water, but I seem to
have gotten over it in the meantime.

Perhaps I will be able to pass on some of what I have learned after all?
Indeed, with any luck, and doubtless some application, I will probably even
learn a lot more myself?

TL
MC