The small stream in the surroundings is no better. Our hope for a great fishing day is fading like the color of a spinner turning into spent. We decide to fish regardless. We convince each other with arguments like: maybe with a streamer. And so we start wetting lines. A first bite (lost fish) is not enough to cheer our morale. As we walk by the amazonas-like brook. After a kilometer of useless streamering, we come to a tributary and there we cannot believe our eyes