National Geographic : 1960 Aug
great Schafberg, a peasant and his wife rake hay and pitch it into a lopsided cart; their red and-white oxen brace splayed feet and philo sophically chew their cuds. A kitten purrs like a machine gun at my feet, sniffing on my plate the skeleton of a fish I netted this morning; there is little to pass on. Whistling, a baker's boy in chef's cap and white apron rides up on his bike. A bag over his shoulder contains the day's fresh bread, long loaves sticking out like so many fat arrows from a quiver. The sun has climbed now above the lime stone peaks and spills its warmth across the checkered tablecloth. It was considerably chillier early this morning, when I stumbled 248 out of bed to meet the fishmaster of St. Wolf gang, Nikolaus Hiplinger, at his boathouse. Hiplinger, lean, barefoot, deeply tanned, bushy-browed, was accompanied by his 21 year-old son and a big collie. We stepped gingerly into his 30-foot, pea-pod-shaped boat, and Hoplinger, steering with a paddle tucked under one arm, sent it skimming out onto the glass-calm waters. At the first keg-float the fishmaster stopped, and his son began delicately to reel in, hand over hand, the net they had set the evening before. As the webbing broke the surface, we could see several silvery Reinanken entangled by their gills.