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Bacchus, the Roman god of feasting and excess, would be proud – the orgy is in full swing and the sheer visual gluttony of the event makes focusing on the details of trying to get everything right even harder.

Separating the continuous splashy grabs of over-eager young‘uns from the confident, rolling takes of the big fish is like trying to pick out the salient points of breaking news on a radio station full of static...

I'm fried. Fighting butt buried deep in my belly, my left hand bends backwards on the foregrip of a 12-weight while my right hand palms the bottom of a Tibor, trying desperately to slow the spinning. The 80-pound blue shark at the end of my line is heading deep for another run (again), and I saw my backing knot disappear into the depths a long time ago.

Runoff. Somehow the word is far too mild, not gutteral enough, to express my loathing.Can we just agree to call it turd soup? The riparian version of a south of the border bout of Montezuma’s Revenge?

"Yeah, see this big hole? That's in the timing belt cover. I wouldn't drive very far until we can get your car back in to fix this." He doesn't need to tell me twice – it looks ugly. Make appointment for later in the week. The next morning, pack up the car and head to the Henry's...

by Tom Bie

Blue-winged olives are sometimes called "drab" - defined by Webster as "monotonous" or "dull". But I think that's a wholly inappropriate term. Winter is monotonous. Waiting for bugs is monotonous. Frozen lakes and rivers are monotonous. Bluewings are the bridge leading away from monotony, not toward it - they're almost always