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

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.

I'm sick of waiting for Bie to make a new blog post. He's been fighting that shark for like two months. So here's a quick rundown since July, like Berman's Fastest Three Minutes:


1) Because there's just something about a dude wearing camo, holding a bloody bear carcass. (Headline inside: "Do Goldilocks a Favor.") Sure, you might not ask him to take your SATs for you, but when your gutless little hippy car slides off the road in a snowstorm, guarantee this dude rolls up in an F350 and pulls your pansy ass out.