There's much talk these days about fishing on the Joe. Even the New Yorkers are some kind of experts about fishing on the Joe. My grandmother used to fish the Joe and wash her diapers in the Joe, no small feat in winter. I fished the Joe as a child and had a knack for pulling out the big ones. Entirely clairvoyant on my part, I can assure you. Seems the truly great women of the Great State of North Idaho fish the Joe with fine success, as seen here:
Clearly, it's all in the pants.
But as mighty as it is, the all time great fish story in our family is not about the Joe. Seems my grandmother, the same one who did her diapers on the banks in the icy waters of the river behind their house, moved to Coeur d'Alene at a point. She got in the car and drove down Sherman to 11th. There she parked the car--one: because the road ended there and two: because the trailhead to Fernan was there. She got her pole and her tackle out of the car and hiked down to Fernan Lake, caught her trout, hiked back to the edge of town, drove home to Third Street and cooked her catch for dinner. My grandmother used to pull dinner out of Fernan Lake and hiked down there to do it. Now just go ahead and tell me we don't own the universe.
The 'Kan EWA