march, 1968 - Pennsylvania Fish and Boat Commission

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OIL MOON continued from page 21 the morning. Shadrach in his many trips to the hotel during the night had reserved a room. The dawn had already broken and silhouetted the white-painted Morey House to the east. CHAPTER ELEVEN FEBRUARY 8, 1866 HAD BEEN a very exhausting day for Tom Dunn. Even though he was healthy, husky and young, the 12-mile walk from Titusville to Pithole, the struggling he did to bring the bruised pack peddler to the Morey House, the running and the excitement of the Tremont House fire and then the long night's work at The Record had tired Tom. Now as he rested in bed sleep would not come. His room at the Chase overlooked busy, noisy Holmden Street. At daybreak nine stage coaches would be leaving. Horses snorted and whinnied. Jn the valley barked the peppy pump engines. Someone shouted reservations for Miller Farm where train connections could be made for Pittsburgh, Chicago, Buffalo, New York. As one coach clattered off for that Oil Creek station over the only plank road in the oil region at that time passengers crowded into a Pomeroy Express stage making up for the four-hour ride to Titusville and for West Hickory, the latter a new oil port in the forests of Warren County fifteen miles to the north. Coaches were leaving early that morning to travel on a pavement of heavy frost. Frozen roads would permit good speed until the ponderous wagons freighting timber, engines, flour, building bricks, drilling rigs and iron stock tanks reappeared on all roads converging on busy Pithole. It seemed to Tom that he had barely fallen asleep to the calls of the stage drivers when another caller banged on his door. "Wake up, Tom. " It's three o'clock in the afternoon] "You've sleeping through one of Pithole's most exciting days. And Pithole's has many. See you in the dining room. Ask for Colonel Morton's table, if you can't see us. The room is getting crowded. We'll all eat together," the voice trailed off in the hallway. Some time passed before Tom could orient himself and identify his rouser as his new employer and surrender his restful if unfamiliar bed. Although the day had dawned clear clouds had rolled in from Lake Erie by midmorning. Snow had fallen. About three inches now covered the roofs of the unheated pumphouse shanties. The picture out of Tom's window was an etching of black and white, of soot on snow. Surrounding hills and trees were white. The shacks, the high, black stovepipes jutting out of each building and the 50-foot oil derricks on the flats near Pithole Creek stood out dirty-dark against the clean blanket. Tom had a corner room. From the north window he could see a mob milling on the hillside two blocks away. Below him on Holmden Street people moved about with buckets and shovels. The buckets and shovels were to be mementos of the oil miners — participants in Pithole's greatest and perhaps last excitement. A row of barrels and containers on both sides narrowed John Street to a lane. Liquid black gold for which people drilled deep into the earth now was flowing out of water wells and hillside springs and seeping into trenches, oozing into ditches, potholes, filling street ruts and appearing under heel prints. This was a great hour. Mother Nature now made it simple for any and all to get rich. Get a shovel and a tin bucket or a coffee pot and embark upon an oil business in Pithole. This was a great event. It towered above all events that made Pithole the most exciting city in Pennsylvania in less than 500 days. It was as momentous a day as the day I. N. Frazier brought $100,000 in profits from his Cherry Run Oil operations near Oil City and came to the rolling buckwheat fields of the Holmden Farm where he started to drill the experimental well. Reward came for his gamble. Six hundred fifty barrels of oil gushed out of the Frazier on her first day, January 7, 1865. The oil now seeping into tin buckets on John Street was causing more excitement than the re-emphasis of Frazier's find which came with the completion of the Twin Wells, on January 17 and 19, less than two weeks later. The Twins gave the wilderness eight hundred more barrels of oil each day. When the news of these three prolific producers echoed through the tall timber of Cornplanter Township to Titusville north and Oil City south and to the oil-wise valley on Oil Creek to the west, a great mob climbed the plateau country of northeastern Venango County. Seven extra trains with women clinging on the top of box cars and as many as forty people crammed into cattle cars and with others roosting on filled oil barrels like chickens arrived in Miller Farm in one day. But the oozings on John Street now caused more excitement than did the birth of Grant Well which spouted 450 barrels in its first offering on the second day of August, 1865, and then became more generous vomiting incessantly 1,200 barrels of liquid gold — worth then $10 a barrel — every day. It made a millionaire in less than 100 days. After the Grant came other liberal producers and hundreds of smaller contributors until Pithole could no longer cart away, barrel, store, impound on the surface or divert into hastily dug pits or waste the thousands of barrels of "liquid greenbacks." Seventeen monstrous 1,200-barrel iron stock-tanks were like a cup against the sea. The oil overflowed all containers and ran into scenic Pithole Creek. Down this wild glen it poured into the Allegheny River. On the riffle at the mouth of Pithole Creek were stranded long lumber rafts, the hard-hewn sweat and product of the Warren and Forest County. The golden froth impregnated the oak, white pine, ash and hickory. Raftsmen cursed it and the government for not clearing a deep channel so that the rafts could have unobstructed sailing. This day of February 9, 1866 was more exciting than the day when the Pennsylvania Tubing and Transportation Company completed its seven mile "squirt gun," a six-inch pipeline dug into Pithole Creek's twisting vein to Oleopolis. This company poured much of Pithole's wealth into pipe. Gravity rushed it along on a drop of sixty feet to a mile, seven miles to river freighters and oil barges sailing for Pittsburgh, 130 miles away. This was a greater day than any day in the last nine months when Pithole erected almost 500 buildings, where streets "more elaborate than Central Park" were planned. This seemed a more important day than the day when a locomotive built in Philadelphia with companion freight cars and long rails arrived at Oleopolis by river freighter from Pittsburgh ... A greater hour than the hour when six hundred men began to build a path for this iron monster .... A more exciting day than when the announcement came just two days ago that the locomotive's smoke could be seen around the first bend below Pithole City. And this too, was a greater day than the days when the same hillside now leaking its oily treasure into buckets and contaminating water wells figured in a real estate transaction that involved more than a million dollars. In July, 1865, three Titusville investors took an option to buy this greasy hillside, a part of the famous Holmden Farm, for $1,300,000. A few days later, after furious proposals, they almost surrendered their option to a New York i investor for $1,600,000. So valuable was the farm slope that midwestern capitalists offered a block of the City of Chicago, estimated to be worth $400,000, for a block of muddy streets, dirty shanties and cottages in Pithole which inflated estimates placed at $175,000. A few days ago the Chicagoans might have considered themselves lucky. Pithole's oil flow had dropped from 8,000 barrels a day to 2,000. "For Sale" signs were appearing in store windows in the block containing the Tremont Hotel, the livery stable and other buildings. People were leaving. The Record readied its own "For Sale" announcement. On top of all came the fire which gutted some of the contested real estate. It was the beginning of the end. But then oil flowed into the water wells. THE REMAINS of Pithole City—a historical marker and souvenir shop. PART FOUR NEXT MONTH 22 PENNSYLVANIA ANGLER
continued front page 7 When I first started fishing with a spinning rod my husband Jim explained to me about casting with the forearm not the entire arm, about holding the rod tip at 2 o'clock and casting till the tip finished at 10 o'clock. Well, I cast With my rod tip pointed at 12 o'clock finish with it as 6 o'clock, the line leaves my reel and goes thru the guides like the mating song of a love sick bull moose and lands three feet in front of me. After repeated attempts to unsnarl it, I slyly turn my back (to get out of the glare of the sun) and removing the swivel, bubble and flies, I proceed to clip off the mess and either hide it in some adjoining bush or in my pocket. When asked if I need any help, I lie like a trooper and answer that I've got the tangles out. I can safely bet that I m the only person in Schuylkill County that requires new line on her reel after each fishing trip. When Jim has hooked a trout I stand by and offer him sage advice like "keep the rod tip bent, keep the line tight, don't horse him and don't scare him with the net." "ve heard some of his friends (my enemies) remark to each other, "See what fun you miss when you don't bring your wife along." Insulting remarks scamper thru my brain but I reply with the remark that sarcasm ill becomes one who can't even have a baby. All men on lake or stream look with silent contempt on any female that has invaded bis sacred domain. Now then, when I'm bass or pickerel fishing, that's another thing. My line stays fairly neat on the reel because the weight of my plug helps rather than hinders. But beware of all low overhanging branches, jutting rocks or other fellow humans. If I'm walking and fishing the shore line my technique is atrocious. I try to remain ahead or behind my husband so he can't see the things I do. If I've tried casting down the shore line as sure as God made apples, I'm certain to bave casted up instead of down. Up in the air that is. I always seem to be in a tree. They come out of nowhere to ensnarl me. I just can't cast underhand, or easy, or right. MARCH—1968 I've learned a lot of easy ways to remove my plug from a branch ten feet up in the air or from twigs and rocks sticking ten feet out from shore. I could but I won't tell you of some of my devious ways as I'm thinking of having them patented. If Jim comes upon me sitting and asks why I'm not fishing, I tell him the spot was so beautiful I thought I'd enjoy the scenery and leave the fishing to him. I conceal the fact that I've lost my plug or broken the tip of my rod. When fishing from a boat I must say my fishing is an art in itself. I cast and my plug lands beautifully right at the shore in a little pocket of a tree stump. I let the plug sit for a second and when I go to move it I have a dandy bass take the plug. Jim is singing my praises and the guys in the other boats look on with envy. My husband is so proud that I haven't the heart to tell him that I was actually casting to the stump on the other side of the boat. Believe me, any fish I catch are pure luck, nothing else. It's as if the Good Lord Himself looks down from above and takes pity on me. In my opinion my husband is the best fisherman there is, bar none. To watch him fish is a joy forever. It's a shame I have to tag along and spoil everyone's fun. I've taught him to criticize me with a smile on his face and to yell at me in a whisper. It's not easy to keep my Lithuanian temper dormant after being told "How the °#!"" i "&*? can you do such a dumb stupid thing?" in a bellow that can be heard for a two mile range. I don't mind constructive criticism—-but not while all the other fellows are looking on with satisfied smirks on their faces. When my husband takes me fishing he's not like most men. I know some who leave their wives on the bank with the admonition "Now don't bother me." Mine stands near and offers sympathy, advice and a third hand when needed, which is frequently. Not only will he render these services with kindness but a remark such as "Don't feel bad Honey, I did the same thing when I was learning," helps to a great degree. He has made fishing the sport that it is to me. We enjoy ourselves wholeheartedly while being sportsmen in turn. We are not meat fishermen but we do enjoy bringing the big ones back, if only to prove we aren't lying. But—and this is the important one ladies—don't expect any favor or special privileges when you do go. When a man puts a rod in his hand, he's not the same man you married. Remember how he held your arm to help you and held the branches back so you could pass? Lady, those days are gone. He's a mile ahead of you, hurrying to get to the good spots first. It doesn't matter that you're carrying your rod and tackle box and surely the lunch and thermos. You wanted to come so be treated like an equal and like it. Besides, you can retaliate when you get him home. I realize that all this must sound like a lot of mud to you now but in due time the fishing jargon such as a Quill Gordon tied on a #12 hook or a crazy crawler and hoola popper will become the same to you as "drop by teaspoon onto greased pan and bake at 350° for 10-13 minutes. It doesn't take long to acquire the slang and plenty of other colorful words too numerous to mention. So fellow females, leave your dishes in the sink and the beds unmade. Get that guy to buy you a license and don't feel bad if it takes you ten years to learn. 23
Page 1 and 2: NNSYLVANIA MARCH, 1968 ceA
Page 3 and 4: CALIFORNIA FAN Gentlemen, One of my
Page 5 and 6: LEAKY BOOTS continued from page 1 T
Page 7 and 8: HERE'S a dandy for the pan. SPRING
Page 9 and 10: More Pennsylvania women follow "fat
Page 11 and 12: were geared with 75 or 100 horsepow
Page 13 and 14: OIL BOOM days found wooden derrick
Page 15 and 16: MM\ . ^fi r^f ~ f. ^*"Z T
Page 17 and 18: the basin and the sperm and eggs ar
Page 19 and 20: THE TRAIN used for stocking Muddy C
Page 21 and 22: BOATING with ROBERT G. MILLER DIREC
Page 23: Anna had a mark under one eye after
Page 27 and 28: the spot because the fish were biti
Page 29 and 30: FALSE SALMON EGG FEAST? by Courtney
Page 31 and 32: "FISHING FATHER" HONORED BY HOUSE T
Page 33 and 34: ANN MICHELE proves the girls can ca
Page 35 and 36: CATCH A TROPHY FISH AND RECEIVE A P

march, 1968 - Pennsylvania Fish and Boat Commission

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