NPO GUEST BLOG- Fishing With My Dad
Editor's Note: I met Joe Pitingolo at a family gathering several years ago, as his sister is married to my wife's uncle. From the moment I met him, I could tell that fishing was as meaningful to Joe as his love for his family. In our occasional meetings and email exchanges that followed, Joe continued to express his fond memories of fishing with his father in Central Pennsylvania's cold-water trout streams. It is evident that family and fishing flow seamlessly together like the water that harbors the finned wonders we seek. Joe's fishing memories led him to write this beautiful tribute to his father, and I wanted to share it with all of you to enjoy as I have. Tight lines! -Tyler
NPO GUEST BLOG- Fishing With My Dad
By Joe Pitingolo
Now in my 60’s, I often reflect upon the many blessings I’ve experienced and the fond memories I have of fishing with my father. Many years ago, when I was forty years old and my father was seventy-three, we were fishing Penns Creek from the town of Weikert to the Union County Sportsmen’s Club a few miles away. Crossing the creek at that point would save a lot of time getting to our car by allowing us to walk back on an old railroad bed. This was no easy task given the width of the creek and rapid water flow. After discussing the pros and cons, we proceeded to cross with my Dad in front so I could catch him should he stumble. About half way, he turned back to me and asked if I remembered when he carried me on his shoulders at this location when I was a child. It was a profound connection because that was exactlywhat I was thinking.
My father often spoke of his early days of fishing. He and friends would get up at 2:00 A.M. and drive several hours, fish all day to dark, before returning home. The men from my small hometown had nick names like Bambi, Carmie, Sweeper and Zidge. Bambi was the town’s mayor and my grade school football coach. He once caught his limit on opening day beneath the Weikert bridge. He fished there on the first day of trout season for the next twenty years, never quite achieving the same success. Zidge taught my Dad about fly fishing and we took him fishing when he was no longer able to drive. My Dad told me that once Zidge got a bite, he would never leave that spot and I personally witnessed this on several outings.My earliest fishing experiences were at Blue Mountain Lakes. Along with my two brothers, we would camp using a Coleman stove and sleep overnight in our 1960 Chevrolet station wagon. At night, my Dad had a Carbide lantern which had been used in the coal mines where we grew up. In the dark, you could hear the bull frogs and in the day, you would see countless dragonflies. (I once revisited with my parents as an adult - the dragonflies were there and still resembled tiny helicopters). When my brothers and I got bored, my Dad would cut branches and convert them to mini fishing rods with tiny hooks to catch sunfish which kept us busy and happy. After several years, my dad and I returned when I was in high school. We didn’t have any luck catching trout, then observed other fishermen injecting air into worms to enable them to float above the lake’s bottom vegetation. We used this strategy on a return trip and had great success.
Other childhood fishing memories include family picnics at a pay lake called Kriss Pines which was heavily stocked making it a challenge not to catch something. I also recall a family outing at the Shenadoah Pumping Station lake when I accidently hooked my younger brother Jim on his suspenders (which was fortunate since he wasn’t wearing a shirt at the time).
Years ago, the opening day of Trout season in Pennsylvania began at 5:00 A.M. While in grade school, my Dad once returned home with his limit by 8:00 A.M. I was fascinated with his description of how he caught a trout on almost every cast and even caught one with just the head of a minnow. He vowed to take me the following year which he did. I was there at 5:00 A.M. It was very cold and I had difficulty reeling in my line. Upon further observation, the fishing rod eye guides were freezing up due to the cold weather. The fish weren’t biting but I was proud to share the first of many opening days with my Dad.
One of the greatest opening days ever was a trip we took to Bushkill Creek. My Dad’s friend had a son who was a Resident Advisor at East Stroudsburg University and he got permission for us to stay in his dormitory. I caught several trout but only had snow boots and could barely get into the water, others with wading boots stepped in front of me but I was already happy having caught some fish.
As a young child, I would sometimes get frustrated when I wouldn’t get any bites (as an older adult I still do), but my Dad would come to the rescue and get a bite then tell me exactly where to cast and often it would work. He told me he was finding the “hungry” ones. We fished many locations and streams. Unfortunately, I may be unable to locate many of them today because I fell asleep the minute I got into the car in the early morning, and immediately on the return home after a long day of fishing.
During family visits to New Jersey, my father went deep sea fishing with my Uncle Aldo. They came back with flounder, bluefish, and many other varieties. I was amused when my Uncle showed me how a blow fish inflated and enjoyed fishing from the shore.
We were among the first to lease land for a camp site at the Union County Sportsmen’s Club grounds along Penns Creek. It became our base and has been for the past forty-five years. Only now do I appreciate that my dad drove home from work forty minutes to pick us up after school to go fishing back in the same direction from which he just travelled.
I got more capable of keeping up with my father as he aged. One morning we vowed to start fishing at 5:30 A.M. but after hitting the snooze alarm we didn’t start until 7:30. It was raining and chilly and we were fortunate to catch several large trout. We also saw an osprey swoop down and snatch a huge trout with its talons and majestically fly away. My brothers and I now complain about the same aches and pains that my father experienced.
I remember my dad’s laugh when I telephoned to inform him about a first day fishing experience when I was in college. I hadn’t planned on fishing but a fraternity brother convinced me. With all his new gear, he looked like he just came from a Sporting Goods store while all I could muster at the last minute was the bottom half of a rod and reel. I caught the limit while my friend didn’t catch a thing.
I recall images of my Dad fly fishing in waders with water up to his chest. The PA state record for a Brook Trout is 7 pounds. My Dad caught one 6.5 pounds. He used to fish White Deer Creek with a fly rod using crickets and always came home with large native brown trout. He sometimes saw rattlesnakes and one time he came home white as a ghost with his fly rod broken into pieces. He stepped on a rattler and he vowed never to return. I had some time between my Senior year last semester and college graduation. My Dad took me to Loyalsock Creek in Lycoming County but it was unfishable due to heavy rains. Not wanting to disappoint, he took me to nearby White Deer Creek. It was cold and rainy, no rattlesnakes, but plenty of good fishing. It was the first and only time my Dad went back after his rattlesnake encounter but to him and me it was worth it.
Well into my adult life, I accepted a job as CEO of a hospital in Fort Worth, Texas. My parents came to visit before my departure and I took my Dad fishing at the confluence of Spruce Creek (noted for President Jimmy Carter catching some trophy trout) and the Little Juniata River in Huntingdon County. We caught some nice trout and had to quit when my fishing waders blew out at the knee. We stopped at the Spruce Creek Inn and ordered a small order of French fries. The waitress returned with a cafeteria tray piled high with fries and I stated there must be a mistake. She smiled and pointed to a group of hunters and said, “that’s the large size”. The small size was huge, the large size was unbelievable. We went back to my place and watched a Penn State football game with my mom and had a tailgate party.
When my Dad was 80 years old, I took him to the Penns Creek special regulation area near Coburn, PA. He caught a 20 inch and 18-inch trout. Some anglers fishing nearby marveled at his skill. Another time during that year we fished a Penns Creek spot known as the “spinning hole”. My Dad promptly caught 3 trout when another fisherman laughed and remarked that he had been there all day and didn’t even get a bite.
The closest my father ever came to missing an opening day of trout season was when the daughter of a family friend was married. We fished early at a nearby stream and made it home in time for the wedding. My beloved sister’s wedding was scheduled on the opening day of trout season. Opening day was missed - but for an even more blessed event.
We got together for opening day when my dad was 81 years old. He had his rod, stood by the creek, and never even cast his line. Luckily it was very warm but he was freezing and insisted on being there. He had survived cancer for over ten years and was diagnosed with pneumonia the following Monday. For those precious moments, he was so happy fishing with his three boys that nothing else mattered. My Dad’s last day of fishing was later that year at the Raymond B. Winter State park. Our family picnicked there many times when we were young and it was known as Halfway Dam. He caught several trout but was frustrated getting constantly snagged and tangled. I was only too happy to assist as I remembered the hundreds of times he got me “unstuck” and untangled.
Although he would have been unable to fish, we planned to be at Penns Creek for Opening Day when my Dad was 82 years old. Unfortunately, he passed away and was buried the day before the 2005 Opening Day of Trout season.
Smokey Stover was an elderly man who lived near the Union County Sportsmen’s Club. He gave my dad a few flies that looked like a microscopic ant. My dad had a lot of fish strike but would frequently break the extremely thin line when setting the hook. He told my dad: “Joe, that’s what separates the men from the boys”. Smokey provided advice and throughout his life, my dad was always happy to pass on things he learned.
Thanks to the Union County Sportsmen’s Club great volunteers, I had the good fortune of watching my nephews and niece catch their first trout at the Club’s Annual Children’s Fish Derby.
I had an experience at Furnace Dam in Emmaus, PA located across from Rodale Publishing Headquarters. A little boy who couldn’t have been more than five or six years old ran up to me and with much excitement said, “Mister, do you want to see my fish”. Beaming with pride, he swiftly stooped down and showed me a stringer with two large trout. That young child inspired me to write this story.
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