In the late 1950s and early 1960s the State of Pennsylvania undertook plans to build a new state park in Butler County on land that had been devastated by strip-mining for shallow soft coal. In those days there were no environmental regulations that mandated restoration of, or mitigation for strip-mined lands. When regulations did come, the fines were far less than restoration costs. Under a program called “Operation Scarlift” the state purchased over 4,000 acres of land in central Butler County and began to build a dam that would back up Muddy Creek into what would be called Lake Arthur. The lake would be surrounded by Moraine State Park. The name came from the fact that this area was known as the terminal moraine from the glaciers of the last ice age.
My family didn’t give much thought to this process until the dam was built and the lake actually began to form. It was; however, a big deal to those whose land was being acquired through the eminent domain process. It was a pretty controversial project to say the least and I can recall the rumors that Irene Moniot (a fifth grade heartthrob) would have to move away if the family farm was taken. PA route 422 had to be relocated and I remember after its completion the family took a drive down old 422 as far as possible until it entered the fledgling lake. Nowadays there would be roadblocks miles in advance but back then you could just drive up to the edge of the lake to see the water coming up higher and higher by the day. I remember vividly seeing small bluegills swimming in the shallow water over the pavement. You could still see the yellow lines down the middle of the three-lane highway. (Route 422 had been known to have a “suicide lane” in the middle. Traffic going in both directions could use this single lane to pass, which resulted in many head-on collisions.)
As Christmas approached in 1965 I dreamed what it would be like to become a fly fisherman. I had seen Gadabout Gaddis and Curt Gowdy wielding their fly rods in exotic locales on TV and it seemed almost the sport of kings to me. Something that only the elite took part in. Fly fishing equipment has always been expensive, especially compared to the cheap spin casting tackle I used. The rod was the highest priced item but then there was the reel, the fly line, leader material, and the wide variety of flies needed. Since fly fishermen mostly waded for their quarry a pair of waders were a necessity. That meant you had to keep all your gear in a fishing vest (I was used to carrying a metal tackle box around). The pros wouldn’t be caught dead without a small net hanging over their back and a wicker creel on their side. Becoming a fly fisherman would certainly be an economic burden for someone who mowed lawns for a living. These days I am sure there are families that might shell out the dough necessary to outfit their child for the sport but that was not the case in the 1960s, and definitely not so in the Fleeger family. Like Ralphy on the classic movie, “The Christmas Story”, I had my heart set on a fly rod (instead of a Red Ryder BB gun) for Christmas. I thought I could pick up the remaining items over a period of time if the major investment was out of the way.
Neither of my folks knew anything about fishing, let along fly fishing. They didn’t have a clue what I wanted so Mom took me to the K-Mart in Butler to look at rods one day after school. (This was because any specialty sporting goods store that might have a fly rod would be way out of our price range.) Now the K-Mart did not have a great selection of fly rods but they did have one that fit our budget – I think it was around $10. If you figure that a nice car cost about $2,000 in those days that might equate to $100 today. This rod was a white Shakespeare fiberglass model with black and red trim. I had heard about the Shakespeare brand in fishing gear but never dreamed I would own any. Mom looked it over and said, “I don’t know, that’s a lot of money for a fishing rod.” I agreed but countered with the fact that it was a Shakespeare and would probably last a lifetime. After all it was made of fiberglass, which was sort of a miracle material in those days (they made Corvettes from it for Pete’s sake). My frugal folks loved that sort of reasoning. Mom seemed pleased that I had picked up on the longevity ethic. “We’ll have to think about it,” she said. My parents’ standard answer when neither yes nor no were appropriate was to think about it. “We’ll see,” was my dad’s favorite. So we left the store without making a purchase – not that I had expected Mom to say, “Of this one looks fine, let’s take it.” That wasn’t the way she did business. I was just pleased that the seed had been planted and she knew what I wanted.
At fifteen I was not the kind of kid to snoop around the house before Christmas looking for presents. I sort of enjoyed being surprised and hated being disappointed. I could wait for Christmas morning for either. When the big day arrived that year there was no obvious fishing rod wrapped up under the tree but I didn’t expect that Mom would go to that trouble. Once again as in the classic movie, I figured my dad might say something like, “Tommy why don’t you check behind the couch to see if there’s anything else for you.” He didn’t. He just slipped out, went downstairs, and came back with my fly rod in his hand. “I hope this is the one,” he said. I was tickled to death and my folks knew they had done well. I put the two-piece rod together to form its eight-foot length and began to whip it up and down with a quick wrist motion. No spin-casting rod had ever felt this limber. I knew that even the lightest bluegill would be a ball to land with this rod.
In Pennsylvania there are only ice fishing opportunities in December so I had several months to undertake my accumulation of fly fishing accessories. On an early January trip back to K-Mart for some exchanges I purchased a cheap fly reel, some fly line, and a leader. I was surprised that I was able to buy a Phlueger reel for less than $4. After all this was the preferred brand in our household and I now had two Phlueger reels. There wasn’t much to this reel - certainly not the automatic kind that Dan Birnley had gotten for Christmas, but it met my needs. It seemed as though the pros on TV used a manual reel anyway. Now I had all I needed to begin practicing fly casting in the backyard. I didn’t know any fly fishermen who could teach me and I didn’t have any sort of manual to go by. I just tried to emulate the pros I watched every Saturday on TV. I made lots of mistakes - for instance I wondered why I kept snapping the fly right off the leader with my “buggy whip” type of action. I never did become a really accomplished fly fisherman; however, in my mind I was Kurt Gowdy (cowboy hat and all) on the prowl for steelhead.
When the mid-April opening of trout season rolled around I was far from ready to compete with the “pros” on Pennsylvania’s streams. I didn’t have the money to buy the necessary flies, waders, vest, or net yet and there was no way I could trust my home-grown casting technique around other fishermen. I chose instead to stick with my spin-casting equipment on the Tionesta Creek that year. This gave me an opportunity to observe the various casting techniques of others. I vowed to be ready for the following year.
By the time summer rolled around the stars began to align for my fledgling fly fishing career. First I got my drivers license which enabled me to fish more water than just ponds within bicycle range. Next I attended the Butler County Conservation School, in which I learned some real world fly fishing lessons from guys who knew what they were doing. And finally, the Lake Arthur project was completed and seemed to be chock full of good-sized bluegills. This would be the perfect place to test my skills with an inexpensive popper ($1.89 per dozen at K-Mart). Wading would not be required as there was little vegetation around the shoreline to worry about on my back-cast. Plus the fishing pressure was nil as the real fishermen were waiting for the bass to grow. That meant I could be alone to experiment without embarrassment. I couldn’t wait to get out there.
It was mid-August before I could convince Mom to let me drive out to the lake by myself. I promised that I would take the back roads to avoid traffic. I worked my way out West Liberty Road, turned right toward Porterville and followed the signs to the marina. I had heard about a small embayment just south of the marina that provided easy access for shore fishing. I found a wide spot in the road where I wouldn’t risk rubbing the car against any brush (Dad would have had a fit should that happen). I took a fairly well worn path to the lakeshore and noticed all the telltale signs of “slob fishermen”. I don’t know why some fishermen have to be so slovenly but it seems that few take any of their garbage home with them. The lakeshore was littered with cottage cheese containers (perfect for worm storage), plastic hook packages, and beer bottles. The good news was that none of the slobs were still there. I had the place to myself.
I tied on a small yellow-headed popper with red and yellow tail feathers. It looked nice to me but I had no idea how it might look to the fish. From my days of improvised popper use with a spin casting outfit I knew how to present the bait to prime bluegill cover. I was amazed how much easier it was with my new fly rod. I could reach out to three or four times the distance. I was surprised how much vegetative cover there was in the relatively new body of water – cattails around the edges and even a few lily pads. I knew the fish would be hanging close to this vegetation and I was right. My first few casts produced bluegills about five inches in length. Not big but I was pleased how they felt on the limber fly rod. These bluegills were real fighters on this light tackle. I struggled at first with the concept of reeling with my left hand. I was used to reeling with my right hand while I held my spin-casting rod with my left. This was great practice and I was being productive. If I didn’t get a strike when the popper hit the water I usually got one after the first or second twitch. I was having a ball.
I noticed a few small bass mixed in with the bluegills but none seemed too interested in my popper. I knew there wouldn’t be many large bass in the lake yet. I was sure that the Fish Commission had only stocked smaller fish. The only large bass in the lake would be existing fish from the lake’s source – Muddy Creek. It was such a small stream I doubted that it would have held many large fish – perhaps some big carp. I hadn’t brought my spin-casting gear along for this very reason. I wanted to concentrate on my fly casting technique. I was pleased that there was no land-side vegetation to catch my popper on the back cast. I looked over my shoulder on each cast to follow the bug as it arched through the air at the end of the leader. It certainly wasn’t how Curt Gowdy did it but, to me, it was poetry in motion. I was getting almost as much satisfaction out of a well-placed cast as I was catching fish. The good news was that a good cast normally resulted in a good fish.
The more I practiced the farther my popper went. My goal was a group of dead saplings that the dozer had missed when clearing the lake bottom. They were probably 40 to 50 feet from my position. Once my popper actually lit in the trees and I immediately pulled it back so it wouldn’t snag. The perfect cast would be just a little shorter. Now it can be said that any fisherman feels like the big fish are always just out of reach. That’s why they drown trying to wade out just a little farther. I was in no danger of getting wet but I strained on the shore as much as possible to reach my goal. Finally, the perfect cast – the popper at the end of the leader at the end of the fly line made the perfect arch and I reached the rod out parallel to the water just right to see it plop onto the surface not a foot from the end of the brush. I was proud of myself and expected a strike to come immediately. I waited a few seconds and then lifted the rod about a foot to cause the popper to twitch. I saw the boil on the surface and the bug disappear while the rod bent noticeably more than before. This was a larger fish. Perhaps one of the small bass. I raised my rod hand to shoulder height to assure the fish didn’t go back into the trees. It broke the surface and I could see that it was a bluegill of almost nine inches – easily the biggest fish so far. What a fight it was putting up on my new rod. I was enjoying this battle that, on heavy tackle would have meant just reeling the fish to shore.
After just a few minutes of playing the big bluegill I had it about half way in. I was in no hurry but the fish was starting to tire of this fight. There was still tension on the line as the fish struggled for the lake bottom when all of a sudden my rod doubled over and almost pulled out of my grip. I couldn’t figure out what in the world had happened but it seemed my bluegill had instantly gained five pounds. He headed for deeper water, stripping fly line off my reel at an amazing rate. I was baffled by this turn of events but soon came to the realization that the only possible explanation was that a larger fish (a much larger one) had eaten my bluegill and was now at the end of my line. It felt like a big carp but I couldn’t imagine any carp’s mouth being large enough to ingest an 8 or 9 inch bluegill. For that matter I had never seen any fish that might eat a bluegill of that size. Whatever it was it was heading for that bunch of saplings and I was determined not to let it make them. I strained on the rod and tried to reel in a little line. I managed to turn the fish but now it was headed toward the deepest part of the lake. Once again the reel sang as line stripped from it. I was in unexplored territory. Never had I hooked a fish with the power to make such a run. I didn’t know what to do but I figured I better try to halt it before it came to the end of my line. As I pulled up on the rod it bent double. I thought it might break and began to actually hope that the line broke before the rod did. The miracle of fiberglass – the rod performed as intended and I was able to once again gain some control. I pulled back on the rod and then reeled in the slack, then repeated the procedure as I had seen Gadabout Gaddis do while landing a bonefish in the Florida Keys. I was actually making progress and the fish was coming to me. My panic was gradually being replaced by pleasure. I was starting to enjoy this fight. The fish began to come off the bottom and suddenly, as I pulled back hard on the rod he broke the surface. I couldn’t believe my eyes – it was a largemouth bass! I swear it was at least the size of the one Clem Smoot had caught at Cooper’s Lake years before. Now I became determined to land this fish. My name was going down in the local annals right next to Clem’s for big bass prowess.
The leap seemed to provide the bass with renewed energy. It was as though he saw his competitor face to face and became just as determined that my name would not be next to Clem’s (not to mention that he would not wind up as supper – like Clem’s fish did). He made another run for deep water but I now had at least a few minutes more experience and turned him quickly. My arms were actually starting to tire. Something I had never felt while fishing. It seemed as though this fight was lasting a long time although I’m sure it was much more brief than I imagined. One more time I could feel the bass head for the surface. It was a spectacular leap a few feet into the air. At the height of his jump he shook his head and in a split second I saw two fish – the bluegill still attached to my line and the big bass that had just spit it out. My rod went limp as the big bass hit the water with a loud kerplunk. The bluegill lay crippled on the surface, swimming in slow circles. I quickly reeled it in for a close examination. It was pretty well chewed up and the tail was almost completely gone. I thought about taking it home with me to back up a story that I figured nobody would believe but I threw it over my shoulder into the weeds for raccoon food.
I pulled out my pipe and put my rod down beside me, laying back in the grass to savor the moment. I had actually hooked a large fish on a fly rod (albeit by accident). It was almost as though I had become a real fisherman that day. I had driven to the lake by myself. Johnny hadn’t been by my side to coach me. I just sort of wished that someone had been there to witness my fight with the bass.
The rest of the afternoon was spent hooking bluegills and playing them around the lake where I thought the big bass might hang out – just in case he was still hungry. Of course to no avail. That bass didn’t get that big by being stupid enough to eat an already hooked bluegill twice. I kept replaying the fight in my mind, wondering if I could have done anything different to land the fish. I supposed that since my popper never actually hooked the bass (only the bluegill) all he had to do was spit out the smaller fish.
When I got home Mom had all sorts of questions about how I did driving the car out to the lake. All I wanted to talk about was my unique experience with the big bass. She didn’t have a clue what I was talking about but tried to sound impressed because I was so excited. Dad and Johnny came home from work at the dealership about 5:30 and I couldn’t wait to tell them the story. Dad just nodded as he read the Butler Eagle. I should have known that it made sense to Johnny. The voracious reader that he was, he had read about such things happening but mainly in saltwater environments. He actually believed my story. I wasn’t so lucky when I got together with my fishing buddies after supper. They howled with laughter and said that was the biggest fish story they’d ever heard.
It took until I was 57 years old and fishing our community pond in Texas before I finally landed a bass as big as the one I hooked that day at sixteen. It was taken on a medium weight spinning rod and certainly didn’t feel as big as the one on the fly rod. That day at Lake Arthur was the first of many enjoyable ones with a fly rod in my hand. How I miss those carefree times when the only worry was being home before supper.
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