(Originally published in the Philadelphia Daily News, March 28, 2008)
“And perhaps across his mind there’ll flit a little errant wish, that a man might not have to become old, never outgrow the parks and the merry-go-rounds of his youth. And he’ll smile then too because he’ll know it is just an errant wish”. Rod Serling narration from the Twilight Zone episode “Walking Distance”
As I walked through a Sporting Goods store recently, I noticed a small sign stating that “Opening Day” for trout season in Philadelphia is Saturday, March 29. I smiled as I read it, because it conjured up pleasant memories from my youth of trout fishing, and opening days spent “back the crick” with my buddies.
The Wissahickon Creek (pronounced “crick” in Philly-speak) snakes through the northwest neighborhoods of Philadelphia, and it was an annual rite of spring for the young boys of Roxborough, Manayunk, and East Falls to prepare for opening day of trout season. I’m told that it was very much the same thing in the NE Philly neighborhoods surrounding Pennypack Creek.
My fellow fishermen in those days were the boys that I had grown up with, most of whom I’d known since I was 6 years old. We hung out under a Henry Avenue bridge, and called ourselves “The Bridge.” Other guys in the neighborhood mockingly called us “The Trolls.” It seemed as if our major goal in life back then was to make each other laugh, and we were pretty good at it, too. We made up amusing nicknames for each other, most of which were references to some unique anatomical feature we possessed. There was Curly, Freckle, Hair, Fly, Gut, and Chalk (because of his pale complexion). A lot of these nicknames centered on head sizes or shapes, so we also had Brick Head, Pineapple Head, Bucket Head, Globin, and Boulder.
We used to make up bawdy songs, with indecent lyrics that we would sing as we walked along the trails of the Wissahickon. We thought of ourselves as being great outdoorsmen simply because we knew how to light a fire with a magnifying glass and cook minute steaks in old pans we confiscated from our kitchens. Our plan was to cook the fish that we caught and pretend that we could “live off the land” if we had to, but most of us weren’t very good at fishing. Bucket Head and I once grabbed a dead trout that was floating downstream and fried it. Of course, we had no idea what we were doing, and didn’t gut and bone the fish. I can still remember my poor mother struggling to scrape the mysterious foul-smelling gristle from that old black pan. But, that was nothing compared to what I had to scrape the day after I ate it.
One of my buddies was really quite good at fishing, and we used to call him “Fisherman.” He could easily catch 25 trout in a single day. He was also smart enough to get as far away from the rest of us as possible. While we were busy un-snagging our lines, pushing each other into the creek, or throwing rocks in the water, Fisherman was 50 yards downstream catching trout and laughing at all of us. We didn’t care though, and in the naïveté and exuberance of our youth we thought those days would last forever. But, our fishing days together, and our adolescence, slowly began to fade with the passage of time.
I still enjoy hiking along the old trails of the Wissahickon Creek. Whenever I’m there, I am always amazed by its beauty, and thankfully, it has changed very little over the years. Walking along the banks of the Wissahickon is like stepping back in time. I’ll often stop and listen to the wind as it whispers through the towering trees. If I listen carefully, sometimes it carries with it the sounds of my past, and I can hear the laughter and singing of familiar young voices as an errant wish momentarily crosses my mind. Perhaps the past can sometimes be within walking distance.
I’ve decided I’m going to get my fishing gear together, and call Bucket Head, Fly, Hair, TK, Fisherman and some of the others from the old crew. So, if you happen to see some middle aged guys with fishing rods walking across Henry Avenue in the early morning hours of some Saturday this spring, and they happen to be laughing while singing a crazy song in unison, don’t be alarmed. It’s just the boys from The Bridge, and we’ll be heading “back the crick”.
AFTERWORD: Whenever I tell people who are from outside of the Philadelphia area my old neighborhood trout-fishing tales, I’m invariably met with a puzzled look, followed by, “I thought you grew up in Philly?” What they don’t realize is that the Wissahickon Valley, which I regard as one of our country’s best kept secrets, is a unique pastoral oasis in our large Northeastern metropolis. As a result of Roxborough’s close proximity to the Wissahickon Creek, it resulted in “Opening Day” of trout fishing season being one of the big annual events in our neighborhood. I received quite a few e-mails from Daily News readers in which they fondly recalled their trout fishing days along the Wissahickon. I also have many other fond memories of the Wissahickon, which include hiking with my father and siblings, and feeding the ducks with my young children, but one memory in particular is not so pleasant. When I was about 8 or 9 years old, I was fishing “back the crick” with my older brothers and my cousins. While we were leaving and climbing a steep hill, I slipped and badly sprained my ankle. I couldn’t walk or put any weight on it, and was in so much pain that I thought it was broken. My cousin Micky, several years older than me, put me on his back and carried me all the way home – a 2 mile journey that was frequently uphill over rugged terrain. I remember thinking at the time that he was the strongest guy in the world. At his father’s funeral in 2019, we tearfully recalled that day, and he told me that he has this article framed and displayed in his home.
