South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club

The South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club was a Pennsylvania corporation which operated an exclusive and secretive retreat at a mountain lake near South Fork, Pennsylvania for more than fifty extremely wealthy men and their families. The club was the owner of the South Fork Dam, which failed during an unprecedented period of heavy rains, resulting in the disastrous Johnstown Flood on May 31, 1889.

The failure released an estimated 20 million tons of water from Lake Conemaugh, wreaking devastation along the valley of South Fork Creek and the Little Conemaugh River as it flowed about a dozen miles downstream to Johnstown, Pennsylvania, where the confluence of the Little Conemaugh and Stonycreek River forms the Conemaugh River, a tributary of the Allegheny River.

It was the worst disaster event in U.S. history at the time, and relief efforts were among the first major actions of Clara Barton and the newly-organized American Red Cross which she led. The death toll from the 1889 flood was approximately 2,209, about 1/3 of whom were individuals who were never identified.

Despite some years of claims and litigation, the club and its members were never found to be liable for monetary damages. The corporation was disbanded in 1904 and the real estate assets were sold by the local sheriff at public auction, largely to satisfy a pre-existing mortgage on the large clubhouse.

Read more about South Fork Fishing And Hunting Club:  Dam and Club History, Major Flaws Regarding The Dam, Club Members, The Flood, Aftermath, South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club Historic District, See Also

Famous quotes containing the words south, fork, fishing, hunting and/or club:

    These South savannahs may yet prove battle-fields.
    Herman Melville (1819–1891)

    Eye of newt and toe of frog,
    Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
    Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting,
    Lizard’s leg and owlet’s wing,
    For a charm of powerful trouble,
    Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
    William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

    A rat crept softly through the vegetation
    Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
    While I was fishing in the dull canal
    On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
    Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck
    And on the king my father’s death before him.
    —T.S. (Thomas Stearns)

    Escape
    from the power of the hunting pack,
    and to know that wisdom is best
    and beauty
    sheer holiness.
    Hilda Doolittle (1886–1961)

    I think there ought to be a club in which preachers and journalists could come together and have the sentimentalism of the one matched with the cynicism of the other. That ought to bring them pretty close to the truth.
    Reinhold Niebuhr (1892–1971)