Life At Ogontz Lodge - Memories Of the Caretakers Nephew

There's fishing lodge along Larry's Creek, in Salladsasburg, Lycoming County Pa, where Presidents, as well as Katharine Hepburn, have stayed. In 1884 it was established by Jay Cooke as his summer vacation spot, and Cooke's accomplishments, as well as the descriptions of life there, are just as interesting as the famous visitors it brought to our area.  To learn more about Jay Cooke, and Ogontz, start here: https://susquehannavalley.blogspot.com/2020/06/ogontz-lodge-in-lycoming-county.html

This memoir was written by Jacob Metzger, the nephew of the lodge caretaker,  It includes references to the lumbering in the area, and a quick lesson in fly fishing, in addition to wonderful descriptions of the lodge, and it's famous visitors.

"Down on the main highway one and a quarter miles from the Lodge on the mail route, is a mailbox where literally tons and tons of important mail from Wall Street and the banking and brokerage houses of New York and Philadelphia were deposited, both incoming and outgoing. That mailbox was the end of civilization so far as the country beyond was concerned. It was all woods beyond for 10 miles to the limit of the Cooke fishing and hunting preserve. A mile and a quarter beyond the mailbox, there is a confluence of two streams, an ideal spot for a cabin or lodge. The branch stream coming down from the right is a small ''run", while the main stream continues on to the left. The Lodge is located here in a  wonderful setting, on sort of a knoll.

From the veranda built around two sides of the lodge, one can look down on the waters of the dam, and at its farther side, the high mountain descends very steeply to the water's edge, a very beautiful and very rustic scene. Although the Lodge was owned by rich people, it has always remained very simple in its appointments. It was built and maintained with that in mind. lts purpose was to afford a few weeks of pleasure out in the woods, away from all the frills and anxieties the wealthy experience in the cities. During all the years my uncle worked there (fifty-one) they never had a telephone, for the simple reason that they came there to escape their regular daily routine. 

All of the rooms in the Lodge were finished with pine, - no plaster - even the ceilings. Thc kitchen was large, with a pine floor, and equipped with a wood-burning range on which my uncle did the cooking. There was a pantry about 8 x 20 feet, which was kept well stocked. The bathroom was large, perhaps 20 x 20 feet, with a high ceiling. It had a wood-burning stove for heat. Water was piped into the house from the "run" I mentioned. I never saw such soft water. The dining room was also large, with a massive table, and the walls were literally covered with  pictures which the owners and sometimes the guests had placed there.

The "den", as it was called, was where the guests retired after dinner in the evenings to converse, play cards, etc. There was one note of style here; the floor was covered with an expensive Persian rug. There was also a small organ here, for Jay Cooke Sr. always observed morning prayers and singing. In the center of the room was a massive round table. Here, also, were many pictures on the walls. 

On one wall was a series of pegs. On each peg was a broad-rimmed, low-crowned Stetson hat, perhaps a dozen of them. Usually one of the first things guests did, both men and women, was grab a Stetson hat for all outdoor wear. A person entering the den could not help but be impressed with the huge fireplace made of native stone. A wood box beside it was kept filled with three-foot lengths. All of the sleeping quarters were on the second floor. There was also a huge attic, with several beds in it. Here in the attic  the  owners and several of the guests who came year after year kept their trunks in which they stored waders, heavy hob-nailed boots, fishing tackle, creels, hunting coats, etc 

About four rods from the Lodge, dug into the side of a hill, was a cave with stone walls and floor. It was perhaps 18 feet long and 12 feet wide. On one side of it was a large ice box, built of heavy plank and painted. It would hold half a ton of ice. Perishables and the fish they caught were kept here. On the other side of the cave were rows of 1 0-gallon kegs, containing various kinds of wine my uncle had made.

Then there were several buildings that were indispensable, such as the woodshed and the ice house, both large and kept well painted. I never worked there during the winter. My uncle had outside help in sawing ice from the pond and cutting dried and fallen timber to Gill the woodshed. Sometimes when green wood was cut, it was thrown helter skelter in a large pile outside the shed to dry out more. 

Then in the spring when I went over there to work I had the task of carting it into the shed and piling it in ranks up to the ceiling. The long, heavy wood for the fireplace was piled outside in long rows. There was a barn for the horses. My uncle always kept a driving horse and a  buggy and when fishing parties came from the city, a couple extra horses were hired. They would use these saddle horses in their fishing expeditions far up the creek, and sometimes simply to go horse-back riding. They had side saddles for the ladies.

One of the features on the grounds was a tank where large trout were raised. In fact there were two of them. They were built of three-inch planks grooved and water-tight. They were set in the ground about three feet and extended two feet above the ground level. Water was piped into them from the "run." They were each about 20 feet long and 16 feet wide and so arranged that one was 1 8 inches lower than the other, so that the overflow from one was piped to the other. Thus the water level was kept constant in each tank. 

At the bottom of each tank large flagstones four feet across were placed, with smaller stones of five inches underneath them to give the trout a hiding place. They were the biggest, fattest brook trout I ever saw. We fed them liver.  Beside one of the tanks we kept a chopping block and a sharp hatchet. I would take a large chunk of liver and chop it up into small pieces, then take a handful]and throw it into each tank. The instant it struck, water began to boil and splashed everywhere. One of my jobs was cleaning the trout after the fishermen came in with their creels loaded with trout. I always cleaned them with the heads and tails on. As you need lots of water to clean them thoroughly, a good place to clean them was where the water overflowed from the lower tank. As soon as l cleaned a trout I tossed the innards into the tank and that was that. They were simply wild inside the tanks, darting hither and yon and taking each throw as it hit the water. I'd like to see all he trout I've cleaned in one pile. That would be something

Not very often did any of the people catch the big ones in the tanks to take back home with them; but I do remember the only fish I caught from the tanks. It was a whopper. Hays Carstairs, the whiskey mogul and part owner of the place at that time, was eating dinner and was just about ready to go down to Larry's Creek station, when he asked me to catch him a trout from the tanks. He wanted to take it with him. Armed with a net, rod and line and hook baited with a piece of I aver, I sneaked over to the edge of the box and tossed in the bait without being seen. It seemed that each of those big trout wanted to grab it before the others reached the spot. There was one grand rush with showers of water splashing the air as a big trout swallowed bait and hook. I finally worked him up near the edge of the tank, reached down with a net and lifted him out. That, we thought, was the end of this incident, but when Mr. Carstairs returned the next spring on the 15th of April, which was the first day of trout season, he unpacked this mounted trout and hung it in the dining room where it remained for many years.

The stream was regarded as the best trout stream in that part of the country. Of course it was a private stream and was kept well stocked with fingerlings every few years. There were eight miles of good fishing upstream from the Lodge and one and a fourth miles below. Five miles upstream from the Lodge was another building known as the Upper Cabin, which consisted of two rooms, a kitchen, and a bedroom with a large fireplace. During the summer months a watchman was stationed here. He patrolled the stream to keep poachers away. To make it a better stream for fishing - at least for fly-fishing - "man-made" pools of quiet water were built in the stream. During the slack season, when there were no parties at the Lodge, my uncle and I repaired these pools and sometimes established new ones when they were destroyed by high water. 

Fly Fishing
The best fly fisherman I ever saw was Jay Cooke III, who was part owner of the Lodge when I worked there. He had been Fuel Administrator of the city of Philadelphia during World War I and became associated with the food administrator of the entire country, Herbert Hoover, who later made three dishing trips to the Lodge as Jay Cooke's guest.

Here is a typical fishing excursion for one day on the stream as I observed Jay Cooke III get ready for the occasion and assisted him. We'll say that he had decided to fish farther up the stream that day, while the others fished close to the cabin. All of the men donned their fishing togs in the kitchen, for they needed assistance. So Mr. Cooke seated himself in a rocking chair in the kitchen, while either my uncle or I helped him put on his hip-length waders, which fitted snugly around the foot. Next we put a very heavy pair of woolen socks over the waders and then put on a pair of very heavy leather shoes with hob nails on the soles. The waders were held in place by a belt around the waist. He had selected a rod for this day, a very expensive rod, light as a feather but strong and durable. He found his lines and leaders' hat to be just to his liking. He had a leather book of assorted flies and presumed a certain fly would be good for that day, because it was cloudy or else bright. We mounted our horses and rode upstream. Three miles upstream he called a halt, instructing me to take the horses a half mile farther up, tie them and come back. Coming back I found him in the middle of the stream, knee-high in water, making long casts, his line at all times being over the water. I remember the first time I observed him. It was a good lesson in showmanship. He placed that lead fly exactly where he wanted it--three pies used on his leaders spaced about 1 8 inches apart. Sometimes a big trout rose to the surface that he missed, but he eventually caught it or explained to me why he didn't catch it. If at times they rose to the fly lazily and the numbers caught were too few, he took a pen knife from his pocket and cut open the stomach of a High already caught to find out what color or type of bug the Hash were eating that day. His fishing was on a scientific basis. When he made such a discovery, he changed flies. Wading in the middle of the stream, he always observed the rule of dishing upstream -- the trout are not scared by foreign objects carried along by current; whereas if one fishes downstream, water-logged twigs and leaves are stirred up by one's feet and are carried ahead, scaring the fish. When he worked a large trout up near his feet, I netted it and placed it in a cred. When we reached the horses, if there was time for more fishing, I took both horses farther ahead and tied them, repeating the process until we fished that length of stream. Then we headed for the Lodge with an appetite that did justice to one of Uncle Louie's dinners that evening. But still there was a lot of work for. me to do, such as unsaddling the horses and taking care of them, cleaning all the trout caught that day (the big ones in the tanks had a big "fighting" meal that evening), waiting table at dinner, and then drying clothes until 11 p.m.

Back as far as I can remember my father had several teams of heavy draft horses used to skid logs in the lumber camps and haul lumber, railroad ties and bark. He also had a couple teams of smaller horses and a three-seated spring  wagon, hand-made by his uncle, Abe Metzger, who for many years owned and  operated a wagon shop on Fourth Street, Williamsport, just across the Pennsylvania railroad tracks from the old Dickinson Seminary. He had the job of transporting the guests at Ogontz Lodge from the station at Larry's Creek over many years (my uncle having gone out to the Lodge as a young man of 18 in 1855). The guests had many trunks and bags which were hauled in separate vehicles. It was always known just how many were coming and how much baggage they were bringing,
so that adequate transportation was provided.

After Jay Cooke Sr.'s death the Lodge was owned by Hays Carstairs, who owned several whiskey distilleries in Kentucky; Jay Cooke III, grandson of the original; and Horace Harding, who married a granddaughter of the original Jay Cooke. All of them were millionaires. Horace Harding was related to President Warren Harding, was a New York banker, and was a member of the New York Stock Exchange. Jay Cooke 111 was a Philadelphia banker and a member of the Board of C.D. Bamey & Co., investment bankers of Philadelphia. Mr. Bamey had  married the daughter of the old man Cooke and all his children were daughters, about six or seven in number. These daughters were married and had children. Mr. Carstairs had two daughters and the Hardings had four children. These different clans with children and grandchildren, coming and going, provided the Lodge with plenty of excitement and hard work during their stay.

On the 15th of April, the opening of trout season, the three owners with a few guests, not more than six in number, came up to the Lodge to try their luck at trout. There were never any women along. Women, worries, and children were left behind them for another day. Getting out in the open and communing with nature was uppermost in their minds.

Their guests were also wealthy men in various lines of business and finance. I had  supposed that millionaires accustomed to valets, chauffeurs and many servants would "high-hat" an ordinary mortal, especially a kid who waited on them at the table and did the menial tasks around the Lodge. There is, however, something about living in the wild that makes all the world kin, and when we  analyze them, we Hind they are common people after all. 

Famous Visitors
I can't begin to name all the guests that came to the Lodge the years I worked there. There was Fred Chandler, owner of the Phillies baseball team at that time, a jolly 350-pounder with three chins, who sported diamonds on his fingers as big as horse chestnuts. For exercise he walked the veranda for hours, his shirt opened at the neck and his belly protruding over his belt. He liked the product Hays
Carstairs manufactured, several case of which were on the baggage wagon at these stag parties.

 D.C. Moody was interested in Pittsburgh steel. He was an elderly,sophisticated man with a keen sense of humor, but not much on dishing. 

Sam Stintson came so often he had a trunk in the attic where he kept his fishing tags. He was a prince of a fellow, as common as an old shoe.

Robert Stark made his wealth in Australian gold. He was rather portly, about 60, with a mop of white hair. He liked to play poker and sometimes indulged too freely in Carstair's product.

Horace Harding was a quiet, handsome man who seldom took a nip. A  boulevard in New York City is named for him. 

The prince of princes was Hays Carstairs. I really liked that man. I liked all of them but he was my favorite. He often talked with me about going to school and other subjects he had on his mind. He was very common. One evening while they were seated at the dinner table discussing something, and I was in and out, he suddenly asked me to spell "hellgrammite". I was simply floored but collected my wits long enough to spell it for him. He had found a hellgrammite down along the creek that day and they were talking about it at the table.

Laura and Barclay Harding now own Ogontz Lodge. Kathryn Hepbum, the movie actress, and Laura are good friends. In fact, she had Miss Hepbum as her guest at the Lodge several times before Uncle Louie's death.

Before the arrival of any party, my uncle was notified about how many people to prepare for. He made a list of things in the grub line that he wanted: chickens. meats, bread, buns, and everything under the sun. The perishables were put on ice in the cave. Fresh cream and butter were brought over daily from the Metzger farm by one of my cousins. But there were many items of food that the owners brought with them - for instance, leg of lamb and delicacies that weren't obtainable at  Salladasburg. I got many a lesson in cooking by watching him perform at the kitchen range, and I made a discovery: most anybody can cook palatable food if he uses plenty of cream and butter and has his eye on the business at hand.

During these stag parties my uncle and I did all the work, including making beds, cooking, sweeping, scrubbing, and everything else that was done. We got up early in the morning and didn't get to bed until 1 1 at night. We ate at the dining room table after the others had eaten. They always left in the evening and went southward on the night train. After they had gone we sat down at the table and the silence was oppressive after so much activity. The next day we started on the second floor and removed all the bedding and gave everything a good cleaning to put it in shape for the next party. I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed the hallways and stairs with a scrubbing brush until you could eat off them. Then we began on the lower floor and did the same. When that was done we closed the shutters and closed the door to the main part of the house, using only the kitchen, pantry, and our bedroom above the kitchen.

Theodore Roosevelt
Theodore Roosevelt Jr. had a taste of kitchen living while a guest at the Lodge. He came there with Jay Cooke III one fall to hunt for a few days. It was soon after World War I and after he had helped organize the American Legion in Paris. He liked it so well he decided to stay with Uncle Louie two or three weeks after the others had gone back home. My uncle told me about it afterward. I was in South Dakota then. He simply insisted that Uncle Louie close the rest of the house, so they lived and ate in the kitchen. T.R. Jr. had thought of entering politics, so he told my uncle. He practiced outing in the kitchen before a mirror, Uncle Louie told me, and he also said he was one of the nicest men he had ever met.

When they (the guests) were gone, quiet reigned supreme over Ogontz Lodge and the place was singing with loneliness, quite unlike the day of their arrival when little Curley, an old shaggy watch dog, would sniff the air knowing something was afoot and would wander around aimlessly, keeping a sharp eye on the road leading to the Lodge. No matter what we were doing, Curley always announced the arrival of guests by her tiny bark and running down to the unloading platform to greet the  visitors with wagging tail, knowing she would be greeted in return All of them had a gentle word for Curley, who was part of the Lodge for many, many years. 

There were other parties coming to the Lodge. The women folks were not to  be denied the pleasure of a few weeks in the country. They came to stay more than two or three days as their business wasn't so urgent. And they came in quantity, too. Sometimes there were 16 or more including children. When they came they nearly always brought maid-servants with them. However, the place was in  turmoil throughout their stay. I spoke of Marie and Barclay and the other Harding children. Then there were more than a dozen cousins of the Harding children. A batch of 16 would come to the Lodge and stay a few weeks. It would then  be followed by another group of women and children, most of them related to the Cooke family. Some of the kids got into mischief as kids are prone to do and they had my uncle and me going in circles. I remember a six-year-old boy, Rodney Bennett, who had a terrible case of adenoids that affected his speech, and perhaps his mind. But he was very observant, taking particular notice of how my uncle cracked the shells of eggs in making an omelet. A pan containing a couple dozen eggs was sitting on a table on the back porch to be used for the evening meal. When nobody observed him, Rodney got a table knife from the kitchen, cracked each egg and emptied its contents on the ground and threw the shell into the drain. 

When these parties contained women, their servants took care of the second floor, making beds and keeping the rooms in order, but we still had more work to do because there were mountains of dishes and all the other work that children cause, and we always breathed a sigh of relief when they departed. But still we missed them when they were gone and profound silence enveloped the Lodge.

There is a quality about the merriment of children out for a lark in the country that is refreshing and heart-warming to older people. 

Chief Ogontz
Any story of Ogontz Lodge would not be complete without mention of its founder, Jay Cooke Sr., who was born in 1821, at the present site of Sandusky, Ohio, on the lake front at Put-in-Bay. The Wyandotte Indians had a village on the lake front, their chief being a big, swarthy Wyandotte named Ogontz. Ogontz and his Indians were removed to a reservation about 40 miles south of town and Jay  Cooke's father built the first house in the town on the very spot where the chief's wigwam stood.
Cooke tells of Ogontz in his memoirs. "At my birth in the town now called Sandusky, the place was frequently overrun with Indians. Old Ogontz did himself and us the honor of occasionally sojourning for a few days on the spot where he had once dwelt in his wigwam. On such occasions, he was allowed to camp in our barn and my mother fed him bountifully at our kitchen table. I was his favorite and occasionally was mounted on his shoulders for a ride.'

Through his friendship with the old Indian chief, Mr. Cooke named the Lodge on Larry's Creek "Ogontz". Later he founded a girls school on the outskirts of Philadelphia, which was known as Ogontz School, and eventually the town itself was called Ogontz with a post office of that name. Here he spent the remainder of his life at the home of his daughter, Mrs. C.D. Bamey.

The Care Taker, Uncle Louie
As stated elsewhere, Uncle Louie went out to Ogontz Lodge in 1885 at the age of 18. He had been sickly for a number of years which prevented his attendance at school and it was thought the work at the Lodge would not be as strenuous as that on the farm. He took to that sort of work like a duck to water and remained a loyal and faithful worker for the Chokes for nifty-one years, to the time of his death.

Jay Cooke
For twenty years after 1885, Mr. Cooke continued to make visitations to Ogontz Lodge, two or three times a year, bringing with him his cronies of the fishing world. In his great cape cloak and his wide-brimmed, light-grey, soft felt hat set over a gentle face adorned by a long white beard, he looked like the patriarch that he was. He reminded me of the pictures of Moses that I had seen. He dressed  in plain clothes and paid no attention to changing styles, although his clothes were of costly make, especially the hat, which was a product of his neighbor, John B. Stetson.

Each spring he came from Philadelphia with dishing guests and my father met them at Larry's Creek Station with his spring wagon and other vehicles for the baggage, which always included a large trunk Gilded with gifts for the children.

Most of the young fry at Salladasburg and nearby farms trudged over to the Lodge to "see Mr. Cooke", as they expressed it, having heard that he had arrived. They came in small groups from two in number to six or eight and when they departed, the contents of the trunk was considerably diminished. The trunk containing gifts was always placed in the large pantry just off the kitchen, where distribution did not disturb the guests. I well remember an incident that caused Mr. Cooke much merriment.
One day Curley's bark announced the arrival of visitors -- a delegation of small children from the farms down in the settlement. I was dispatched to the den to let Mr. Cooke know he had visitors. He came out into the big kitchen to greet the kids warmly, inquiring their names, where they lived, and generally breaking the ice to persuade them to talk freely. One of the boys was named Dan Kuhn, a  lad of nine, perhaps, whose dog had followed the group to the Lodge. The dog had followed the kids into the kitchen, as it was summer and the kitchen door was open. Mr. Cooke made a great fuss over the dog, a small shaggy animal, who responded by wagging its tail and jumping up at Mr. Cooke to receive a gentle patting on the head. "Whose dog is this?" inquired Mr. Cooke. Dan Kuhn readily announced that the dog belonged to him. "Well, what kind of dog is it?" he continued. With a broad smile Dan summoned up enough courage to reply, "It's a black dog, Mr. Cooke.' White beard and stomach shook as Mr. Cooke laughed. "That's right, Danny, he certainly appears to be a black dog.'  He then led the way, followed by the group of children, to the pantry and the trunk. There were good pocket knives for the boys, books and picture books for both sexes, boxes of candy, the largest oranges in the world, toys, and other gifts appropriate for children; last but not least a New Testament was given to each child along with some kindly advice -- that they should read this New Testament and study its teachings, attend school and church regularly and study hard, obey and honor their fathers and mothers, and grow up to become good men and women. A final handshake and the group went slowly down the road, already tasting some of the goodies within the large paper sacks.

Tragedy At The Lodge
The Ogontz Lodge estate was also the scene of a great tragedy in my life. During the summer of 1912, my sister Catherine and I were attending the Muncy Normal School and my sister Carrie was at the home of the Bamey's in Philadelphia. My father and mother and my brother Louis, 12, were living at the Upper Cabin on the Cooke estate, where my father was watchman guarding the stream
from poachers. They liked living up there in the woods. My brother had taken along my 22 rifle. He was skilled in using it and could shoot the eye from a chipmunk at twenty-five paces. We had just finished taking our final exams for the  term on the afternoon of August 29th. I walked down the steps to go to my boarding house at Manville's and was met on the street comer by Professor Dunlap, who gave me the sad news that my brother had been accidentally killed. He had tripped on a stone and the bullet entered his forehead. My father ran frantically to the fame home of Henry Limbaugh to summon help while my mother held his head in her lap, listening to the slow breathing which continued less than an hour. The world as I knew it came tumbling down around my ears, but time is a great healer of heartfelt wounds.

In going to school and studying about the Civil War, it seemed to me at that time I was reading about a war that was fought way back in antiquity. Still, when I think of knowing old Mr. Cooke and the four generations that followed him, and his acquaintance with President Lincoln, Generals Grant and Sherman, and all the cabinet members of that day, I am reminded o fjust one thing -- the fact that I am getting old.

In looking back over the past, I have often thought that if Mr. Cooke had looked  the world over, he couldn't have selected a man who would better care for his interests than Uncle Louie. Sometimes people at Salladasburg would suggest him that in as much as the stream was alive with trout he had all the fish he wanted to eat. Nothing filled him with such indignation as an insinuation that he was unfaithful to a trust. To such questions he always replied that he was a caretaker of that stream and those fish belonged to the owners of the Lodge to be caught for their enjoyment and not to be caught by others, including himself. In all the years I worked there, never once did we go out and catch a fish to be eaten by ourselves. And he had another redeeming , much appreciated by the Cooked and their guests -- he kept his mouth shut. What they did on their visits to the Lodge was their business, not his. There was mutual respect and confidence. When Jay Cooke Sr. died, Uncle Louie went down to Philadelphia and saw him laid to rest in his marble mausoleum. When Uncle Louie died, the present owners of the Lodge, Jay Cooke IV and Laura and Barclay Harding thrust their busy schedules aside and came from more than two hundred miles to attend his funeral. They thought a lot of him and he stood high in their affections, as well he might, having spent 51 years in their service."

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More about Jay Cooke & Ogontz Lodge

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