The Johnstown Flood

The lake that had been created by the dam went by several different names, but in town, it was generally referred to as the South Fork dam. The dam was impressive, five miles in circumference “the lake covered about 450 acres and was close to seventy feet deep in places” (44). Built as it was, it looked completely natural: “Seen from down below, the dam looked like a tremendous mound of overgrown rubble, the work of a glacier perhaps” (43). Along the shore of the lake, at the western point, lay the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club, formed 20 years earlier in 1879, and which owned the lake, the dam, and close to 200 acres of the surrounding lands.

While the club was impressive and the dam a marvel of engineering, most folks commented on the sailboats that would glide about the lake in the summer months, a whole fleet that “included fifty rowboats and canoes, sailboats, and two little steam yachts that went puttering about flying bright pennants and trailing feathers of smoke” (47). Anyone who went up the mountain to see the sight commented on how it felt “almost like a fantasy” (47) to see such a sight, made possible of course only by the vast amount of wealth brought in by those who could afford be club members and own a house on the lake.

These, as everyone knew, were “the Pittsburgh people” (47), who had made their fortunes in the city well enough to escape to the summer resort in Johnstown for their holidays. The most famous of the club members was certainly Andrew Carnegie, the multi-millionaire steel magnate who had been vacationing in the mountains well before the club’s establishment at his summer home in Cresson. Cresson, however, had no water, and with the up-and-coming sport of tackle fishing—not to mention the long-held nobility of boating—having property on the water became quite attractive “to the man of means” (52) as a way of enjoying his leisure and putting his wealth on display simultaneously. Carnegie and many others saw the potential in the reservoir above the dam at South Fork, and yes, “the dam needed a great deal of repair work after so many years of neglect” (53)—in the distant past, construction on the dam had begun in 1838, but it had been neglected many times since that point—but that could be taken care of in the future.

Now that the club had taken up residence at the reservoir, the townsfolk’s reaction “to their doings on the mountain was mixed” (70). On the one hand, the club provided quite a lot of work and brought money into the local economy. On the other hand, relations between the two groups were strained due to different social circles and an even greater wealth disparity. As time passed, it became more common knowledge that the dam was not in good shape, and “practically every time there was high water in Johnstown, there would be talk about the dam breaking” (73). However, the dam’s threat became part of the background, and nobody took it seriously. Daniel Johnson Morrell, the local Cambria Iron Company manager, was one of the only people to seriously consider the dam as something requiring attention. He attempted to contact the South Fork club but proved unsuccessful in garnering their attention. He died before he could see his complaints through to their end.

As the sun rose on the morning of May 31, people began to realize that something was not right; the previous night had been unlike any in recent memory. The rivers had risen quite high, and by 10 am, “there was water in most cellars in the lower part of town” (91); at a certain point that morning, the Poplar Street Bridge was ripped out by the overflowing Stony Creek River. Later, “sometime between noon and one o’clock a telegraph message came into the East Conemaugh dispatcher’s tower” (100), relaying a message that the South Fork dam was likely to break and that the Johnstown populace needed to be warned.

The people of Johnstown had already begun to suspect things were worse than usual: Fields full of crops had been wiped out overnight, and when the dam was examined, it was discovered that the water had already risen to just about two feet below the crest of the edge. In fact, “by eleven, the water was about level with the top of the dam” (108). When John Parke attempted to issue a warning to those in town who would listen, he was mostly met with deaf ears. When some ventured up the mountain to check on the dam, the discovered that Parke had been telling the truth, as they were able to see that “a glassy sheet of water, fifty to sixty feet wide, had started over the top” (111) of the dam, right in the center.

When the state of the dam was being wired to Johnstown and the surrounding areas, the final transmission came through close to 3 pm, as Mrs. Hettie Ogle (the switchboard operator) stated that “the rising water was about to ground her wires” (113). When John Parke finally made his way back to the dam, he discovered that it was fully and quickly overflowing. He considered cutting into the dam at a certain point at the edge where the water could escape more slowly rather than rushing out all at once in one large destructive force but ultimately decided against it. Later that afternoon, he discovered that the situation had gotten disastrously worse, as “the water pouring across the top had cut a hole into the face about ten feet wide and four feet deep” (116). The only thing he or anybody else could do was watch as the water cut the dam open and began to rush down the mountain.