Pymatuning Spillway

Every spring, like clockwork, I get the itch. Not from poison ivy this time — from the deep, primal need to fish. And this year, my sights were set on the Pymatuning Spillway. You know the place. Carp the size of smart cars. Ducks that’ve given up on walking and just ride the fish like feathery cowboys.

I’d been looking forward to it for weeks. Rods were ready. Cooler washed out and prepped. Even my buddy Travis had tracked down those weird corn-scented bait pellets the carp go wild for. All I needed was my Pennsylvania fishing license.

Should’ve been the easiest part of the whole plan.

I figured I’d renew it online like last year. Simple enough. Except this time, I tried using my cousin Gary’s laptop — the same laptop he uses to livestream demolition derbies and track UFO sightings. He claims it’s “custom optimized for speed.” In reality, it sounds like a chainsaw swallowing gravel and takes five minutes to open Chrome.

I got through most of the form before the site froze. Tried again. This time it crashed halfway through the payment screen and gave me a “session expired” message. Gary blamed solar flares. I blamed Gary.

No big deal. Plan B: the bait shop in Linesville where I usually pick up my license in person. Drove out there early the next morning. Handwritten sign taped to the door: CLOSED FOR FLOOR REPAIRS. BACK TOMORROW.

Alright. Still not a crisis. Plan C: Walmart sporting goods counter in Meadville. I like Walmart because no matter what’s going sideways in life, there’s something comforting about pushing a cart past bulk peanut butter and inflatable pool toys.

The guy behind the counter was helpful, but the fishing license system was running “slower than usual.” After waiting through what felt like the world’s longest printer jam, he tapped the screen and frowned.

“Says here your license is in pending status.”

“Pending what?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Sometimes the system just gets weird this time of year. Could be verifying your residency or waiting for a confirmation from last season’s records.”

Totally plausible — Pennsylvania’s huntfish.pa.gov site does sometimes flag renewals or out-of-state purchases for review if there are mismatches. The guy told me to either wait for the online system to clear or try another issuing agent.

At that point, I needed a break. I hopped back in the truck and took the scenic route across some back roads through Amish country near New Wilmington. Better than sitting on hold with the Fish & Boat Commission.

That’s when I passed a horse and buggy. Pretty standard. Except the guy driving was wearing a bright pink feather boa. Not sure if he lost a bet or was heading to some kind of Amish bachelor party, but he looked completely unfazed. I slowed down, thinking maybe he’d explain, but he just gave me a nod like this was business as usual.

I didn’t ask. Some questions are better left unanswered.

Eventually, I spotted a little roadside diner I’d never tried before. Pulled in and ordered buckwheat pancakes and sausage. No Wi-Fi. No QR menus. Just real food.

While I was waiting, I noticed they had “pink stuff” listed under desserts. Not Jell-O. Not ambrosia. Just pink stuff. The kind of vague, retro menu item that needs no explanation if you’ve ever spent a Fourth of July packed into a family member’s backyard where half the crowd’s wearing matching Old Navy flag shirts from different years. My Aunt Susie brought it to every gathering. Sometimes she mixed it up and made green stuff, but pink was the classic.

It took me back. Hot dogs on the grill. Sparklers in the driveway. Uncle Rick insisting on using gasoline to start the bonfire “just this once.” And me, slipping spoonfuls of pink stuff under the picnic table to my childhood black lab, Moose. That dog didn’t beg for table scraps — he calculated. If pink stuff hit the table, he’d materialize out of nowhere and park himself like a statue until he got some. Never cared for steak. Didn’t like bacon grease. But pink stuff? It was his white whale. I still don’t know why. Pour one out for Moose.

So, naturally, I got a bowl. And then I got another to go, figuring it’d be a nice treat later while fishing.

While waiting for the check, my phone buzzed. A text from the Pennsylvania Fish & Boat Commission: Your license has been approved.

Finally.

I grabbed the to-go container, hit the tackle shop in Andover for extra nightcrawlers, and rolled into the Spillway by late afternoon.

The carp were biting like they hadn’t eaten since Christmas. Travis and I filled the cooler in no time. A few decent ones, but mostly just nonstop action. As always, the ducks supervised the whole thing, looking mildly unimpressed.

By the time I got around to that second helping of pink stuff, it was basically a melted mess with cherries floating in it. Still tasted like every family party I’ve ever been to. Moose would’ve approved.