Adventures With Jim

Adventures With Jim McCann

Jim was a life long friend with whom I shared many adventures and experiences. He passed away on December 13, 2017 after a slow decline through a long illness that left him unable to do most of the things that he loved. I will miss him dearly but my memories of these events will stay with me as long as I live.

In the Beginning, Harper’s Ferry

Along with my brother Jerry, Jim and I made quite a few fishing trips to the Potomac River just across from this historic town. While it was a national park at the time, the restoration that is seen today was only in the planning stages. There may have been some park rangers around but we never saw them.

We would fish the Potomac from just below Dam Number 3 all the way downstream to well below the Route 340 Bridge. We did not need fancy hip waders or such frills as boats or life jackets, just some swim trunks, a few lures and our fishing rods. We entered the river from the Sandy Hook side since you needed an out of state license to fish from the Virginia or West Virginia banks. We would be out there any month from March through October wading in the sometimes chilly and sometimes quick rising waters. At night we would park Jerry’s Chevelle near the trestle bridge in Harper’s Ferry and roll out our sleeping bags under the rear end of the car. No one owned a tent. We had to make sure our heads were well under the rear bumper whenever the train rolled by coming back from the race track at Charles Town. If the drunks saw us they would give us a shower of glass beer bottles as they passed by.

On one occasion I awoke to the sunlight in my eyes to find the Chevelle, Jim and Jerry gone. They had decided it would be fun to slip off to breakfast at the Cindy-Dee Diner without me. I wandered the town clueless to where they were and wondering how I was going to get back home when they showed up, well fed and laughing at my anger. Jim did think to bring me a egg sandwich and I resolved to become a light sleeper.

On another trip Jim and I were wading well out into the Potomac and having a great time catching some nice smallmouth bass when someone well up on the Maryland bank yelled to us to come over. We looked at each other and agreed that it was not worth the effort and Jim yelled out, “If you want us, come get us.” What we did not know was that the guy was a Conservation Officer and that he had a large, well trained Labrador Retriever to do his bidding. In a few minutes we were surprised to see this big black dog splashing and swimming its way to us. It grabbed me by the arm and began to drag me to the bank. The C.O. yelled down to us, “Get your asses out of the river and come here.” Jim looked at me and said, “I guess we better do what he says.” As it turned out we were 100% legal and all the C.O. wanted was to check our licenses and to make sure we were not over our limit of fish.

Still another time the three of us had planned a weekend adventure which included looking for a lake, just loaded with trout, that a local guy had told us about up on top of Maryland Heights. If you have been to the area you will remember Maryland Heights as the rocky cliff on the Maryland side of the Potomac overlooking the town of Harper’s Ferry. It has a faded sign painted on its face advertising, Mennen’s Borated Talcum Toilet Powder. There are a number of trails leading to the top but back then those trails were unmarked and we did not own any maps of the area. We left Baltimore in the early afternoon and planned to get to this lake well before dark and get in some evening fishing. It was not easy packing our fishing and camping gear up the rugged, unmarked trail but there were some interesting stone battlements left over from the Civil War for us to explore along the way. However, as darkness grew closer it became clear that there was no lake to be found. The clinching moment came when we could look out over the valley on the other side of the mountain without seeing anything that could remotely be considered a lake or any other body of water. It dawned on us that we had be punked by that local guy and his story of this fantastic rainbow trout lake.

We turned around and started back the way we came. Unfortunately, it was now getting quite dark and our flashlights cut a dim orange circle that only extended our sight lines for a few feet. As mentioned, the trail was unmarked and not well traveled. We soon lost it on the rocky surface of Maryland Heights. However, we were clearly heading down hill and we thought that to be good enough until we realized that we could clearly see the lights of Harper’s Ferry below us. We also noticed very little vegetation on the increasingly rocky slope that appeared to be getting steeper as we descended. We stopped for a moment to discuss this and decided to carefully move ahead to confirm where we suspected we were. We were directly above the Mennen’s sign and headed towards a very sudden and sharp drop down the cliff. Moving back from disaster we stumbled our way parallel to the cliff and into the trees and vegetation working our way carefully down and having to adjust our route frequently. Eventually, we made it back to bottom and Sandy Hook Road where Jerry had parked his car.

It was too late now to set up camp even if we still felt like doing so. Just down the road was an old motel just across the road from the Cindy-Dee. Jim and Jerry were of drinking age and the Cindy-Dee had a bar. We checked into the motel which was run by a creepy guy who talked with a lisp and seemed way too interested in asking us questions about girls and our love lives. Being the youngest person there and the one that this guy kept looking at, I felt less than happy about Jim and Jerry’s decision to leave me at the room while they went out to the bar. I was even less happy when this guy knocked at our door about thirty minutes after Jim and Jerry left to inquire if I “needed anything.” No, the only thing I needed was more furniture to push in front of the door, especially when he came by again later with the same question. When Jim and Jerry returned sometime after closing time, they had to force their way into the room using considerable force to push open a door blocked by every piece of furniture I could shove in front of it.

On a later trip, after Jerry began to work for a sporting goods distributor, he acquired a nice tent that he was eager to try out. It had been a rainy day of fishing that turned into a steady downpour by dark. Jerry was determined to camp so we found a nice spot in a quiet area along the C & O Canal tow path and began to set up for the night. Just as we were finishing up a park ranger rolled up in his Jeep and told us we were not camped in a legal camping site. When asked where we might find a proper site he informed us that they were all designed for hikers and bicyclers and not accessible by automobile. We were totally drenched at this point and Jim and I were all for finding a motel but Jerry was determined to camp. We quickly packed up the tent, loaded it along with our other gear into the back of the car and headed off for the West Virginia side of the river and a legal camping spot.

By the time we got there the rain had turned into a drenching of Biblical proportions. Once Jerry was out of ear shot, Jim and I discussed our options. Jim decided that maybe we could change Jerry’s mind if somehow we had managed to leave a vital part of the tent back across the river. While we had carefully put everything into the trunk of the car, it was scattered haphazardly about. All it took was a bit of distraction and Jim was able to shove a few of the tent poles well up behind Jerry’s spare tire where they would not be easily seen or found. Piece by piece we innocently began to assemble the tent only to discover the missing pieces. Jerry was furious and blame was cast about in every direction. Still determined to camp, Jerry insisted we load everything back into the car and return to the Maryland side to search for the missing tent poles. Back into the dark, rainy night we slogged. After a half hour of fruitless looking in the wet grass for the poles that were never lost, even Jerry was wet and miserable enough to give up. Warm beds and dry sheets awaited and Jim and I generously agreed to split the cost.

Perhaps my best memory was of the float trip we took one Easter weekend. On this occasion Jim, Jerry and I were joined by Jack Foley who had married my sister Debby a year or two before. I had a fairly new aluminium canoe and Jim was certain we could borrow another one from his uncle. An itinerary was planned to take us from the town of Little Orleans on the upper Potomac downstream to a point just above Dam Number 3 above Harper’s Ferry. The plan was to arrive in the early afternoon and camp for two nights along the C and O Canal which runs along side of the river. A menu was carefully planned and all the tents and equipment collected and double checked. However, the morning of our trip Jim showed up with the sad news that he was unable to get a canoe from his uncle. It looked like all of our plans for a weekend adventure were going to be for nothing.

Since my dad had a lot of contacts through his sporting goods business, I gave him a call to see if he knew of someone who had a canoe we could borrow or rent. Unfortunately, he did not but he had a brilliant suggestion: Why not use the Suzy Q? Well, there was a fairly big why not: The Suzy Q was not a canoe. What the Suzy Q was, was a twelve foot long, aluminium row boat and not exactly the easiest thing to propel down 80 miles of relatively slow moving river. Still, it was either the Suzy Q or no trip.

Our first clue that the Suzy Q was a bad move came on Interstate 70 just past Frederick, Maryland. The roof rack on our vehicle was wide enough for two canoes but could only hold the Suzy Q along side of my canoe with it being loaded with one side leaning up onto the bottom of the canoe. While we had tied it quite securely with good nylon rope, we did not account for the slight shifting that would take place over 150 miles of travel through a strong side wind. Just past Frederick, those constant vibrations had stretched and loosened that rope just enough for a strong gust of wind to lift the Suzy Q off the rack and cause it to slide down the driver’s side of the car. I was driving and managed to get my window rolled down in time to catch the side of boat with one hand while I tried to get the car off to the side of the highway. Jim was only a second or two behind me in getting his back seat window down and grabbing onto the boat and saving us from a complete disaster. After a considerable amount of additional rope was applied, we continued our travel fairly sure that nothing short of an atomic blast could cause that boat to slip again.

Once we were finally on the river we decided to share the two craft. Jim and I would take the canoe for the shorter first and last days while Jerry and Jack would get it for the nearly twice as long middle day. Day one was uneventful except for the evening when Jerry and Jack overshot the camping site and had to row back against the current. The Potomac was a bit out of its banks due to spring runoff making the current quite strong. They took on a lot of water and got completely soaked getting to shore. It was a beautiful, starry night with a roaring campfire to warm our tired muscles and dry out Jerry and Jack’s wet clothes. Jack complained that there was only one, five pound ham for us to split four ways but there was still plenty to eat as far as the rest of us were concerned. Before heading inside the tents for the night we walked up to an aquaduct with a wide open view of the night sky. It being a dark area with no street lights or lights of any kind to pollute the darkness, the Milky Way seemed to be sitting right on top of us.
As we crawled into our tents, I reminded Jack and Jerry to take in their clothes from the sticks they had used to prop them up with near the campfire. Jerry said his were not quite dry, so he would leave them out over night.

The next morning we awoke to the sound of pounding rain on our tents. Jim pulled back the flap from the front off our tent and looked out at the black puddle of mud that was our campfire. Beaten down into that black mud were Jerry and Jack’s clothes. “Jerry,” Jim called out, “your clothes are dry.” He was answered with a chorus of expletives, in stereo.

However, this was day two and Jerry and Jack now had the luxury of a far easier day ahead of them in the canoe. Jim and I had the Suzy Q, two oars and the 14 mile slack-water above Dam #4 to look forward to. It was a tough slog that the rain did nothing to make more endurable. Jack and Jerry quickly disappeared around the first bend and were not seen again until lunch time. Jim and I tried taking turns rowing, individually, side-by-side and using our oars like paddles. It all sucked. We decided that if we could find a set of canoe paddles in some town along our route they would make moving that bath tub of a boat a lot more endurable. It was now about 3 hours past lunch and with at least another 3 or 4 hours ahead of us, we were both getting weary of our day in the Suzy Q. We were rowing along fairly close to the Maryland bank which was dotted with some makeshift docks and seasonal cottages. There was a guy sitting on one of these docks with a fishing pole. We were moving along at a fairly good clip with the flood conditions giving our efforts a decent boost. As we moved downstream just past his position by about 50 yards he shouted out to us, “You boys want a beer?” Jim yanked on his oar and I pushed on mine. The Suzy Q spun around 180 degrees in an instant and rowing together at top speed we were back at his dock in less time then it took me to write this sentence. “Shit!” he said, “I didn’t think you boys could turn that thing around so fast. I guess I’ll have to get you both a beer.” To this day I don’t think either Jim or I have ever tasted any beer more delicious.

On the final day of our journey we traded boats again which put Jim and me back into the canoe. It was to be our shortest day but that was not how it worked out. The Potomac is fairly wide from Shepherdstown down to Dam #3. Normally it is an easy trip. However, on this day there was a gale force wind coming upstream towards us to the point that there were whitecaps on this normally calm stretch of river. Lucky break that we had the canoe. Not so lucky for Jerry and Jack in the Suzy Q. It was with great relief that we saw our wives driving down a side road trying to spot us and an even greater relief to pull up on the muddy banks of the river just above the dam. If Jim and I were exhausted, Jerry and Jack had to be far worse. However, a warm car and a McDonald’s awaited us a few minutes away. Jack, who had complained of starvation during most of the trip ordered 3 complete Big Mac meals and then turned to my sister Deb and asked, “What do you want?” The rest of us had a more modest lunch and pledged never to let my dad talk us into taking a row boat on a canoe trip again.

Next Chapter: A Wedding and a Funeral

Jim and Jerry Willnecker were best friends so it was only natural that Jerry asked Jim to be Best Man at his wedding. As the third wheel in this friendship, I was also asked to be a groomsman. Jerry had a very formal wedding complete with morning suits and tails. It was just about an hour or so before the wedding and Jerry, Jim and I were out in the church parking lot counting down to the magic moment. As we got closer to the appointed time Jerry became increasingly agitated. He paced back and forth across the parking lot muttering, “I don’t know if I can do this.” and other nonsense about how he was not ready to get married.

Jim told him to come on over to his car and that he had a solution to all of Jerry’s problems. In the trunk was a cooler with a gallon jug of orange juice and another jug of pure 100% ethanol that Jim had “borrowed” from the pharmacy at JHH where he worked. A dose was prescribed by Dr. Jim and poured into a handy plastic cup. Jerry began to relax and decided that if one drink helped than a few more could only make things better. I am not sure just how many Jerry downed in that parking lot but it wasn’t too long before he was ready to go into the church and face his fate.

By this point Jerry was feeling no pain and Jim and I were not doing too bad in the pain department ourselves. I recall standing at the alter waiting for Jerry’s bride-to-be to make her entrance and begin her slow march down the isle, when I happened to look over at Jim and Jerry. Jerry was swaying a bit and beginning to list to one side. Jim had to nudge him back into a full upright position from time to time to prevent him from facing his bride-to-be from the floor of the church. Thankfully, the service was not overly long and Jerry, with a bit of help from Jim, managed to make it through the photo sessions and to the reception hall without further incidents. However, at the reception Jerry was not exactly the life of the party and from what his wife Bernie later recounted, he was not much good that evening either.

Dr. Ed Reed while much older than Jim or me, was a good hunting and fishing buddy who also owned a choice piece of farm land up near the Maryland, Pennsylvania border. When he suddenly passed away Jim and I knew that we had to attend his funeral. It was a stodgy affair and the room was a sombre place filled with too many sad faces and very little conversation. Even Ed would have left early if he could have. After making a respectful exit, Jim and I made the decision to celebrate Ed in a more appropriate way. We started looking for a bar. The one we found near the Hampstead exit off of Interstate 83 was a typical rural red neck bar of a sort Jim and I had visited many times. However, this bar was far from friendly and inviting. Have you ever seen a western movie where the stranger walks into the bar and the music stops and everyone turns to stare at him with a menacing gaze? This place was just like that. It only took Jim and me a moment to decide that we needed to do our drinking elsewhere. Fortunately, there was a package goods store nearby where we were able to purchase the necessary ingredients.

You need to know that back in the early 1980s the attitudes towards driving and alcohol were different than today. Having a drink and getting behind the wheel was not considered a crime so long as you were not obviously drunk. It was a misguided and often fatal attitude but one that was widely held. It was definitely an attitude shared by both Jim and me as we downed our first beer in the parking lot of that liquor store. At least half of the beer was gone before reaching Jim’s house where we decided to continue the celebration of Ed’s friendship. I don’t really remember much other than a lot of rye and ginger ale was consumed. I have a vague memory of trying to get out of the house through Jim’s back door to be sick but not quite making it past the screen door. Maybe Evelyn can fill in the details for you. It was at this point, it dawned to me that I had to work the next day and was too drunk to drive myself home. Being the great friend that he was, my slightly less drunken buddy Jim volunteered to get me there. The next day, completely hung over, I discovered I had no transportation and needed to get back to Jim’s to get my car. There is an amazing fact about Jim, for all the years I knew him, I can never remember him being hung over or at least I can never recall him complaining about it. It may be that I was usually too hung over myself to notice but he never seemed to pay the price I did. In any event, I picked up the phone the next morning and called an amazingly chipper Jim to come get me and of course, he did.

Thinking back on it much later, I imagine that coming to give me a ride was not something very high on Jim’s list that day but being the kind of friend that he always was, Jim came. You could always count on Jim and that says far more about the man than anything else I can say.

Way Up North (Relatively Speaking)

Anyone who knew Jim also knows how much he loved Canada. He came to that love through his friendship with my dad, Bob Peltzer Sr. and it was a relationship with a country and its people that lasted a lifetime. It is no small coincidence that there were nearly as many cars with Canadian license plates in the parking lot for Jims funeral as there were vehicles from Maryland.

Jim’s first visit to Canada was on a hunting trip to Salmond’s Hunt Camp sometime around 1965. It was the beginning of a relationship that was to last throughout Jim’s lifetime. Being just a young pup myself, I really do not have any Jim stories about that first trip. However, a year or so later there was a hunt where both Jim and I managed to make our first deer kill on the same day. The tradition is that you break open a bottle of whisky, toss away the cap and pass the bottle around until it is empty. Unfortunately, two other hunters made a kill that same day and there were now four bottles in circulation along with some beer and other beverages. Neither Jim nor I had much experience with drinking and we were both the centre of attention having made our first kills. While we needed little encouragement, everyone was making sure there was always a drink in our hands. My memory fades at this point and I vaguely recall eating dinner before passing out. However, I later learned that Jim partied on until the lights went off. Before passing out for the night, he was reported to have become melancholy as he emptied his stomach into a bucket. “Where’s Bob?” he moaned, “I need Bob.” Bob (my dad) was nearby and knowing that Jim just needed to sleep it off, did not offer any comforting words or sympathy.

There are many, many other stories from Jim’s numerous trips to Salmond’s Camp and a good number involve alcohol and acts that could be questionable if not borderline illegal. In order to not implicate others who may still wish to remain anonymous, I will save them for a time in the distant future. The reader of this collection is free to add any that he or she is aware of but should change the names to protect others from prosecution or shame.

Jim also made a number of yearly fishing trips to LaVerendrye Provincial Park in Quebec. Once again, he came to this place through his relationship with my dad and his friend, Barry Dicks. The park was known for its fantastic walleye fishing and its off the grid wilderness environment. Adventures awaited around nearly bend of its thousands of acres of pristine lakes. Every year a group, led by my dad and Barry would camp on the banks of the Ottawa River in the centre of the park. From there we would head out each morning in our boats to a different part of this vast reservoir system. It was at this park that Jim obtained a rare and unique honour; he goosed a moose.

It was a quiet afternoon and Jim, my wife Chris and I were fishing in a sheltered bay off the main body of Lac Birch. My dad and his boat were a short distance away. Fishing had been slow and we were getting eager for lunch when Jim spotted a tell tale black bump in the water across the bay. Something large was swimming for the far shore. “Moose!” he cried, and in keeping with tradition we fired up the motor and flew off for a close look. We came up on the moose as it was midway across the bay and circled around it taking pictures. After a couple of circles Jim, who was in the bow of the boat, yelled for me to get in closer. I swung the boat around and approached the swimming moose from behind making a pass so close that we could count the blackflies on its nose. “Do it again and get closer.” Jim yelled, and I arced around for another pass coming again from behind the moose. “Get closer,” Jim yelled, and I carefully guided the boat as close as I could to back end of the animal. We were now close enough that its hooves were pounding the bottom of our boat and Chris was beginning to panic. Jim leaned way over the side of the boat and for a moment I thought he was going to try to grab a ride of the creature’s back. Leaning out as far as he could, Jim stretched his arm out and under the backside of that moose and pinched its ass while screaming, “goosey, goosey!” Months later I presented Jim with a sweatshirt commemorating his historic accomplishment, an achievement that few if any other humans have yet to equal.

On a different trip we had been discussing how nobody knew where Bowley’s Quarters was yet everybody knew the Bengies Drive In Theatre. It was one of many silly conversations that we had while casting for and hauling in walleye. On this day we had been out since early morning and had decided to head back in before dark and have an early dinner. Chris had bought some nice thick steaks for the occasion. As we motored along we noticed a large fire on a rocky point some distance away. As we moved closer we could also see a long piece of driftwood with a shirt tied to the top propped up in the air. Clearly someone was signalling distress.

We pulled up to find an older French Canadian man and a young boy standing next to a boat pulled up onto the rocks. They had been out fishing and had gotten turned around in the many channels and bays of the vast Lac Birch – Dozois reservoir system. They were very low on gas and afraid they would not be able to find their way back to Dorval Lodge by nightfall. We invited them into our boat and headed for camp with their boat towed behind us. Along the way we kept noticing a float plane flying low and circling around just above the tree tops. At one point he appeared to spot us and circled us before heading off again. Jim and I were wondering what that was all about when the older fellow announced in heavily accented English, “Eh, he be looking for us.”

He went on to explain that he was the brother of the man who owned Dorval Lodge and that he had grown up in this area spending much of his early life fishing its many lakes and rivers. However, even though it had been many years since he had done this, he felt he remembered it well enough to show his grandson around. He did not think he needed a map or a compass but now realised he was wrong. When we got back to camp we took them into our trailer, heated up some coffee to warm them up and had a couple of drinks before getting into my van for the drive back to Dorval Lodge. Chris stayed back to get dinner going but we asked her to hold off on frying the steaks until we returned.

At the lodge the old fellow directed us to his cabin and invited us to come in for bit. Inside there were a dozen of so French speaking men who talked excitedly with the old fellow and then started shaking hands with Jim and me and saying God knows what to us as if we could understand every word. At some point we were each given a water glass filled to the top with Grand Marnier and encouraged to sit down. Jim settled into a large rocking chair and relaxed his face into a stupid grin. Our glasses were never allowed to remain less than full. Our lack of French and their lack of English did little to slow the endless parade of men who stopped by to speak with us at length before returning to the swirl of people moving in a continuous flow around the room.

We finally began to hear some English being spoken and looked to see that the bush pilot, who had been searching for the man and his grandson, had now joined the party. He spoke some French but soon found his way to the only other English speaking people in the room. Jim and I were glad to finally have someone to hold a conversation with. We soon learned he knew where Baltimore was and had attended John Hopkins University. He wanted to know where we were from so I asked him if he knew where Bowley’s Quarters was? He said no but then I recalled our discussion from earlier in the day and asked him if he knew where the Bengies Drive In was? Of course, he knew and the party rolled on.

Well after midnight Jim and I decided we had to leave. Neither of us was sober but the highway through the park was deserted at that time of night and there was no way to call for a ride even if one had been available. Using the centre line as a guide we headed home. When we came to the long bridge across the Ottawa River, I remembered that it was down to a single lane due to construction. Jim suggested that to be safe we should sound our horn just in case someone was on the bridge or coming the other way. I leaned on the horn and its blare cut through the still and silent night. For some unknown reason I forgot to stop sounding it after turning into the campground. As we rolled through, tent flaps and trailer doors popped open as semi naked people holding flashlights saluted our passing by. Chris said she could hear our horn a good 10 minutes before we finally rolled up to the door.

I was too drunk to take more than a bite or two of my steak before passing out. Jim was made of stronger stuff and polished off a full plate before heading to bed. The next morning I woke up with a pounding head and a flip-flopping stomach while Jim, fresh and chipper, showed no signs that the previous evening had ever happened. Still, we both remembered and tried our best to not notice the dirty looks we got whenever we met one of the other people camped nearby.

These are just of few of the many adventures I had with Jim over the decades of our friendship. I hope they bring to mind your own adventures with Jim and encourage you to share them with those of us who new and loved this friend and family member. In our hearts he will live on.

Bob Peltzer, Lake Clear, Ontario, Canada