Category Archives: Nature

Two Days, Three Thousand People, and One Slight Inventory Problem

23 Monday Mar 2026

Posted by in Family, Fishing, Kayaking, Life, Nature, Retirement, Uncategorized, University of Alabama, Weather, Woodworking

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I’ve been a little MIA the last few days, and I’d like to say it’s because I was off on some relaxing retreat.

It was not.

I’ve been at Trade Days.

For two straight days, I stood on my feet greeting people, answering questions, and handing out business cards like I was running for public office. By the end of it, I’m pretty sure I introduced myself more times than a guy on the first night of a reality dating show.

The good news? I met a lot of great people and sold a solid chunk of my inventory.

The bad news? I also proved—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that I did not bring nearly enough stuff.

The Land of “Everything You Never Knew You Needed”

Setting up for Trade Days

Trade Days is an experience.

Imagine a place where you can buy a handcrafted porch swing, a fishing rod, homemade jelly, a birdhouse nicer than your first apartment, and a box of random items that may or may not have come from someone’s attic… all within 50 feet.

That’s Trade Days.

And the crowd? Huge.

I heard multiple people say it took them nearly two hours just to get from the entrance to the field after paying. At that point, you’re not attending an event—you’re on a pilgrimage.

I’d estimate at least 3,000 people came through our section, which explains why I talked so much my voice started negotiating a resignation.

My Two Tables of Confidence

I was fortunate enough to set up with another vendor who sells 3D printed items.

This guy came prepared.

He had six tables. Six. Full. Tables.

Not “we’ll spread things out and make it look nice” full. I mean, packed.

Meanwhile, I rolled in with enough product to confidently fill… two tables.

And just to make things more interesting, those two tables?

They were his.

So not only did he bring enough inventory to run a small retail operation, but I also managed to squat on part of his setup like an uninvited houseguest.

To his credit, he was incredibly gracious. To my credit… I now know I need to make a lot more stuff.

Doing the Math (and Slightly Panicking)

His spot—a 15-foot by 120-foot space with water and electricity—cost $90.

Honestly, after seeing the crowd, that might be one of the better deals out there.

I had several people ask if I’d be back next month, which felt great… until I remembered I already have another show booked that same day.

Also, a small detail—I’d need more inventory, another tent, and a couple more tables.

So yeah, minor logistics.

Mom and daughter having fun in the water

Pre-Show Fishing (a.k.a. Humbling Myself in Nature)

Before all this, I took a day off and went kayaking with my wife and one of my daughters, who was on spring break.

Now, I’d love to say this was purely about family time.

But I also brought my fishing gear.

Because I have priorities.

While they paddled around enjoying the peaceful scenery, I was off to the side doing what I would describe as “aggressively attempting to catch fish.”

I had several bites… or what I think were bites… or possibly just fish laughing at me underwater.

I did hook one decent fish—briefly—until it wrapped my line around some branches and escaped like it had somewhere important to be.

I managed to land one fish, weighing in at a solid ¾ of a pound.

Naturally, this did not impress my audience.

Mission Accomplished Anyway

The real goal of the trip was to get my daughter out kayaking for the first time.

Later that day, she showed me her sunburned legs like a badge of honor and said she had a great time and wants to go again.

So despite my fishing performance, I’m calling that a win.

The Waiting Game

Now I’ve got the fishing bug again.

Unfortunately, my truck is currently in the shop, which means my fishing plans are on hold for about a week. Probably for the best—it gives the fish time to regroup and rebuild their confidence.

Once I’m back on the road, I’m hoping to fish at least once a week… assuming the weather cooperates.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this:

There is nothing quite like making the perfect cast…

…only to have the wind pick it up and deposit your lure directly into a tree like it was the plan all along.

Mother Nature has a sense of humor.

And apparently, I’m part of the joke.

In the meantime, it’s back to the shop—cranking out more inventory and trying to make sure next time I show up with more than “two tables of optimism.”

Campfire Chronicles: A Scout Is Brave… Allegedly

17 Tuesday Mar 2026

Posted by in Boy Scouts, Life, Nature, Uncategorized

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Our scout building wasn’t just a building—it was a piece of history.

Long before it became a Boy Scout hut, it was the place to be in our city. Back in the early days—somewhere around the 1940s—if something important was happening, it happened there. Elections, meetings, church fellowships, banquets… if you wanted to be where the action was, you went to the community center.

Eventually, the city built a newer, bigger facility, and the old building was handed over to the Girl Scouts. They used it for several years until leadership faded away and the troop dissolved, leaving the building empty.

That’s when the Boy Scouts stepped in.

A few years later, the Girl Scouts made a comeback and wanted their building back. The Boy Scouts, naturally, said, “We like it here.” The city stepped in and solved the problem, the only way small towns can—by giving the Girl Scouts another building.

And just like that, the old community center officially became a scout hut.

By the time my son crossed over into Boy Scouts, that building had fully embraced its identity.

It looked like it had been frozen in time since the 1940s—concrete block walls, a low tongue-and-groove ceiling, and a big concrete slab floor. There was a large fireplace I never once saw used, windows that were nailed shut with shutters on the outside, and a maze of rooms off to one side that served as storage, meeting areas, and a kitchen.

The place was packed with history—old ribbons, plaques, faded photographs of scoutmasters long gone, trophies, and even a canoe hanging in the corner that I eventually managed to “rescue.” There was also a podium made from a tree stump and branches, which felt exactly as official as it sounds.

It wasn’t fancy, but it was ours.

Of course, “historic” is just a polite way of saying “things are starting to fall apart.”

The metal door was rusting through at the bottom. The hinges sagged so badly that you had to fight them just to open it. At one point, someone couldn’t get in and solved the problem by removing part of the door, which led to a hasp and padlock situation that I was not informed about. That was a fun surprise.

The wiring was questionable at best—mice had clearly been doing electrical work of their own in the attic—and the city, being short on funds, kept the scout hut comfortably at the bottom of the priority list.

And then there was the creek.

Most of the time, it was peaceful. But when debris clogged the culvert under the road, that little creek turned into a not-so-little lake. I always had this nagging feeling that one good storm might turn our meeting into a swimming lesson.

Oh—and snakes. Because of course there were snakes.

As Scoutmaster, I had a routine.

On meeting days, I’d stop by after work to turn on the heat or air so the boys didn’t walk into a sauna or a freezer. One particular afternoon, I pulled up, noticed the grass had already grown back like it had a personal vendetta, and walked up to the door.

Unlocked the padlock. Took note (again) of the growing hole in the bottom of the door. Made a mental note to call the city (again).

Then I opened the door.

Scrape…

That was normal.

Slide…

That was not.

I froze.

Slowly, I pushed the door open a little more—and there it was.

A snake.

Now, I don’t like snakes. I have the utmost respect for snakes, but I don’t admire snakes from a distance. If a snake and I are in the same place, one of us is leaving—and I strongly prefer it to be me.

So naturally, instead of making the smart decision and walking away, I opened the door wider.

Because that seemed like a good idea at the time.

I caught a glimpse of it slithering toward the bathrooms.

Perfect. Now it had options.

I flipped on the lights and stepped inside like a man who had already made several poor decisions and was committed to seeing them through.

The snake was gone.

Which, in my opinion, was worse.

Somewhere in that building was a snake… waiting… probably planning… definitely judging my life choices.

And in a few hours, a room full of scouts would be showing up.

So I did what any responsible adult would do.

I grabbed a flashlight and went hunting.

After checking behind boxes, fire extinguishers, and anything else that looked remotely snake-sized, I found it.

Behind a piece of wallboard.

It lifted its head, looked me dead in the eye, and hissed like it had been waiting all day for this moment.

That was when I realized something important:

I was not the man for this job.

I called the police.

The officer showed up, assessed the situation, and immediately became significantly less helpful than I had hoped.

I suggested shooting it.

He suggested not shooting it… citing “concrete floors,” “concrete walls,” and “ricochet” as if those were valid concerns.

So there we were. Two grown men. One snake. Zero good ideas.

I called one of my leaders.

Now, this particular leader was just as afraid of snakes as I was—possibly more—but he agreed to help… under one condition:

He would bring something to deal with the snake.

He would not go anywhere near the snake.

Fair enough.

He showed up, handed over the tool like a man delivering supplies to the front lines, and stayed safely outside while the officer and I handled the situation.

Between the two of us, we managed to capture the snake and relocate it back near the water.

Alive.

Which, in hindsight, means we probably just gave it a shorter commute next time.

The officer and I agreed it was likely a water moccasin.

A venomous water moccasin.

Which really made me appreciate just how close I came to having a much worse story to tell.

Before the scouts arrived, I called my son and had him pick up foam sealant.

If there was even the smallest gap in that door, it was getting filled.

When he got there, we sealed every crack we could find. I wasn’t taking any chances of that snake—or any of its extended family—deciding to move in.

That foam held strong for the next 12 years… right up until the building was finally torn down.

Looking back, that old scout hut had seen a lot—community gatherings, decades of scouts, and at least one very determined snake.

And while the building is gone now, I can say with confidence:

I survived my time as Scoutmaster.

Barely.

Campfire Chronicles: The Great Chuckwagon Stew Scare of Cherokee, North Carolina

10 Tuesday Mar 2026

Posted by in Boy Scouts, Life, Nature, Uncategorized

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Welcome to Campfire Chronicles, where the stories are true, the memories are slightly exaggerated with time, and the odds of something going wrong increase dramatically whenever a group of Scouts and a Dutch oven are involved. These are the kinds of stories usually told around a campfire long after the tents are up and the day’s adventures are over.

Every Scoutmaster eventually has that moment where he thinks, “Well, this is it. This is how my leadership career ends.”

For some, it’s losing a scout on a hike. For others, it’s accidentally setting something on fire during a campfire demonstration.

For me, it was standing in the middle of a campground in North Carolina, wondering if I had just poisoned an entire troop of Boy Scouts with one pot of Chuckwagon stew.

Fortunately, that’s not actually what happened.

But for about twelve very stressful hours… I was pretty sure it had.

As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, the summer camps in our area seemed to offer the same merit badges year after year. That was fine for younger scouts, but our troop was mostly older boys who were tired of taking the same classes every summer. After a while, earning the same merit badge three times loses its excitement.

So, we made them a promise: we would find other camps or create our own summer camp where they could earn merit badges that weren’t offered at our council camps.

During my tenure as Scoutmaster, we went out of council three different times. One trip was to a traditional camp in North Georgia. The other two were “do-it-yourself” summer camps—one in Cherokee, North Carolina, and the other at Raccoon Mountain in Tennessee.

This story takes place at Flaming Arrow Campgrounds in Cherokee, North Carolina.

When I first contacted the owners about bringing our troop there for a week, they were… let’s say… less than enthusiastic.

In fact, the conversation started out sounding like they were politely trying to figure out how to tell me, “Absolutely not.”

Eventually, they explained why.

A previous scouting event had taken place there, and the campground had been left in a terrible state. The main problem?

Hard-boiled eggs.

And not just a few eggs.

Eggs everywhere.

Now, before you start wondering what kind of strange breakfast riot had taken place, I should explain.

Within the scouting program, there’s an organization called the Order of the Arrow. Think of it as the scouting version of the National Honor Society. During part of their induction process, participants go through what’s called an Ordeal. On the first day, they work in silence and receive very simple lunch rations: bread, water, and a hard-boiled egg.

It’s meant to symbolize self-discipline and sacrifice.

Apparently, some scouts decided the egg part of that lesson was optional.

Instead of eating them, they simply tossed them all over the campground like little sulfur-filled hand grenades.

And as anyone who has ever forgotten a boiled egg in the refrigerator can tell you… A rotten egg has a smell that could knock a buzzard off a garbage truck.

The campground owners were left with eggs scattered everywhere and the delightful aroma that followed.

Needless to say, they were not eager to host another scout group.

I assured them our troop was not that kind of group. To prove it, I told them to give us a list of projects that needed to be done around the campground. If they let us stay for the week, we would bring the tools and handle whatever work needed to be done.

Reluctantly, they agreed.

About six weeks before the trip, I began assigning merit badges to the adult leaders who were attending camp. The goal was to teach the boys things they normally couldn’t get at our council camps.

The campground didn’t have a lake—only a swimming pool—so water activities were somewhat limited. But we did have a certified lifeguard with us, so the Swimming merit badge was covered.

As for the rest of our teaching staff, we had quite a lineup:

I’m a master plumber, so the Plumbing merit badge was easy.

We had a registered nurse, so First Aid was covered.

We also had engineers, teachers, and even a mechanic.

The look on the campground owner’s face was priceless when we asked if we could change the oil in his car.

He probably thought we were joking.

We were not.

He ended up getting a free oil and filter change that week.

The trip started off great. When we arrived, we discovered the campground had go-karts available for registered campers.

The boys immediately wanted to ride them every single day.

Unfortunately, our schedule didn’t allow that, but we did manage to work it on our sightseeing day.

Sightseeing Day

This was the day we planned to visit Gatlinburg, Tennessee.

We divided the boys into four groups, each with at least two adult leaders. The rule was simple: they could do whatever they wanted if the adults approved.

They went shopping.
They ate pizza.
They rode the Sky Lift to Ober Gatlinburg, where some of them went ice skating.

My group had our pictures taken dressed like characters from the Old West. A couple of the boys even dressed up in women’s outfits just for laughs.

Let’s just say those pictures would make excellent campaign material if any of them ever ran for public office.

I got caught stealing the gold dust.

By the time we got on the bus to head back to camp, those boys were completely worn out.

Which was perfect.

Because that night the adults were cooking dinner.

I was put in charge since I had developed a reputation for my Dutch oven cooking.

On the menu was something called Chuckwagon Stew.

There was just one small issue.

I had never actually made it before.

But how hard could stew be?

I followed the recipe carefully. About halfway through adding ingredients, I realized something important.

This stew was going to be spicy.

Not “a little kick” spicy.

More like “you might need a fire extinguisher for your tongue” spicy.

So, I asked the other leaders what they thought.

Every single one of them said the same thing.

“Make it exactly like the recipe says.”

Those men are no longer allowed to give me cooking advice.

Dinner was served, and as expected, the stew had a little bite to it. Most of the boys ate it without any problems. Others discovered that milk is a wonderful invention.

A few of the boys turned dinner into a contest to see who could eat the most bowls.

My son was one of the competitors.

In the end, one boy managed to eat four bowls and was crowned the unofficial Chuckwagon Champion.

Not long after dinner, one of the boys who had dropped out of the competition started feeling sick.

At first, there were stomach cramps and nausea.

Then he became violently ill.

His father—who was on the trip—came to me worried that his son had food poisoning.

Now I didn’t say this out loud…

…but the same thought had already crossed my mind.

After about thirty minutes, his symptoms got worse. His father and two medics with us loaded him up and headed to the nearest hospital.

The hospital was about thirty minutes away.

They got there, started the paperwork, and then discovered something unexpected.

Because it was a Cherokee Nation hospital, they could only treat patients affiliated with the Cherokee Nation.

The scout and his father were not.

So, after all that, they had to load him back into the car and drove another thirty minutes to the next hospital.

Back at camp, I spent the rest of the evening quietly wondering if I had just poisoned an entire troop of Boy Scouts with one pot of stew.

Thankfully, no one else got sick.

Late the next afternoon, one of the medics returned with the update.

The scout had an intestinal infection related to his appendix. It was infected, but not bad enough to remove it. He would stay in the hospital for a few days and receive antibiotics.

The relief I felt was enormous.

I was sorry the scout had gotten sick, but at least I hadn’t poisoned thirty people with dinner.

He eventually returned to camp on the last full day. After several days of hospital food, he said camp cooking sounded pretty good again—even if it was a little spicy.

No matter how much planning you do, something unexpected will always happen.

This was a perfect example.

The Scout Motto is “Be Prepared.”

Although in this case, I’m not entirely sure how anyone prepares for a spicy stew, a hospital run, and a campground haunted by rotten eggs.

But one thing is certain.

It’s a summer camp story none of us will ever forget.

When Your Gut Is Trying to Tell You Something (A Scoutmaster’s Tale)

08 Sunday Mar 2026

Posted by in Boy Scouts, Life, Nature, Uncategorized

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Photo by Eking Talampas on Pexels.com

On one of our hiking adventures, we planned a trip to the Eye of the Needle — a rock formation deep inside the Sipsey Wilderness. This trip was special because it was the first real hiking experience for several of the boys, so we intentionally chose what we believed was an easy trail.

(“Easy trail,” by the way, is hiking language for you probably won’t die, but you will question your ability as a hiker.)

At this point in my scouting career, I was serving as an Assistant Scoutmaster. Our Scoutmaster was a middle-aged lady who, along with her son, had been involved in scouting far longer than I had. I was in the process of completing Scoutmaster training to eventually take over the role.

When we arrived at the trailhead, she announced that she wanted to separate the boys and have them camp at one site while the adult leaders camped at another.

Immediately, alarms went off in my head.

The rule was clear: two-deep leadership at all times. If the boys camped separately, we would be breaking that rule.

While we were hiking, I carefully brought this up. She quickly informed me that I didn’t know what I was talking about and started listing situations where other troops had done the same thing. I could tell I had upset her, so I dropped it — at least out loud.

Another leader later pulled me aside during a break. He agreed with me but didn’t want to push the issue and create conflict.

Nothing brings adults together like silently agreeing that something is a bad idea… and then doing it anyway.

That uneasy feeling never left me.

Setting Up Camp

We reached the first campsite around dusk. We made sure the boys had everything they needed and supervised them setting up their backpacking tents. Once the Scoutmaster was satisfied everything was under control, the adult leaders picked up our packs and hiked another 45 minutes to the opposite side of the rock formation.

The Eye of the Needle itself is massive. At the top is a round opening in the rock that leads to the other side. Climbing it and descending would only take about 20 minutes — but one slip could easily mean a broken bone… or worse.

Or at minimum, a very awkward conversation with your wife when you get home.

From the moment we left the boys, I felt sick.
You know that feeling — when you know something isn’t right, but the train has already left the station, and you’re sitting in seat 12B with no emergency exit.

The Preparation — And The One Thing We Couldn’t Prevent

Because this was a backpacking trip, everyone carried their own meals. Since it was only one night, we just needed supper and breakfast. Most people brought dehydrated meals — just add boiling water.

Which, if you’ve never had one, tastes somewhere between “not bad” and eating a cardboard box.”

We had spent weeks preparing for this trip.

We checked the packs for weight limits.
We made every boy demonstrate their stove.
We made every boy cook the exact meal they planned to cook on the trip.

We did everything right.

Except for the small detail that teenage boys sometimes forget things 12 minutes after you teach them.

The Moment Everything Changed

While we leaders were sitting around cooking, one of the boys came scrambling down the hill yelling that another scout had burned his foot.

Then the injured scout came hopping down after him.

He had placed his stove between his feet. When he turned to grab something, he knocked boiling water onto his other foot. When he pulled off his shoe, it took skin with it.

At that moment, every first aid class I had ever taken came rushing back into my brain like a pop quiz I was not emotionally prepared for.

I knew immediately — this was serious.

His father was on the trip and worked in the medical field. We both agreed: he needed a hospital immediately.

The problem was — we were five miles from the trailhead; five miles in the middle of nowhere. And it was after 9 PM.

And nobody hikes faster after dark carrying another human unless a bear is involved.

Bad Choices… Leading to Worse Ones

Breaking camp and moving everyone would take too long. The decision was made that the injured scout’s father and two leaders would carry him out.

That left two leaders to return to camp after making sure the injured scout and his dad made it safely to the trailhead.

And one leader to stay with eight scouts.

Me.

I was “volunteered.”
Probably because I was the slowest hiker in the group anyway.

Nothing boosts your confidence like hearing, “You stay here… you’ll just slow us down.”

The problem?
I physically couldn’t reach the boys quickly if something else happened.

And one of those boys… was my son.

I made a decision, and I’m still not sure it was the right one. I carefully climbed the rock formation until I was close enough for them to hear me and yelled for them to get into their tents and stay there until the leaders returned.

I probably sounded like an angry mountain goat, but they got the message.

The Longest Night

The other leaders returned around 3 AM.

I stayed awake the entire time waiting.

I didn’t say a word.
I just went to bed.

Some conversations don’t need to happen right then — because everyone already knows.

And, because I was too tired to form complete sentences.

The Quiet Ride Home

Breaking camp was silent.

The boys were exhausted. Most slept during the 2½ hour ride home.

I might have slept for an hour myself.

The next week, parents started calling. They were upset — and rightfully so. I assured each of them that we would address it at the next meeting.

At that meeting, I came prepared. I brought every written rule regarding two-deep leadership.

The Scoutmaster apologized.
She admitted she was wrong.

Lessons You Don’t Forget

Sometimes leadership means speaking up.
Sometimes it means living with decisions you wish you could take back.
And sometimes it means learning that rules exist because someone, somewhere, learned the hard way. There is a reason instructions are printed on the back side of a shampoo bottle.

That night, I learned to trust my gut.

Because sometimes that sick feeling in your stomach…
Is wisdom trying to get your attention.

And sometimes… It’s also dehydrated beef stroganoff.
But that’s a different story.

My Hobbies Are Cheaper Than Therapy (Mostly)

05 Thursday Mar 2026

Posted by in Amateur Radio, Cancer, Depression, Fishing, Kayaking, Leukemia, Life, Nature, Uncategorized, Woodworking

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Let’s talk about hobbies.

Hobbies can serve many purposes. AI summarizes them as follows:

  • Provide relaxation and stress relief from daily pressures
  • Foster creativity and self-expression through various activities
  • Enhance skills and knowledge in specific areas of interest
  • Promote social connections and friendships with like-minded individuals
  • Improve mental health and overall well-being through enjoyable pursuits
  • Offer a sense of accomplishment and personal fulfillment

I’ll have to agree with most of these, but a couple stand out more than others for me. The ones that stand out the most are relaxation, creativity, self-expression, and mental health. Most importantly, mental health.

I’ll be the first to admit, and my wife would be the first to agree, that I have way too many hobbies. A short list would include fishing (of course), reading, woodworking, Amateur Radio, camping, and cooking. If I’m being completely honest, the list is probably a little longer than that, but I’ll stop there before my wife reads this and starts counting.

I’m not someone who enjoys just sitting around the house. I have to be doing something. I love the outdoors and enjoy most anything that takes me outside, whether it’s camping or traveling somewhere just for the day. Sitting still for too long makes me feel like something must be broken… or worse, that someone is about to hand me a chore.

I’ve always been good with my hands, and I enjoy making things out of wood or repairing things that need fixing. When I was a kid, I used to get into trouble because I was always taking things apart just to see how they worked. The only problem was that I wasn’t always successful at putting them back together. Apparently, parents don’t appreciate curiosity when it involves their appliances.

On rainy days, I like to curl up with a good book that allows my mind to travel to places I may never be able to visit. Reading also helps take my mind off the stresses of the day.

I know without a shadow of a doubt that people are reading this who have far greater health concerns than I do. But regardless of your health, you may have had a bad day at work, an argument with your spouse, or just received a bill you know you can’t pay. Each of us faces stress in our lives that can be difficult to deal with.

Because of that, each of us needs to find some sort of escape—a place where we can go, even if it’s only for a short time, to gather our thoughts. Sometimes, that time allows us to find a way to deal with the situation at hand. Other times, it helps us realize we need to talk with someone who can help us sort things out.

As an outsider, I can’t tell you what to do. I can only offer suggestions about what works for me.

When I find myself in a situation where I know I’m going to be stressed, I grab my Kindle and start reading. Before I knew it, my mind had drifted away from whatever was bothering me. For example, the wreck I had the other day has been stressing me out more than it probably should. There’s nothing I can do right now but wait for the police report to be submitted. Unfortunately, patience has never been one of my stronger qualities.

But when I picked up my Kindle and started reading, before long my mind was somewhere else entirely—and not thinking about insurance adjusters, body shops, or police reports.

I also have the unfortunate routine of visiting the doctor for lab work or appointments at least three times a month—sometimes more. This week alone, I had three appointments, and the month has just started. At this point, I’m starting to feel like the waiting room staff should just give me my own assigned chair.

Thankfully, I enjoy reading. Last year, I read 45 books, and quite a few of them were finished while waiting for a doctor to call my name. I also read quite a bit before going to bed. It helps me relax and takes away some of the stress from the day.

Another hobby I’ve written about before is fishing. Of course, I enjoy catching fish when I go, but honestly, that’s only part of it. What I enjoy most is the solitude. Being out there gives me time to think without distractions.

Sometimes I’ll paddle out to the middle of the river, set the paddle down, and just listen to the birds and the other sounds of nature. Every once in a while, a fish even cooperates and jumps on the hook just to make the trip look productive.

To me, that’s more relaxing than just about anything else I’ve found.

Most of the time, I come home from a fishing trip in a better mood—whether I catch anything or not. Of course, catching something does make the ride home a little sweeter. It also helps justify all the fishing gear I’ve somehow managed to accumulate over the years.

I guess what this post really boils down to is this:

Find your happy place.

Find a place where you can go—either physically or mentally—to relax and get away from it all. Only you will know where that place is.

Stress has a way of dragging us down, sometimes to a place where it becomes very difficult to climb back out. I’ve been there, and I know what it feels like.

Luckily, I was able to find my place and climb my way back before the stress got to a point where I couldn’t.

And that’s why hobbies matter more than most people realize.

When the Calendar Attacks

02 Monday Mar 2026

Posted by in Diabetic, Disability, Fishing, Kayaking, Leukemia, Life, Nature, Uncategorized

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Photo by Yan Krukau on Pexels.com

Today has been one of those days. You know the kind. The kind where your calendar looks like it’s been attacked with a highlighter and your patience is hanging by a thread that was probably manufactured in the late 1800s.

The morning started with what should have been a routine lab appointment. Twelve hours of fasting. No coffee. No toast. No nothing. Just me and my growling stomach driving to the doctor’s office, already dreaming about bacon.

Only to be told the lab technician had a death in the family and I needed to drive to another location across town.

Forty-five minutes later, I finally gave blood. At that point I was pretty sure they could have just followed me around with a butterfly net and collected it from pure frustration.

I got home with just enough time to inhale what should have been breakfast but was technically lunch by then. If eating at warp speed becomes an Olympic sport, I’ll medal. I’m convinced my digestive system now files weekly complaints.

Meanwhile, I’d already been informed that I would be taking my wife to her doctor’s appointment later in the day—which meant I’d likely be late for my 5 p.m. meeting.

Now let me clarify something.

I volunteered to take her.

But my wife doesn’t drive. Well… she technically can. She just won’t drive on the interstate anymore. She avoids it like it’s under federal investigation. She will happily add thirty minutes to a trip just to stay on back roads. Riding with her feels like being chauffeured by a very nervous 16-year-old taking her first driver’s test.

I love her dearly. I also consider Uber a spiritual gift.

We arrived early for her 2 p.m. appointment, secretly hoping they might see her ahead of schedule. That optimism faded around 3 p.m. when she was finally called back. My meeting requires me to leave the house by 4 p.m.

At 3:45 she came out—with a nurse. I stood up, hopeful.

“Nope,” she said. “One more procedure.”

Of course.

She finally emerged again, apologizing because she knew I’d be late. It’s hard to be frustrated at someone who genuinely feels bad, especially when you know she can’t help it.

I dropped her off, drove to my meeting, and arrived thirty minutes late… only to discover the group had been deep in an off-topic rabbit trail discussion. For once in my life, being late worked in my favor.

The rest of the week doesn’t look much better. Meetings. Doctor appointments. Obligations stacked like cordwood. Meanwhile, I have a craft fair this Saturday and hardly any time to finish the projects I planned to sell. It’s looking more and more like I’ll be burning the midnight oil just to have something on the table besides a smile and a price tag.

And then there’s my fishing buddy.

I enjoy his friendship. I truly do. But I think I may be his primary source of entertainment. His wife works. He doesn’t drive outside of town. So most days he’s in his recliner watching television. Tuesday breakfasts are the highlight of his week unless we fish or wander around the tackle shop.

Now that the weather is warming up, the question has already started:

“So… when are we going fishing?”

I love fishing. I really do. But I’m not wired to sit in a recliner all day waiting for someone to rescue me from boredom. I’ve got crafts to make. Bible studies to attend. Appointments to keep. Responsibilities that don’t pause just because the fish are biting.

Having a medical condition that requires lab work or weekly-to-monthly doctor visits can be increasingly challenging. The physical part is one thing. The mental part is another. Sitting in waiting rooms gives your mind far too much freedom to wander into the land of “What will the doctor find this week?”

If I could offer one small suggestion to anyone walking that road, it would be this: bring a book. Or in my case, a Kindle. Reading helps me escape the mental spiral. It shifts my focus away from lab numbers and test results and places it somewhere far more peaceful. If you let it, the stress will take over. And some weeks—like this one—it tries really hard.

Truthfully, this post is simply me letting off a little steam. Sometimes writing it out is the healthiest thing I can do. It helps me process the frustration, the schedule overload, the internal pressure to be everywhere at once for everyone.

Some weeks feel balanced. Others feel like the walls are inching closer.

This is one of those weeks.

But I also know this: weeks like this pass. Meetings end. Appointments get checked off. Craft fairs come and go. Even fishing trips can wait.

For now, I’ll take a deep breath, set the alarm a little earlier, probably stay up a little later, and remind myself that hectic seasons don’t last forever.

And maybe next week… I’ll go fishing.

Dutch Ovens, Daughters, and the Coming of Spring

22 Sunday Feb 2026

Posted by in Boy Scouts, Cancer, diet, Family, Fishing, Kayaking, Life, Nature, Photography, Retirement

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In just a few hours, spring will arrive… in 25 days. That may sound like I failed math, but when you’ve spent the winter cold to your bones, you start announcing spring like it’s breaking news.

I cannot wait for consistent 70-degree days. Since being diagnosed with anemia, anything under 75 degrees feels personal. I walk around my house in a zip-up hoodie while the thermostat is set at 72, which apparently is “comfortable” for everyone else. For me, 72 feels like I’m storing meat in a deep freezer. I’m convinced the power company, and I have a mutual understanding: I keep the heat reasonable, and they don’t require a second mortgage.

Spring means I can finally venture outside without dressing in layers like I’m summiting Mount Everest.

It means yard work — and believe me, there’s no shortage of it around here. I actually enjoy yard work. There’s something satisfying about looking at a freshly mowed lawn or trimmed bushes and thinking, “Yes, I did that.” Of course, by next week, it looks like I never touched it, but for those few hours, it’s glorious.

Spring also means camping. I love camping, especially in early spring and fall when the nights are cool enough to sleep well but not so cold that you question every life decision that led you to sleeping on the ground. There’s just something peaceful about waking up to cool air and the smell of coffee brewing outside.

But this summer will feel different.

With my scouting days behind me, camping won’t be automatic anymore. For 25 years, Scouts were built into my calendar. Camping trips, summer camps, weekend outings — it was just part of life. There’s been talk of some of us former leaders getting together for a trip, but so far it’s been more nostalgia than reservations. This will be the first summer in a quarter of a century without Scouts in it. That’s going to take some getting used to.

Of course, there’s always fishing.

I can’t go fishing enough. If I could, I’d go every day of the week. One of my favorite memories happened last year when I took one of my daughters out fishing. We had tried a couple of years before, but that trip ended with a fishing hook buried in my finger and a quick trip to the hospital. The wind shifted, the kayak jerked, and suddenly I was the one being reeled in.

My daughter still blames herself, but it wasn’t her fault. Sometimes the wind just has other plans.

Last year’s trip was redemption. She caught several bass — the first she had ever caught. I was so thankful I was there for it. There’s something special about being present for those moments. You don’t realize at the time how much they’ll mean later.

And speaking of later, she recently announced that she and her boyfriend will be getting engaged. That’s supposed to be a secret, so if you’re reading this, you didn’t hear it from me.

Life changes. Seasons change. Kids grow up. And apparently, future sons-in-law don’t fish. I’m hoping she and I will still carve out a day or two to hit the water together. Some traditions are worth holding onto.

Spring also means outdoor cooking — and that may be what I’m most excited about. Grilling on the BBQ, cooking in my Dutch ovens — I love it. My love for cooking really started when I got involved in Scouts with my son. One of the dads in the troop took the time to teach me the art of Dutch oven cooking. And yes, I call it an art. There’s something about managing coals, timing, and recipes that feels almost sacred.

I always made sure at least one meal a day on a camping trip was cooked in a Dutch oven. If someone said, “I don’t know what to cook,” I’d hand them my trusty Dutch oven cookbook and say, “Well, you’re about to find out.” Most of the time, they did just fine.

Now it’s just my wife and me at home. The only problem is that most Dutch oven recipes feed ten or more people. So unless we’re planning to eat the same meal the next two weeks, I’ve had to make some adjustments. Turns out, retirement requires learning how to cook for two instead of twenty.

But maybe that’s what this season is about — adjusting. Letting go of some routines while holding onto the things that matter. Finding new rhythms. Creating new traditions.

And counting down the days until it’s warm enough for me to take this hoodie off inside my own house.

Twenty-five days and counting.

The Day Febreze Became a Household MVP

17 Tuesday Feb 2026

Posted by in Fishing, Kayaking, Life, Nature, Retirement, Uncategorized, Weather

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Four a.m. came early this morning… but who am I kidding? Four a.m. always comes early. I’m convinced 4 a.m. wakes up feeling productive and personally offended that I don’t.

The only reason I willingly get up at that hour is Bible study. Otherwise, if you see me awake at 4 a.m., something has gone terribly wrong — like I heard a strange noise, or I fell asleep at 7 p.m. and woke up confused and slightly offended.

Like usual, I sat there drinking my coffee while reading my morning devotion. There’s something peaceful about that quiet time… mostly because nobody else is awake to ask me where anything is.

After that, I went over the material for Bible study so I wouldn’t show up sounding like I just crawled out of a cave. Which, honestly, is exactly what my brain feels like at 4 a.m.

Since retirement, there are only two things that get me out of bed early.
Number one: Bible study.
Number two: Fishing.

Fishing and I haven’t spent much time together this year. I’ve only been once since New Year’s. The weather has been acting like it has a personal problem with me. Too cold. Too rainy. Too windy.

This week, the temperature is perfect… but the wind is blowing 10–15 mph with gusts up to 25 mph. Fishing in a kayak in that wind is less “peaceful day on the water” and more “Lord, if You get me back to the boat ramp, I promise to behave better.”

After Bible study, I met my brother-in-law and one of my fishing buddies for breakfast. Naturally, we talked about fishing. Because if fishermen aren’t fishing, we’re talking about fishing… or buying fishing gear… or trying to explain to our wives why we need more fishing gear.

We talked about kayaks and my plan to buy another one once I can raise the money. I refuse to go into debt for a hobby. I like fishing… but not “eat ramen noodles for six months” fishing.

Around 10 a.m., as I was leaving the restaurant, my wife texted me:
“The water is off.”

Not just our water. About 70% of the city.

That’s not a “someone hit a pipe” situation. That’s a “somebody is having a really bad day at work” situation.

I still had errands to run, so a couple of hours later, I made it home. We had a little water pressure, but not much. I immediately filled the bathtub so we’d have water to flush toilets if this thing dragged on.

Let me just say — that was one of the smartest decisions I made all day.

I called the water company.
They said about six hours.

Six hours came and went… still no water.

I called again.
Same report.
Just a new six-hour timeline.

That’s when you know you’ve entered the “Well… this is my life now” phase.

I have to admit, I was slightly entertained reading Facebook comments. Some folks were VERY upset about not being able to flush toilets and how things were getting… aromatic.

When people start describing their house as aromatic, things have gone off the rails.

Ten hours later, the water finally came fully back on.

The whole thing reminded me of visiting my grandparents when I was younger. They didn’t have indoor plumbing. They had an outhouse. If you had to go, you grabbed your courage and made the trip outside to the little wooden shack out back.

And let me tell you… I can still remember that smell. That smell had layers. History. Personality.

Suddenly, our ten-hour water outage didn’t seem quite so bad.

Fifteen Years, Thirteen Lives, Countless Memories

16 Monday Feb 2026

Posted by in Family, Nature, Photography, Weather

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April 11, 2026, will mark 15 years since theF5 tornado that forever changed Pleasant Grove, a small but strong community in Alabama. Fifteen years sounds like a long time — until you realize grief, memories, and fear don’t really follow a calendar.

Shortly after the tornado struck, I wrote about what we experienced. Back then, everything was raw. The sights, the sounds, the loss — it all felt like it was happening in slow motion. Today, the emotions are different, but they are still there. Some wounds don’t close completely. They just learn how to live beside you.

That day, 13 people in our community lost their lives. Thirteen families had their worlds shattered. Homes were gone. Landmarks were gone. In many ways, a sense of security was gone, too. When people talk about storms, they often talk about property damage and wind speeds. But storms leave something else behind — memories you never asked for.

Even now, when the weather forecast mentions a tornado watch, my body notices before my mind does. The tension creeps in. The sky looks different. The air feels heavier. And if I’m being honest, I still have nightmares sometimes. The kind where you wake up and have to remind yourself that the walls are still standing and the roof is still overhead.

Our city is still rebuilding — not just buildings, but hearts. New homes have gone up. Businesses have reopened. New families have moved in. But there are empty places that will never be filled the same way again. And yet, if there’s one thing I’ve seen over the last 15 years, it’s resilience. Neighbors helping neighbors. Churches opening doors. Strangers becoming family overnight.

Anniversaries like this are strange. They hurt, but they also remind us of how far we’ve come. They remind us to say names out loud. To remember stories. To check on each other when the sky turns gray. And to never take an ordinary, boring, peaceful day for granted.

Fifteen years later, we remember.
We honor.
And we keep rebuilding — together.

The Day the Sky Took Aim at Home

Our little community was hit by an EF-4 tornado, and as most of you know, it destroyed much of our great city. Thirteen people lost their lives a few weeks ago. That same day, 64 tornadoes were recorded across Alabama, with 250 lives lost statewide. Numbers like that are hard to wrap your mind around… until one of those storms is headed straight for your front door.

That morning, my son and I woke up to news reports of a tornado hitting Pell City, a town east of us. It caused major damage, including to my sister-in-law’s house. It was shocking, but at the time it still felt like “someone else’s tragedy.” We were getting ready to leave with the high school band for a trip to Orlando, Florida. We kissed my wife and our young twin daughters goodbye and headed out, thinking about theme parks and music competitions.

I had no idea that just hours later, I would be terrified. I had just said goodbye to them for the last time.

We were on the bus near Tallahassee, Florida, when messages started coming in. An EF-5 tornado had hit Tuscaloosa and was moving toward Pleasant Grove — my hometown. Everyone on the bus started watching the live coverage as the radar showed the storm was inching closer to home.

I called my wife and told her to take cover. The radar program on my computer showed the path heading dead center toward our house. When I hung up the phone, I didn’t know if I would ever hear her voice again.

On the bus, the TV reports started rolling in. Then the phone calls and messages. Friends. Neighbors. Homes destroyed. Fires. Injuries. Deaths. It felt like the world was collapsing in real time — and I couldn’t reach my wife.

I tried her cell. The house phone. The neighbors. Nothing. Not even a ring. Just busy signals everywhere.

I couldn’t text her either. She never wanted to pay extra for texting. I’ll be honest… in that moment, I was mad about that. Funny the things your brain latches onto when you’re scared to death.

After about fifteen minutes, that sinking feeling set in — the one that tells you life might never be the same again.

All around me, parents were crying. People were getting news about loved ones being hurt… or worse. The lady behind me saw I was coming apart and tried to calm me down. I went and found my son. He had been trying to call his mom, too. I could tell he’d been crying. We just held onto each other for a few minutes.

Other parents tried calling our numbers. Same result.

Then finally… after what felt like a lifetime… I got a ring.

I remember thinking: Just because it rings doesn’t mean she’s alive.

Then I heard the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard in my life.

My wife’s voice.

The tornado missed our house by about half a mile. She had stepped outside afterward and didn’t see much damage. A few limbs down. Insulation is scattered across the yard. She wouldn’t realize until the next day just how close we had come to losing everything.

We were — and still are — truly blessed.

The buses stopped at the next rest area. Parents and band leaders met to figure out what to do. Some parents chose to head home. The decision was made to continue to Orlando and let parents make their own travel arrangements if they needed to return.

The kids all stayed. Some didn’t like it at the time, but they needed to stay out of the way of the emergency response and cleanup. Looking back, I think they understood.

We stayed in Orlando until Sunday. The ride home was quiet. Reality had set in. We were about to see firsthand what had happened to our homes, our friends, and our community.

Even today, our city is still rebuilding. Many families left and never came back. Our band went from nearly 100 students to 20 in less than a year. The high school felt it too. We’re slowly rebuilding — not just buildings, but people, memories, and hope.

It’s going to take time.

But we’re still here.

And that means everything.

Lessons I Learned From a Toad at 2 A.M. A Scoutmaster’s Tale

14 Saturday Feb 2026

Posted by in Boy Scouts, Life, Nature, Uncategorized, Weather

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I attend two men’s Bible studies each week — one on Tuesday mornings and one on Saturday mornings. The reason I bring this up is that at the Saturday group, several of the men are guys I’ve known for years. At one point or another, many of them were leaders in the Boy Scouts. Since announcing my “retirement” from Scouting, we’ve spent a lot of time after Bible study swapping stories and memories from those years.

Today was no exception.

And like most Scout stories, this one involves weather, questionable decisions, and lessons learned the hard way.

For years, our boys attended the same summer camp. It was a good camp, but after a while, the older boys got tired of earning the same merit badges year after year. There are only so many times you can get excited about tying the same knots before you start questioning your sanity.

So our troop decided to do something different — we planned our own week-long summer camp with a wider variety of merit badge opportunities.

The location we chose was Raccoon Mountain, just over the Tennessee state line, about 2.5 hours away. This trip took months of planning. We had to make sure the boys had fun while earning badges they couldn’t get at regular camp. Finding qualified instructors was probably the hardest part. That meant reaching out to other troops in the area and politely begging adults to come teach teenagers skills in the middle of the woods in the summer.

When we arrived, I met with the camp ranger. She placed us away from the other RV campers so we’d have privacy and not disturb anyone. While setting up, I noticed a large dry creek bed off to the side. The tent spots were level, but the whole camping area sat on a hill.

At the time, I thought, “Nice view.”

Later, I thought, “Well… that was dumb.”

We arrived midday, giving the sixteen boys time to set up the dining area, pitch tents, and start preparing dinner. After the meal, the KP crew cleaned dishes while the rest of the boys relaxed. The adult leaders met to finalize plans for our first full day.

Everything was going perfectly… until the camp ranger interrupted us.

A severe thunderstorm watch had been issued for later that night into the early morning. As Scoutmaster, weather monitoring was one of my responsibilities. Up until the day we left, the forecast called for only a brief early-morning shower. I had checked again before departure — no change.

This was back when weather apps were more “suggestions” than “accurate predictions.”

One of our camp rules was no electronics. Devices stayed in the vans once we arrived. This was before smartphones took over, but we still had gaming systems and MP3 players to worry about. This was to give the boys the complete outdoor experience.

I did bring two devices — my work phone and my BlackBerry. The work phone had limited internet (and technically wasn’t for personal use), and the BlackBerry had radar, though the signal was spotty enough that sometimes I think it was just guessing.

Radar showed two wide storm lines heading straight for us. By our calculations, the first would arrive around 2 a.m. After our meeting, I had the boys secure anything that could blow away or get soaked.

Most adults were staying in travel trailers, but I made sure several leaders stayed in tents with me for safety.

Around 1:30 a.m., thunder woke me. Lightning flickered in the distance. As I crawled out to check things, I ran into another leader doing the same thing. Always comforting when someone else is thinking the same way you are — or at least equally nervous.

While checking the camp, John called my name. He had spotted a toad hopping quickly uphill.

I asked if maybe that toad knew something we didn’t.

Looking back… I’m pretty sure he had access to a better weather service than we did.

Right on schedule, the first storm hit around 2 a.m. Wind picked up first, moving things I thought were heavy enough to stay put. Then the rain came — light at first, then like somebody flipped the “monsoon” switch.

Water rushed down the hill straight toward that “dry” creek bed. The road to the leaders’ section quickly turned into something resembling Class II rapids. All that water headed right toward the boys’ tents at the bottom.

John and I tried everything to divert water — digging channels, moving gear, anything. Nothing worked. There was just too much water. We grabbed spare tarps and rolled them into makeshift coffer dams.

At that point, we weren’t so much “in control” as we were “participating in a natural disaster.”

After about twenty minutes, the rain eased. Radar showed the second, stronger line about thirty minutes out.

Then my son called out from his tent asking if they could come out — said there was “a little water” inside.

In Scout language, “a little water” can mean anything from damp socks to an indoor swimming pool.

I told them to stay put. The storm wasn’t done with us yet.

As we kept working, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye.

Another toad.
Moving uphill.
Faster than the first one.

At that moment, I should have packed everyone up and followed that toad like he was Moses.

The second storm hit harder than the first. John and I were soaked to the bone. By the time it ended, every tent had at least an inch of water inside. Not a single dry sleeping bag or cot left.

My entire focus was on the boys. That was the Scoutmaster in me. Thankfully, we had stored some dry wood under a tarp and could at least build a fire to start drying things out.

Only later that morning did I check my own gear.

The water had pushed loose debris against my tent and literally shoved it downhill. There were six inches of mud inside. Somehow, though, everything on top of my cot — including my CPAP and electronics — stayed dry.

I still can’t explain that. I’m calling it either divine intervention or really good cot placement.

After breakfast, John and I loaded every sleeping bag and six full trash bags of clothes, and drove into town to a laundromat. I don’t even want to think about how many quarters we fed those dryers. I’m pretty sure the owner saw us coming and started pricing beach houses.

When we got back, John offered to let me stay in his tent for the rest of the week. Thankfully, his tent was large enough for both of us. After the night I had just experienced — losing a fight with rain, gravity, and poor campsite placement — I wasn’t about to argue.

At that point, pride was gone. Survival and dry socks were the only goals.

Besides, after spending half the night building tarp dams in a thunderstorm together, sharing a tent didn’t even make the top ten list of weird things that had happened that week.

The rest of the week went perfectly. The boys had a blast. Nothing was ruined — just wet and sleep-deprived. And probably a little more respectful of weather forecasts… and fast-moving amphibians.

And I learned something important.

If you ever see toads moving quickly before a storm…
You might want to follow them to higher ground.