The story you’re about to read is 100% true. Every embarrassing second of it. It’s a little long, but if you hang in there, I promise the ending is worth it. It wasn’t funny at the time, but years later it has become one of my favorite stories to tell — mostly because I survived it and now get to pretend it was all intentional. Feel free to share it if you want a good laugh at my expense.

Before I developed Charcot in my right foot, I was pretty active outdoors. I loved hiking. As a kid, I’d throw random “essentials” into a backpack and disappear into the woods for hours. As an adult… those “essentials” eventually included a CPAP machine and a battery roughly the size of a car engine. Overnight hikes became less “Boy Scout” and more “mobile medical unit.”

So on troop outings, I usually stayed at base camp while the boys went on two- or three-day hikes. Someone had to guard the coolers, make sure nothing caught fire, and most importantly, be available if things went sideways.

Luckily, our troop had a couple of HAM radio operators — me being one of them. We always brought radios so the hiking group could stay in touch with base camp. If something went wrong, I could meet them at a trailhead, resupply, or help with medical needs.

It was a perfect plan.

Which should’ve been my first warning.

One fall morning, we drove about two hours to Cheaha State Park, home of the tallest mountain in Alabama — Mount Cheaha, standing a mighty 2,407 feet above sea level. Not Everest, but tall enough to make you question your life choices halfway up.

The plan was simple: the boys would hike to a shelter, stay the night, then finish the trail in the morning and meet me at the campground. Since the shelter was only a couple of miles from the campground, I decided I’d hike in later, eat supper with them, then hike back out before dark.

What could possibly go wrong?

I packed my meal, stove, fuel, water, snacks, electronic compass, hiking stick, and my brand-new handheld HAM radio. I crossed the road to the trailhead and hiked about half a mile before realizing I never turned on my GPS.

Already off to a strong start.

I stopped, turned it on, and waited several minutes for it to find satellites. This tiny decision — made by a man who thought he was prepared — would later become very important.

I reached the shelter without any trouble and, to my surprise, beat the troop there. Since there was no campfire planned, I picked up trash, did a little cleaning, and eventually lay down for a nap.

I woke up to the sound of teenage boys… which is about as subtle as a herd of raccoons falling down a metal staircase.

They set up tents, cooked supper (some of them apparently training for MasterChef: Backcountry Edition, others surviving exclusively on PB&J and processed sugar), and after everything was cleaned to my Scoutmaster standards, I realized it was getting late. Later than I wanted.

But I wasn’t worried.

I had a headlamp.
I had a GPS.
I had a radio.
I had confidence.

Nature loves confidence.

That weekend, the Penhoti 100-mile challenge was happening. Runners were everywhere, and HAM operators were stationed at checkpoints along the trails. I’d spent part of the afternoon listening to them check runners in.

Dark came fast, but I made it back to the road with no problem. I crossed it, expecting the campground to be right there.

It was not.

I walked… and walked… and walked… until I came to a creek. A wide one. A deep one. A very “this creek was absolutely NOT in the brochure” kind of creek.

The other leaders knew when I left and when I should’ve been back. I was supposed to radio in when I arrived.

That time had come and gone.

I didn’t want to admit I hadn’t made it back. Not because I was in danger — but because Scoutmasters don’t get lost.

I wasn’t lost.

I just had absolutely no idea where I was.

Then my radio crackled.

“Break… break…”

“We have a lost Scoutmaster somewhere between the Chenebee Silent Trail shelter and Turnipseed Campground.”

There are moments in life when your soul leaves your body.

That was one of them.

I keyed my mic and gave my call sign.

Nothing.

Tried again.

Still nothing.

That’s when I realized the problem. I had the right frequency… but forgot to set the correct PL tone. Without it, my radio might as well have been a walkie-talkie from the dollar store.

So there I stood, alone in the woods, listening to a search for myself… while being completely unable to tell anyone that I was, in fact, the idiot they were discussing.

I decided my best option was to retrace my steps back to the road and follow it to the campground entrance. It took nearly an hour — an hour during which I listened to HAM operators coordinate efforts to locate… me.

I eventually reached my truck and immediately found the nearest checkpoint. The operator was mid-conversation with the shelter when I broke in.

I have never heard relief like that come through a radio.

The next morning, when the troop arrived, there were many questions. And for years afterward, there were many reminders.

Ironically, that HAM operator later became one of my closest friends. Another story for another time.

Looking back, I learned a few things.

As a Scoutmaster, I broke the most basic rule: never go alone. Always have a buddy.

As a HAM radio operator, I failed to check my equipment before leaving home.

And because of that, I earned a title that will follow me forever:

“The lost Scoutmaster… who absolutely, positively, was not lost.”