Tag Archives: adventure

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.

An End to an Era

07 Saturday Feb 2026

Posted by in Boy Scouts, Family, Life, Photography, Uncategorized

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After 25 years in the organization formerly known as the Boy Scouts of America, I am calling it quits. Tonight, I said my final farewells — not to the many friends I’ve made over the years — but to the organization itself.

Where do I even start with a post like this? After 25 years, I have so many memories, so many stories to tell, and yet I’m at a loss for words. My emotions are all over the place. On one side, there’s anger and frustration. On the other hand, there’s sadness at stepping away from something that was once a cornerstone for teaching core values to young men.

My scoutmaster when I was in scouts many years ago.

When my son crossed over from Cub Scouts into Boy Scouts, there were a lot of uncertainties. Would he enjoy the outdoors? Would he be okay spending his first night in a tent with boys he barely knew — and without his dad right beside him? Suddenly, he was under the supervision of boys — or really, young men — not much older than he was.

During those first meetings, I sat back and watched him interact with the other scouts his age. He had a great time as a Cub Scout, but there he was alongside his mom, working together to earn belt loops and awards. Scouts was different. The parents sat off to the side while the boys were taught the Pledge of Allegiance, the Scout Law, the Scout Oath, and the Outdoor Code — not by adults, but by youth leadership. I was a proud parent the day my son could recite all of them by heart.

As my son grew up in Scouts, so did I.

I was eventually asked to become a leader. At first, I was reluctant, but I quickly realized I could give back by passing on skills I had learned over the years. I taught Plumbing Merit Badge, Photography Merit Badge, and even knots I’d learned working in the HVAC industry. What amazed me most was that, without even realizing it, I was getting to spend time with my son. Maybe not one-on-one, but we were there together, learning and growing at the same time.

My son eventually earned the rank of Eagle Scout — during a time when I was serving as his Scoutmaster, a role I had stepped into years earlier. It was one of the proudest days of my life. Because he hadn’t turned eighteen yet, he stayed active and served as Senior Patrol Leader.

Then came a weeklong campout on the outskirts of the Great Smoky Mountains.

My sons troop while I was the scoutmaster. Can you pick him out?

On the final night, the boys gathered around the campfire for skits and reflections. Then it was my son’s turn to speak. He announced it would be his last campout with the troop. He would turn eighteen in a few weeks and would be aging out. His plan was to go off to college, and Scouts wasn’t part of that plan.

My heart sank.

The building where we met was torn down.

For six years, we camped, hiked, cooked, climbed — you name it. Maybe it wasn’t one-on-one, but we were together. When lights out came and I finished my rounds, I went back to my tent, and I broke down and sobbed.

But the story didn’t end there.

I stayed involved because I had completed a lot of leadership training, and I felt like I still had something to give back to the program.

One of our Cub Scouts is building a birdhouse

There was a need in our district for someone to take over Eagle Board responsibilities. This committee helps guide young men in selecting meaningful Eagle projects and conducts Eagle Boards of Review — sitting down with candidates to talk about their Scouting journey and their Eagle project. I wish I had known how long I would stay in that role, because I would have kept count of how many young men earned Eagle while I was there.

Over the years, I wore many hats in Scouting — none of which I regret.

As the organization changed, though, so did my attitude. There were changes that simply didn’t make sense to me. The main reason I stayed as long as I did was that the core program still worked, regardless of the decisions being made at higher levels.

One of the many awards that I achieved while a leader.

Apparently, I wasn’t alone in my concerns. Membership dropped like a rock. In my district, we went from twelve troops to five during the years of major changes. Tonight, that number dropped from five to three. Our two combined troops folded due to a lack of leadership and membership growth. After tonight, I don’t see how our district survives without eventually merging into another.

I’ve asked myself, “Who’s to blame?” That’s not something I really want to dive into.

Troop 322 and Troop 41 combined to form one troop

But I will say this — it wasn’t because local leaders didn’t try.

Follow the money.

Charging $120 per year just to join, plus around $325 for a week at summer camp, is a lot. Many families simply can’t afford it — especially if they have more than one child in Scouts. And that doesn’t even include troop outings, which can run anywhere from $15 to $45 per trip. Many of these kids are being raised by single parents

Just one of the many young men who achieved the rank of Eagle.

Yes, Scouts can sell popcorn to help offset costs. But it’s hard to sell a $25 box of popcorn with six bags in it when families can buy the same brand at the store for $7 and get twelve bags. And when an adult tells a scout it’s “highway robbery,” what do you say to a seven-year-old who just got scolded by a stranger? It’s not their fault. They’re just trying to raise money to help pay their dues.

The last night at one of our summer camps. The boys always had a blast.

And when only about 32% of the profit gets split among the scouts working that shift, it makes it even harder.

Meanwhile, councils raise tens of thousands of dollars — and districts often see very little of it. I know there’s overhead. But it does make you wonder where the money goes.

Sorry — not sorry — for the tangent.

That’s the angry part of this story. I try not to dwell on it, but it does get under my skin.

Because at the end of the day, the program still works. It’s just becoming a program that fewer families can afford. And if something doesn’t change, Scouting could fade away.

Not to worry, though. The boys in the two troops will be going to one of the two troops still active. With determination, I feel that all the boys will stay in it long enough to earn the rank of Eagle.

And that would be a real shame.

Just a day at Summer Camp
The last scout that my team interviewed for the rank of Eagle

The Day a Scoutmaster “Didn’t Get Lost” (But Absolutely Did)

27 Tuesday Jan 2026

Posted by in Amateur Radio, Boy Scouts, Life, Uncategorized

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Photo by Valentin Antonucci on Pexels.com

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.”

Happy New Year Everyone!

09 Friday Jan 2026

Posted by in Fishing, Kayaking, Photography

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I’m not sure about the rest of you, but I’m really looking forward to seeing what this new year will bring. Last year was challenging… but if you’ve read any of my posts, you already know when I say that, I mean “I’ve survived worse, and I’m still standing… mostly.”

The weather around here lately has been acting like one of my twin daughters staring at a menu she’s seen a hundred times. Same menu. Same choices. Still no decision. We haven’t seen the sun for any meaningful amount of time since New Year’s. The past couple of days, we’ve been under a heavy fog advisory with a misty rain added in, just in case anyone was feeling too cheerful.

And then there are the temperatures. Not long ago, we had lows in the teens and highs in the forties. Then, suddenly, the last two days decided to identify as spring — mid-seventies during the day and fifties at night. At this point, I don’t dress for the weather anymore. I just step outside and let it emotionally surprise me.

My friend and I decided to take advantage of this identity-crisis weather and go fishing.

I’ll admit, I was a little apprehensive. After my accidental plunge a few months back, my brain now treats water like it’s part of a criminal organization. Sure, the air was in the 70s, but the water temperature was still in the low 50s. Just imagine taking a dip in fifty-degree water. That’s not swimming — that’s a full-body system reboot.

We got to the creek around 8 a.m., and I didn’t catch my first fish until a little after 1. For five solid hours, I was throwing a lure another friend swears by. He told me he caught six fish on it last week. By noon, I was starting to think he either lied… or I’m not his favorite person. So I switched back to my old, reliable lure and, shockingly, the fish remembered who I was.

I hooked four fish and managed to get two of them into the kayak. Both were good ones, though. One was just under two pounds, and the other nearly three. Not bad, considering the fish and I had both been ignoring each other most of the day.

The last few times I’ve gone fishing, the wind has been absolutely brutal. And remember — I’m in a kayak. Wind in a kayak isn’t weather. It’s an unpaid CrossFit class. Yesterday, though, the wind never showed up. From about 8 a.m. until nearly 5 p.m., it was calm, quiet, and surprisingly peaceful.

No sun. No wind. A couple of decent fish. And I stayed in the boat the whole time.

I’m calling that a win.

I really hope and pray that everyone has a blessed year.

The One That Got Me (Not the Fish)

25 Saturday Oct 2025

Posted by in Fishing, Kayaking, Uncategorized

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Fishing season for me is quickly coming to an end. What makes it even shorter this year is that my truck is heading into the shop for repairs on the first Monday of November — and it’ll be gone for two or three weeks. That means I’ll have no way of hauling my kayak to the river.

The temperature isn’t doing me any favors either. I have chronic anemia and stay cold all the time. When the temperature drops below seventy degrees, I freeze. So between my truck and the chilly weather, my fishing days are numbered.

Every Saturday morning, I try to attend a one-hour Bible study at a local Methodist church. I hadn’t been for the last three weeks because of craft fairs I participated in, so I was looking forward to seeing some of the friends I’ve made over the years. But I also try to kayak-fish at least once a week — and I was desperate to squeeze in one last trip before the truck goes into the shop.

Yesterday, while waiting at the doctor’s office to have some cancer removed from my left arm, I decided to check the weather forecast and compare it with my schedule. Sunday was out — church and a meeting that afternoon. Here’s how the rest of the week looked:

  • Monday: Rain in the morning, winds 5–10 mph, temps 60/51
  • Tuesday: Cloudy, winds 5–10 mph, temps 63/51
  • Wednesday: Rain 90%, winds 10–15 mph, temps 57/45
  • Thursday: Mostly cloudy, winds 10–15 mph, temps 57/43
  • Friday: Mostly sunny, winds 10–15 mph, temps 61/39
  • Saturday: Partly cloudy, winds 5–10 mph, temps 66/44

If you kayak fish, you know wind speed is everything — your worst enemy on the water. Between the wind and the cold, every day looked rough. Tuesday seemed the best bet, but I had a meeting with my financial advisor that afternoon, and I didn’t want to rush the trip.

So, I made the decision: skip Bible study and hit the creek. The forecast called for a high of 79 by 2 p.m., with a low that morning of 57. Still a little cool for me, but with sunshine, I figured it would warm up nicely.

I met my good friend Rick at 6 a.m. My truck’s temperature gauge read 57 degrees as we pulled out. The creek’s about thirty minutes from my house, and as we got closer, I watched the temperature drop — 54, 50, 47… By the time we reached the boat launch, it was 43 degrees.

Now, I’m wearing shorts, a long-sleeve dry-fit shirt, and a lightweight waterproof jacket. The second I opened the door and stepped outside, I knew I’d made a mistake. But wait — it gets worse.

I unloaded all my gear, parked the truck so Rick could back in, and helped him launch his kayak. Then it was my turn. I positioned mine with the back floating and the front still on land. I straddled the kayak, sat down, and pushed myself into the creek.

My left leg went in fine. On the right side, though, I’ve got a depth finder mounted — something I’ve maneuvered around dozens of times before. But this time, as I tried to swing my right leg in, I felt the kayak start to list heavily to the left.

And over I went.

Cold water, 43 degrees, right at daybreak. I’m sure the fish got a good laugh out of it — I know Rick did.

Rick figured I’d want to pack everything up and go home, but this was my only shot at fishing before the truck went to the shop. Besides, I wasn’t that cold yet. I managed to gather up all my floating gear, climbed back into the kayak (a little more carefully this time), and finally got launched without any more drama.

I fished for about thirty minutes before the shivering started. That’s when I noticed something else — my phone was missing. I knew exactly where it was: sitting at the bottom of the creek in about four feet of water.

As the shivering got worse, Rick talked me into heading back to the launch. I conceded and paddled back to land. Once there, I spotted my phone — right where I thought it was, under four feet of creek water. It had been down there for over thirty minutes.

At first, I figured, “Why bother? It’s not going to work anyway.” But I decided to try. I waded out into the cold water, reached down for the phone… and promptly lost my balance. Down I went — again! The splash muddied up the water so badly I couldn’t even see the phone anymore.

Thankfully, Rick came to the rescue with his paddle and managed to fish it out. I picked it up, dripping wet, and hit the power button. To my surprise, the screen lit right up. The phone still worked!

Kudos to the maker of the phone case — it kept my phone completely dry

So, no fish, two dunks, one lost (and found) phone — and a story I won’t forget anytime soon.

Sometimes, the best days on the water aren’t about the catch. They’re about the laughs, the lessons, and the memories that come when things don’t go exactly as planned.