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.

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.