Tag 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.

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.

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.

Kayak, Quiet, and Keeping It Together; Out There, I Found Myself Again

11 Wednesday Feb 2026

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

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My fishing buddy texted me Monday night asking if we were still meeting for breakfast Tuesday morning—a morning ritual we started a few months back. For the second time in two weeks, I had to tell him no because of doctor appointments. I worry that he thinks I’m brushing him off, but honestly, that’s not the case at all.

We’re both at an age—and health status—where we really shouldn’t go fishing alone. He’s 72 and has had five strokes. Thankfully, his health has improved a great deal, and I’m not overly worried about the two of us being out in an area with no cell service for hours on end. I carry a Mini InReach, a satellite communicator that allows me to send and receive text messages via satellite if things go sideways and help is needed. It even has an SOS button. If either of us were to have a medical emergency, pressing that button would send our GPS coordinates to rescuers. It might take a few hours, but help would be on the way.

I’m 62, and if you’ve read any of my posts, you already know I have my own long list of health concerns. Having a partner with you in a place where two-way communication is sketchy isn’t just a good idea—it’s warranted.

But it comes at a cost.

Sometimes, I need to be alone. I enjoy getting out in my kayak, stopping for a while, and just absorbing the sounds of nature. It’s where I have one-on-one time with my God. Rick is always nearby, as he should be, but I no longer feel like I truly get that quiet space. If I slow down to let him get ahead, he stops too, probably just to make sure nothing’s wrong.

When I first started kayak fishing, I went alone. Rick didn’t have a kayak then. Back then, my world felt like it was closing in on me. My cancer numbers were out of control, my kidneys were failing, and dialysis felt like the only road left in front of me. I was depressed, scared, and felt more lost than I ever had in my life.

Being out in the middle of nowhere—surrounded by silence, by peace, by the kind of beauty only God could create—gave me something I couldn’t find anywhere else. It gave me room to breathe. It gave me space to think. It gave me a place where I could be honest about how scared I really was. Sometimes it didn’t fix anything… but sometimes it gave me just enough strength to get through one more day.

I needed that time alone. It wasn’t about fishing. It wasn’t about getting away from people. It was survival. It was the only place where I felt I could truly talk to God and not feel like I had to be strong for anyone else.

This isn’t meant to be a religious post. I don’t use this platform for politics, religion, or controversy. This is simply how I dealt with a situation that felt completely out of my control.

I hope each of us has a place we can go—a place of solitude, reflection, prayer, or even just quiet—where we can catch our breath when life feels too heavy.

And I want to ask something, not as a writer, not as someone posting on social media, but as someone who knows what it feels like to be overwhelmed:

How do you deal with depression?
When you feel like things are getting out of control, how do you hold on?
What helps you get through the days when everything feels heavier than it should?

Because the truth is… someone reading this right now might be barely holding on.
Someone might be smiling on the outside and falling apart on the inside.
Someone might just need to know they’re not the only one fighting that battle.

If you have something that helps you keep going, share it.
You might help someone more than you will ever know.

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 Uninvited Tenant in the Wall

04 Wednesday Feb 2026

Posted by in Family, Life, Nature, Uncategorized

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About two weeks ago, one of my daughters called and told me she was hearing something in their walls. Not normal apartment noise. Not pipes. Not neighbors.

Scratching.

The kind of scratching that makes you immediately start wondering if renters insurance covers emotional trauma.

She wanted me to tell her what it was. Now, I had a pretty good idea, but knowing that even saying the words rat or mouse would send both of them into Olympic-level panic, I had to choose my words carefully… like I was negotiating with hostage takers.

Now hear me out — this gets a little technical.

If I’m not wrong, most walls are built eight feet tall using 2x4s spaced 16 inches on center. That means the inside cavity space is about 14½ inches by 3½ inches. That’s not exactly a penthouse suite. That’s more like “micro-living for something small, furry, and highly motivated.”

And if you’re hearing scratching in a space like that, chances are something is using its teeth to dig into the gypsum wallboard to gain access to either your apartment… or your neighbor’s.

And of course — and this is no coincidence — this was the closet where they store their food and snacks.

Because if you’re a wall creature, you don’t break into the linen closet. You go straight for the Doritos.

I told them to email the apartment office and create a maintenance ticket. The problem was, this was late on a Friday night. And everybody knows maintenance emails sent after 5 PM on Friday go straight into what I call the “See You Monday” folder.

Unless you call the emergency number.

Now, being two women who are convinced anything smaller than a deck of cards is capable of crawling into their apartment, creating chaos, and starring in a true crime documentary about them… they called the emergency number.

Voicemail.

They left a message… and then sat there waiting for a reply like they were waiting on lab results.

At this point, every sound in that apartment was suspicious.
Refrigerator kicked on? Suspicious.
AC made a noise? Definitely suspicious.
Ice maker dropped ice? Obviously the wall creature testing structural weaknesses.

Sometime Saturday, management finally called — only to say pest control would come Monday. After what I can only imagine was a spirited discussion, management agreed to call the maintenance man.

Moments later, their phone rang. It was the maintenance man. He had gotten the message but couldn’t help — he had been in a bad accident and was currently in the hospital.

But — and this is dedication — he said he’d call one of his buddies to check out the situation. That is the most “maintenance guy” thing I’ve ever heard. Man is in a hospital bed like, “I can’t walk, but I know a guy.”

Several days later — and after multiple calls to the apartment office — pest control finally showed up along with the maintenance buddy. Apparently coordinating schedules while my daughters believed they were under siege from a wall monster took a little time.

Now, working in maintenance for years, I learned something:
Problems disappear when maintenance shows up.

You can have water pouring from the ceiling.
You arrive.
Bone dry.
Like the house is gaslighting you.

That’s exactly what happened here.

They checked the apartment while my daughters were at work.
Heard nothing.
Saw nothing.
Probably left thinking, “These girls need hobbies.”

Then my daughters got home.

And… scratching.

One of my daughters did the smartest thing possible — she recorded the sound and emailed it to management. Nothing says “I am not imagining this” like audio of something trying to chew through Sheetrock like it’s a Nature Valley bar.

The next day, the manager, the maintenance buddy, and pest control all came back — this time with purpose. They had seen the video. They had heard the scratching. They knew something was living rent-free in that wall.

First, they drilled a small hole and inserted a camera. They saw insulation disturbed.

Then they decided to cut a hole in the wall.

And there she was.

A squirrel.

Just sitting there.

Not running.
Not panicking.
Not even mildly concerned.

Just sitting there like, “Oh good, maintenance is here. My sink has been dripping.”

Pest control removed the squirrel and released it outside where it belonged. The A-Team then spent the next several hours trying to figure out where she got in.

Whether they found the entry point or not, they did tape up the hole in the apartment. Which is good… but also feels like putting a Band-Aid on a submarine.

I’m hoping they permanently fix it soon. Preferably before the squirrel comes back with a lease agreement and three cousins.

Last night was the first night in a while that my daughters didn’t go to sleep listening to something chew in their walls.

What happened to the squirrel after that? Nobody knows.

Will she return? Hard to say.
It was her home for a little while.

But hopefully she decided apartment living is too expensive… and moved somewhere with trees, acorns, and zero humans.