Today was exactly what the doctor ordered—except for having to get out of bed at 4:00 a.m. I’ve never been much of a morning person.
Of course, it’s not just the early wake-up call that comes with a fishing trip. There’s all the preparation beforehand and the unloading afterward, both of which I could happily do without. Still, neither can be avoided if I want to spend a day on the water.
I’m always worried I’ll forget something important, and more often than not, I do. Today it was my camera’s SD card. I had removed it to download last week’s video and never put it back in the camera.
Despite that minor oversight, it turned out to be a great trip. Rick and I both caught fish, and that’s always a win in my book. In fact, I was already floating in the water waiting for Rick to launch when I decided to make a few casts. On my third cast, I landed a nice one-pound bass. It’s hard to ask for a better start than that.
The fishing trip couldn’t have come at a better time. We’re still waiting on AT&T to repair the damaged wiring in my parents’ neighborhood, and no one has been able to provide a timeline for when service might be restored. Dealing with that situation has certainly elevated my blood pressure over the past week.
Then there’s another situation occupying my thoughts.
My daughter’s boyfriend is planning to propose on Saturday. Quite a few people know what’s supposed to happen, and I guess that’s what’s making me nervous. The more people who know a secret, the greater the chance someone accidentally lets it slip before the big moment arrives.
I have a location-sharing app on my phone that allows my daughters to see where I am, and vice versa. Before Saturday gets here, I’m either going to turn my phone off or figure out how to disable location sharing. The last thing I want is for technology to spoil a carefully planned surprise.
I’m not in charge of the proposal, but I still feel responsible for making sure everything goes smoothly. There seems to be a hundred different ways things could go wrong.
As if that weren’t enough, my son spent this past week in Orlando, and my daughters have been taking turns checking on his two cats. During one visit, one of my daughters noticed the house was unusually hot and humid. After looking around, she discovered that one of the kitchen windows had blown open.
She did what she could, but when my son called, he asked me to stop by and see if I could secure it better. Once I got there, I found that both window latches were broken beyond repair. I ordered replacement latches and plan to head over tomorrow to help install them.
Saturday morning will be devoted to cleaning my truck inside and out. I managed to cut the grass yesterday, so either tomorrow or Saturday, I’ll need to finish the trimming.
Needless to say, there’s a lot on my plate right now.
That’s why today’s fishing trip was so important. For a few hours, I was able to leave the worries behind, enjoy some time on the water, catch a few fish, and recharge my batteries.
I’m looking forward to a stretch of days when life slows down a bit, and there isn’t quite so much going on. There are still plenty of projects waiting for me around the house and yard, and I’d like to spend some time working on them without feeling pulled in a dozen different directions.
I had the pleasure of spending a few hours fishing with one of my daughters yesterday.
The weather was less than ideal. The sky stayed mostly overcast, and we even had a brief rain shower pass through. Fortunately, it wasn’t enough to soak us, so we stayed on the water and kept fishing.
Like any fishing trip, you always hope for one of those days when the fish are biting, and everyone catches plenty. Unfortunately, this wasn’t one of those trips. I managed to catch two fish, and my daughter didn’t catch any.
I felt bad for her. It certainly wasn’t from a lack of effort. She tried hard all day, but the fish simply weren’t interested in what she was offering.
The day before our trip, I had contacted a friend who fishes that creek regularly. He gave me several suggestions on what the fish had been hitting lately. Wanting to improve our chances, I made a special trip to the tackle shop and spent what felt like a small fortune on plastic lures.
Wouldn’t you know it, the fish I caught were on an old plastic worm that had been sitting in my tackle box for who knows how long. Not one fish showed any interest in the new lures.
My daughter is still fairly new to fishing, so I’ve been letting her use one of my older rod-and-reel combinations with a Zebco 33 attached. If you’re a fisherman, you probably already know where I’m going with this. It’s pretty hard to create a bird’s nest with a Zebco 33. She used that same setup last year and caught three bass with it.
Later in the day, I asked if she’d like to try one of my spinning reels. I had four rods with me, three of them equipped with spinning reels. Within minutes, she was casting that spinning reel like she’d been using one for years. I think I may already know what I’ll be getting her for her next birthday.
At one point, I reminded her that fishing isn’t always about catching fish. It’s about being outdoors, enjoying God’s creation, and spending time with the people you care about. In this case, it was about a father getting to spend time with one of his daughters.
She’s a young adult, and I’m sure she understands that. Still, I know the trip would have been even better for both of us if she had managed to catch a few fish.
The reality is that her life is about to change. She’s getting close to becoming engaged, and before long, she’ll have a family of her own to think about. I don’t know what the future holds or how much time she’ll have available to spend fishing with her dad.
I hope she’ll still find the time.
As I get older, I’m learning that some of life’s most valuable moments aren’t measured by success, accomplishments, or even the fish we catch. They’re measured by the people sitting beside us while we’re trying.
Yesterday, I only caught two fish.
But I spent several hours with my daughter.
When I look back on the day years from now, I doubt I’ll remember much about the fish. I’ll remember who was in the small kayak next to me.
I wasn’t expecting to make another post until the first of next week, but a few interesting things have transpired.
Yesterday, I went fishing with my fishing buddy Rick. The bite was extremely slow. So slow, in fact, that I honestly thought the day would end without me catching a single fish. I’ve seen funeral processions move faster than the fish were biting.
Rick decided to paddle straight to the first waterfall as soon as we launched. I stayed behind near the launch area and worked the lily pads for a while. After spending some time there without any luck, I finally decided to make my way toward the waterfall myself.
I wasn’t in any hurry, so along the way I stopped at several spots where I’d caught fish before. Nothing. Not even a courtesy nibble from a bluegill. At one point, I started wondering if the fish had all attended a secret meeting and agreed to ignore me personally.
When I finally reached the waterfall, I could see Rick already there, so I stayed along the banks to give him a little room. I was close enough to ask if he’d had any luck, and apparently he was having the same kind of miserable day I was.
Not long after I got there, I heard him paddling closer. Then I heard him call my name and say he had something to show me.
I asked if he’d caught something.
He sure had.
What he pulled out of the net surprised me. It was the biggest catfish I think I’ve ever seen in person. He asked me to weigh it since he didn’t have his scales with him. While he grabbed his phone for pictures, he handed me the fish.
That catfish weighed nearly 10 pounds.
Naturally, the only giant fish caught all day had to belong to Rick. If I had hooked that fish, people would still be hearing about it next Christmas.
Meanwhile, my luck still hadn’t changed much. I had several bites throughout the afternoon, but nothing would stay hooked. Eventually, I paddled back toward the launch area, slipped under the bridge, and fished one of the feeder creeks.
Right before it was time to head home, I finally caught one fish weighing about a pound and a half. By that point, I was so happy to catch something that I probably would’ve taken pictures with a goldfish cracker.
On the drive home, I decided to leave everything loaded in the truck and unload it the next morning.
That turned out to be a good decision.
While eating supper, I was informed that one of my daughters wants me to take her kayaking on Friday. I’m glad I didn’t unload everything. I did have to remove all the non-essential fishing gear because it won’t be needed this trip. I’ll still take my tackle box and rods because while my wife and daughter paddle around enjoying nature, I fully intend to conduct very important fishing research.
I really wasn’t planning on going back to the creek so soon. I was actually looking forward to spending some time working in my shop. But if my daughter wants to go kayaking, then I’m going kayaking. Those opportunities don’t last forever.
I haven’t told Rick I’m going back tomorrow. Otherwise, he’ll want to tag along. To me, this is more of a family outing, and I don’t want to be responsible for keeping up with my family and Rick, too.
Besides, Rick likes to stay all day. My daughter will probably be ready to head home after a few hours, especially if the weather gets hot or she runs out of snacks.
He may get a little upset that I didn’t invite him, but he’ll get over it.
And besides that… he already caught the big fish yesterday.
{Eidited:) This post was supposed to go out last night (Friday), but I had fallen asleep in my recliner while editing. I woke up at 3:30 this morning and decided it was time for me to go to bed.
I’ve been “offline” for several days now, and honestly, I think life has finally caught up with me.
Between attending both of my Bible study groups, keeping up with my Tuesday night training sessions, trying to stay on top of my craft work, and dealing with ongoing back pain, it’s been a lot. Probably more than I should’ve been trying to juggle all at once.
To make matters worse, I’ve been trying all week to get in touch with my doctor’s office. I’ve left several messages with his nurse and haven’t heard anything back. I know they’re in a tough spot—my doctor passed away, and his daughter is doing her best to keep the practice going—but at some point, I’d just like to know what my MRI results are and what the next steps look like.
This back pain? It’s not subtle.
If I sit with a heating pad or lie down, I’m fine. But standing, walking very far, or trying to get up out of a chair without armrests feels like I’m auditioning for a role in a slow-motion action movie… except there’s no action. Just pain.
Now, what I’m about to say might make you question my judgment. That’s okay—I’ve been questioning it myself.
Most of you know I have an early Bible study on Tuesday mornings. After that, I usually meet up with my fishing buddy for breakfast, and like clockwork, the conversation turns to one thing: When are we going fishing?
We both love it. Probably more than we should.
We’re also not exactly the healthiest guys around. He’s got heart trouble, and I’ve got my own collection of “maybe don’t do that alone” conditions. So, logically speaking, kayaking on a river by yourself probably shouldn’t make the list of good decisions.
But here’s the thing…
Before he ever got a kayak, I used to go fishing alone all the time and never thought twice about it. No worries. No hesitation. Just me, the water, and whatever fish were willing to cooperate—which, let’s be honest, wasn’t many.
After we started fishing together, though, I began to realize maybe going alone wasn’t the smartest idea. These days, I do carry a satellite tracking device that keeps up with me and lets me send messages, which sounds impressive until you realize it doesn’t paddle the kayak for you if something goes wrong.
There’s also something I hate to admit: I actually enjoy fishing alone.
There’s a peace to it. No talking. No coordinating. No “what spot do you want to try next?” It’s just quiet… and the occasional sound of me getting frustrated.
But I know if I go without him, it bothers him. Which makes it feel like I shouldn’t.
Well, this week gave me an opportunity.
He had a doctor’s appointment on Thursday, and I didn’t have anything planned. Wednesday and Friday were already booked, so Thursday became the perfect window.
And I took it.
I went fishing alone.
Now let me tell you… It was peaceful. It was quiet. It was relaxing.
It was also expensive.
Not “grabbed breakfast on the way” is expensive. I’m talking, watch your money sink into the river while you sit there helplessly, expensive.
First to go was my measuring board—about a $40 piece of equipment that decided it no longer wanted to live on this earth. One small slip, and it vanished into about 10 feet of murky water like it had been training for this moment its entire life.
I barely had time to process that loss before my brand-new fishing reel—yes, the one I had just received the day before and proudly put on my rod—decided to malfunction.
So there I am, sitting in a kayak, performing what I can only describe as back-alley surgery on a fishing reel, when suddenly the drag knob pops off.
Time slowed down.
It slipped out of my hands… bounced once on the side of the kayak… and with perfect aim… dropped straight into the water.
Gone.
Just like that.
I sat there for a second, staring into the water, thinking, “Did that really just happen?” Followed immediately by, “That was expensive.”
At that point, I hadn’t caught a single fish. Not even a bite.
To say I was discouraged would be an understatement. I seriously considered paddling back to the launch and calling it quits. In my mind, catching a fish had become less about enjoyment and more about trying to justify the expense of being out there.
So I stayed.
And eventually, I started catching fish.
I officially brought four bass to the boat. It took from about 6:30 in the morning until 3:45 in the afternoon—but who’s counting? (Me. I was definitely counting.)
Now, unofficially… that number should be higher.
I had several fish on the line that apparently took one look at the kayak and decided, “Yeah, I’m not doing this today.”
One by one, they shook loose like they had somewhere better to be. No goodbye. No apology. Just gone.
Honestly, my total would be a whole lot higher if I could count the ones that “got away.” But as every fisherman knows, those are always the biggest ones anyway. If you ask me tomorrow, I’m pretty sure at least two of them will have been record-breakers.
By the end of the day, I was worn out, a little sore, and slightly poorer than when I started.
Was it worth it?
Financially? Not even close.
Physically? My back has been filing complaints ever since.
But somehow… I still had a good time.
I’ve already ordered a new measuring board, and it should be here before my next trip. The reel? Well, we’ll just say I learned some valuable lessons about fixing things over open water.
I’m not entirely sure there’s a clear moral to this story.
Maybe it’s that sometimes things don’t go your way. Sometimes they go really wrong. And sometimes they cost you more than you planned.
But even then, you can still find a way to enjoy the day.
Or maybe the lesson is this:
If you’re going to lose expensive equipment… at least catch a few fish to make yourself feel better about it.
And maybe—just maybe—next time I’ll tie everything down.
I survived the day on the river. Well… define survived.
I caught three fish—two bass and one respectable catfish. Now, before you start picturing a highlight reel, let me bring you back to reality. One bass weighed a solid 0.84 pounds… which I’m pretty sure still qualifies as “aspiring fish.” The other came in at 1.61 pounds, which officially made it the “big one” of the day.
Not exactly bragging rights, but hey—it beats going home empty-handed and lying about the one that got away.
It was a long day on the water with not much to show for it, but honestly, that wasn’t really the point. Sometimes you just need to get out there, clear your head, and enjoy the quiet… even if the fish aren’t cooperating.
Now, my back? My back has a completely different opinion about how enjoyable that day was.
This morning, it feels like I tried to wrestle a gator instead of fish for bass. I’ve been eyeballing a muscle relaxer like it’s the answer to all my problems, but if I take it, I might as well cancel the rest of the day—and I’ve got a craft fair to prep for. So for now, I’m choosing pain and responsibility over relief and a nap. Questionable decision.
My fishing partner had a better day—at least numbers-wise. He caught six fish: two panfish and four bass. Of course, he forgot his scale… again. At this point, I’m starting to think it’s intentional.
And the pictures? Let’s just say if blurry fish photos were a sport, he’d be sponsored. Half the pictures cut the fish off, and the other half look like they were taken during an earthquake.
But the real adventure didn’t start until we tried to leave.
I got back to the launch first and was greeted by a couple of contractors from Alabama Power. They had seen me pull up and came over to talk. Between the language barrier and a lot of hand gestures, I gathered they were stringing a new power line right where I was and wanted me to move.
I explained I was waiting on my buddy… who, by the way, had forgotten his paddle.
Now, before you panic, he’s got a pedal kayak, so getting around wasn’t the issue. Getting out of the water, however, would require a little teamwork—and preferably someone who actually had a paddle.
The contractors weren’t thrilled, but they had little choice but to wait.
When my buddy finally showed up, I filled him in. We got him out of the water and were told it would be about a 20-minute delay.
Forty-five minutes later, it became clear that “20 minutes” was more of a suggestion than a timeline.
So we did what any tired, slightly irritated fishermen would do—we handled it ourselves and loaded up anyway. I noticed the line they were stringing didn’t even have power running through it yet, which made the whole situation even more confusing. But at that point, we were done asking questions.
We loaded up and hit the road.
And immediately got stuck behind a slow-moving truck hauling what looked like half a construction site.
What should have been a 45-minute drive home turned into an hour and a half. Because apparently, the universe decided the day just wasn’t quite long enough yet.
Now here I am the next morning, back aching, truck still needing to be unloaded and reloaded for the craft fair, and wondering why all my hobbies seem to come with a recovery period.
Yesterday had its share of hiccups, but it was our first trip of the regular season. Gear was misplaced, things were forgotten, and clearly, we’re a little rusty.
But now that we’ve got the first trip out of the way, everything should be back where it belongs.
Have you ever hit one of those stretches where you really want to do something—but life just keeps stacking the deck against you?
That’s me right now… and fishing.
The weather—well, the temperature at least—has been absolutely perfect. The kind of weather that makes you start mentally packing your gear before you even finish your morning coffee. I’ve been itching to get the kayak in the water.
But of course… It’s never that simple.
First, there’s the wind.
For the last ten days, the wind has been doing everything except cooperating. Now, sure, you can go kayak fishing in the wind… if you enjoy turning your peaceful fishing trip into a CrossFit session. Unless you’re on the water at daybreak, you’ve got a very small window before the breeze turns into a personal trainer yelling, “Paddle harder!”
Nothing quite like trying to hold your spot while questioning your life choices.
But honestly, the wind isn’t even the biggest problem.
Even if the water was as smooth as glass, my schedule has been anything but.
I’ve had something going on nearly every day—mostly doctor appointments. And just when I think I’ve finally got a free day lined up, my phone rings with, “Hey, just a reminder…” At this point, I’m convinced my calendar is just a suggestion, not a plan.
Case in point—I went to the doctor the other day about my back. For years, I thought it was just normal wear and tear… turns out my back has apparently been keeping secrets. Not the fun kind either.
So I finally spot a window. Tomorrow morning? Perfect fishing opportunity. The wind isn’t supposed to pick up until around noon. I’m already picturing that first cast.
Then the phone rings.
It’s the doctor’s office.
“Your MRI is scheduled for tomorrow.”
Of course it is.
So instead of being out on the water trying to catch fish, I’ll be lying perfectly still inside a giant tube while it takes pictures of all the bad decisions I’ve made with my back over the years. Honestly, if that machine could talk, it’d probably just shake its head and say, “Yeah… you probably shouldn’t be kayak fishing either.”
At this point, I’m not even sure what’s more out of alignment—my schedule or my spine.
Looking ahead to next week, it’s the classic tease. The temperature is supposed to drop again early in the week, then warm back up later. But it’s too far out to know what the wind’s going to do… and at this point, I’m convinced it’s working with my doctor.
One of these days, everything is going to line up—the weather, the wind, my schedule… and hopefully my back.
And when it does, those fish better be ready.
Because I’ve got ten days’ worth of missed fishing—and a medically questionable spine—ready to hit the water.
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.”
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:
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.
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.
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