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.