My Grueling Tale of Boy Scout Camp Survival
I’ve now returned from my first Boy Scout campout in 17 years. The only evidence of my survival is that I’m now writing this article.
This campout did not begin Friday night at 6 pm. It started the second my wife suggested she take a job in rural Texas, and we showed up at our new gas station strip mall branch building.
Surveying all seven men in the chapel that first day, I had the feeling you get when you eat Taco Bell for Breakfast. I was going to be the Scoutmaster. (Also I saw in LDS Tools our branch didn’t have a Scoutmaster)
A few weeks later I sat down with our branch presidency. They wanted to get to know me. “Well,” I said, “I hate camping.”
Apparently, the Lord already knew that because He gave me the calling anyway.
Friday Night
Our branch formed two years ago, and the Boy Scout Troop had mostly laid dormant. But new leader in tow, we were off to one of the member’s farms for Campout #1. This sounded to me like a glorified back yard campout.
–The potty indignity
–Dodo Birds
–Danny’s Prayer at the End