It was a cold and dreary night and we had gone to that remote site that was used for the Brotherhood induction ceremony. It began to rain during the ceremony, and by the time the ceremony was done, we were all soaking wet. It was especially hard on the brothers who were in full Indian regalia. So we began to head for home. The rain and the darkness obscured what even in daylight was a path that was rather hard to follow. In short order, the leaders of our group lost the path and we found ourselves trekking through the brush. The torches were out, and all we had were a few flashlights to keep us strung together.
After an hour or so of crashing through brush, our Indians shivering with the cold and bleeding from scratches on their shins, someone said: "Listen!" We could hear a distant sound of cars along a road. It was our first indication that we might be able to find our way. Putting our best ears to the fore, we headed for the sound of cars. Finally, we emerged from the woods, and found ourselves on a highway that we concluded was Rte. 97. Guessing that we were east of Nick Dale's, we flagged passing cars and, despite our bedraggled appearances, a car actually stopped. We explained our situation and persuaded the driver to stop at Nick Dale's and have him call Camp. About an hour later, a truck driven by Ziggy Bookbinder showed up and we climbed aboard for the ride back.
I should add that our group, ever committed to cheerful service, sang "Ziggy Won't You Blow Your Horn" on the way back. Naturally, it was our scouting skills that enabled us to find our way out of the woods and our spirits never for a moment flagged.