At 16 I canoed down the Albany River to Hudson Bay. One early evening, setting up camp, I went to chop firewood. It had been raining and my razor sharp ax glanced off of a tree and buried itself into my left ankle. We were 100s of miles from the nearest town. The section head had to sew up the wound with a fishing hook and fishing line, he gave me a stick to bite on so I wouldn't scream. My best friend carved a cane for me whole the rest of the group looked on. The scar is wide. It was a great summer, 1,200 miles of whitewater.