When I was 12, my Dad and I went fishing at Chain of Ponds in northwestern Maine. I had a broken hand in an arm cast at the time, and during a break on shore, I went into the woods and climbed wobbly up a very steep rock slide to a waterfall I could hear from the canoe on Arnold Pond. Going up was easy; getting down was not on steep slick stone. I lost my footing and tumbled down the hard-edged rocks out of control to finally and luckily stop at the lip of a good drop. I got up bruised and very terrified. Calm, cool and collected, my Dad had followed me in and helped me down the steep slide and back to the canoe, all the while wary of and never mentioning the mother bear and cubs that he heard around us that I had disturbed. Thanks Dad. That was a close one.