I used to cut stumps flush with an adze, similar to this one:
In Alaska in 1971, I volunteered. They issued us 10¢ canteens, first-aid kits, sleeping bags, polyethylene sheets for tents and ground cloths, clothes line, and hard hats. They flew us to the smoke jumper camp at McGrath. It was in the 90s by day and didn't get much colder in the brief nights. With frost a few inches down, ground insulation was vital for sleeping. You can make it of crumpled newspaper, but the government didn't provide insulatin and there was no available material to make it. Sleeping on the permafrost left me with weeks of back spasms that brought tears to my eyes.
An amphibian flew us to the fire and rolled ashore. It was a swamp, but the fire was spreading underground. We were offered pulaskis or spades. One rule for using an axe is to have a stable stance. This tundra was very uneven, with lots of holes. Another rule is to clear away branches that could snag the axe. This area was covered with small trees and branches. It wasn't a good environment to use an axe, and the adze blade made it more dangerous. I chose a spade. I had a file to keep it sharp enough to chop through roots.
After a couple of hours, the straw boss gave me the honor of clearing a landing zone... alone. Everything had to be cleared much wider than the diameter of the rotor, and the length had to be much greater because helicopters don't do well hovering. There were too many trees and bushes to count. A chain saw would have been safest as well as quickest, but I had to use a pulaski.
After an hour or so, another firefighter brought me a can of tomato juice. I sat down, opened it, and took a sip. He froze, staring down. I looked down and wondered how I could have spilled that much juice on my jeans. I realized the back of the pulaski, the adze, had cut me to the bone a little below the knee, and my back hurt too much for me to notice. I wiggled my toes and realized my boot was full of blood. I figured I'd never make it 50 yards to my first-aid kit. The speechless witness handed me his. To cheer him up, I sang as I worked. "If I should die before my time should come, won't you bury my body out on Highway 51." I poured disinfectant over the wound and tied the bandage so tight my toes tingled a bit. I took off my boot, wrung the blood out of my sock, dipped it in swamp water, wrung again, and put it back on. I did the same with my bloody jeans.
I went right back to work, just in case somebody got hurt and needed a medevac. In a few minutes I stepped in a hole, soaking the bandage in brown water. Government rules called for 4 hours' sleep each 24 even if it never got dark. When it was time to lie down on the permafrost, the straw boss told us he could call in a helicopter, and if anyone was injured he'd better speak up because it would be several days before there was another chance. There were 14 in the crew and he didn't know if anyone was injured? He was establishing plausible deniability. He didn't want to medevac me because sending me alone on a lengthy labor had probably been against regulations. He hoped I would keep quiet, and if I died of blood poisoning, he could say it was my fault for not coming forward.
Unwilling to trust government doctors, I kept quiet. I preferred to trust the possibility of healing properties of brown swamp water. I bet right. I didn't leave that uncomfortably tight bandage on long. When I took it off, there was no bleeding. The wound healed almost overnight. The scar was so thin that it was hard to find.
Lessons learned:
1.Keep a Sunday newspaper under your shirt so you can crumple balls if you have to sleep on permafrost.
2. Never go anywhere without a chain saw, in case you have to clear a landing zone.
3. Throw your adze away.
4. Learn cheerful songs to entertain onlookers if you get hurt.
5. Keep a bottle of swamp water in your medicine cabinet.
