My pops used to have a long rhyme about which rocks to avoid when making your way through streams in waders. Grey was always okay. But step on red and you’re dead. Green was mean, brown – fall down, black and you’re on your back.
Cut to 14 years later and I’m hiking with the Mrs. and wouldn’t you know it, I missed a slimy red rock poking out of a little creek I was crossing. While I only fell one Ian’s distance to the ground, it felt like I was falling forever.