On Mt Katahdin, Maine's highest mountain, up Cathedral Trail, across the high plateau, down into "the Klondike" on no particular trail and back up the further side of that ravine, across the plateau, and finally down the trail that goes over the north peak area to Blueberry Knoll. I was about 16, with my Dad and siblings.
On the way down, we walked on the roots of acres of stunted spruce trees, about three feet above the ground. Getting down to the ground was not possible, unless you were a small bear. We were wonderfully exhausted by the time we left the ravine and got back up onto the plateau. A candy bar was never more needed--and never tasted better.
Meanwhile, Dad told us of the time he and a friend had hiked into the Klondike and set up camp. Gerald was walking down a steepish round of granite with a stream flowing at the side. Suddenly he disappeared. Dad looked around. No Gerald. He called out. A voice came from below. "Emerson, what's taking you so long?" Gerald had slid the last 20 feet. (We walked that same curve of smooth granite, carefully keeping to the side where we could hang onto spruce roots.)