In which I ventured out under level 2

I hadn't driven a car, or been more than about five kilometres from my house, since 22 March (I think), so today I went up Mount Climie, north of Upper Hutt. It's a place from which you can see Lake Ferry and the Wairarapa coast, the Remutaka ranges, Te Awa Kairangi winding through the Hutt Valley, and Wellington and its harbour.

I'd set myself the fitness goal of marching up the Mount without any stops. But even more than my buns and thighs, I needed to nurture my wairua.

Mount Climie is one of the tallest points in the region. Pungent bush gives way to ethereal beech forest, which in turn gives way to stony alpine scrub and flax. At each of these points, the availability of oxygen changes, and so too do the things that will grow: nature's intricacy and genius.

When I reached the pinnacle, I took a little time. The quality of the light is striking there; the cloud surrounds you, sticks to your skin.

I began to fanny about in a reverie, taking photos. Alone in this sublime place, I lost track of time.

And then, inexplicably, my phone died. My shitty, shitty Huawei, it just ... died in my hands. Its final act as the screen went unresponsive and dark was to call Trish from Zumba class for absolutely no reason. In this place where the earth touches the sky, I listened with a rising sense of panic as my call went to answer phone. Under this kind of pressure, I could not think of ANY question about Zumba whatsoever.

While the death of my phone was a harbinger of crap, things were to get infinitely worse.

I had met my fitness challenge. But in striving for sweaty uphill glory, I'd completely buggered my gammy knees. Buggered them. As I started back down the Mount, that burning pain known only to the chronically unco set in. 'Hello dorkness, my old friend', I sighed.

I hadn't brought a tramping pole. In the alpine landscape, I grabbed the only stick I could find. It was a stupid-looking stick with moss on it, and it made me feel like Gandalf. Well, maybe a little hotter than Gandalf. I gritted my teeth with mild annoyance and moderate pain, and I kept going. No need to panic, I assured myself - I'll be there in no time.

Only there WAS a need to panic. My slow progress was as excruciating as my knees. The sun was going down. There was only one other person on the walk, and she passed me early on her smug young-person knees. Traipsing down through the forest, I convinced myself I was only just around the corner from the end: I was wrong every time. I was alone. Rustling noises came from the bush.

My Huawei - the tech equivalent of binoculars made from toilet rolls - stayed dead, so I couldn't even use the torch. I knew that the gates to the carpark at the base of the Mount closed at 6pm. I imagined myself trapped behind them, kilometres' walk through the country from the nearest home, unable to phone home, like ET. Well, maybe a little bit hotter than ET. I was slipping and sliding on gravel in the encroaching darkness.

When I got to carpark, wincing and hobbling, it was 5.58pm. And I gunned my prissy Prius the hell out of there, stopping only to take a call from my son on my now magically revived dick of a Huawei. He said laconically, 'Good that you're not dead'.

What have I learned, me and my knees? Mother Nature is rad, but I think she designed me for level four. Still, it's better to have ibuprofen for tea than regrets.