Early on, we reached a small stream. Three stones lay across the water, spaced just well enough to look usable. A short distance away stood a solid wooden walkway, built to guide people safely across.
I noticed it and then ignored it.
I stepped on to the stones.
The lesson arrived quickly. My foot slid straight into the water, my shoe soaked through, and a dull ache spread across my right ankle. I had trusted my judgment. I believed the shortcut would hold.
It did not.
The wooden walkway was there for a reason.
My ankle was sore but manageable. I was able to continue and complete close to 17km, though more carefully than before.
Later, as the track began to ease and the walk drew closer to its end, the forest opened up once more. Everything was as it always is, unapologetically green. After descending a long flight of steps from the summit, we reached a lookout. Rotorua lay below us. Nearby, geothermal steam rose quietly from the ground. Further out, Lake Rotorua stretched into the distance, calm and familiar.
That evening, back at home, my daughter pulled me on to the sofa to watch one of her favourite shows. She noticed the swelling around my ankle, puffed up like a small ball. I sat with an ice pack resting against it, the day slowly settling into quiet.
By the next day, the swelling had eased. By the third, it was mostly gone.
At a time when many people are talking about New Year’s resolutions, this first walk offered a quieter reminder. There is no need to rush, and shortcuts rarely lead where we hope to go.
The walk itself was unremarkable.
What remained with me was the act of slowing down, placing each step more carefully, listening to what the ground was telling me, and accepting that the longer way is often the safer one.
Sometimes, moving forward simply means paying attention to where we place our feet.
Lifang Chen and Bella the Parsons terrier on a parkrun. Photo / Supplied