Room at the Inn

Room at the Inn

A visiting British Tramper discovers New Zealand's hut culture

I'm afraid of sleeping bag. I think there must be something lurking in the bottom of them. I'm always borrowing someone else's, and I force one leg in as if the last person wet the bed.

I don't like sleeping in large rooms with a group of strangers. I prefer my bed and my oworn path to the bathroom.

But I like nature and I like beautiful views. And in this case, I'm in a country with some of the best of them: New Zealand. So it only made sense that should strap a sleeping bag to my pack, hike up a mountain and stay the night in one of the country's many huts that help connect the Kiwis with their Middle Earth.

New Zealand is as spotted with huts as a zitty teenage. Mostly run by the Department of Conversation, often they are the only vestige of civilization for miles. And while people in New Zealand do their share of tent camping, it's the hut that brings Kiwis out for the weekend. Ranging in size from a box to a lodge, and in luxury from a fire pit to a gas cooker, back country huts bring strangers together for one night with one common bond: everybody loves a good tramp.

I certainly wasn't expecting the Hilton, but then again, what was I expecting ? I loved that little hostel in Prague, and that's when I thought I was roughing it. Later, one of my tramp mates told me that when we unloaded into the first hut, it looked like I was having “a bit of a panic”.

Okay, so maybe I couldn't hide the fact that the stale mattresses with the stuffing leaking out made me a little queasy. Were those permanent stains on the table, or just from the last diers? And who were those people sharing out bunk, already spread out, reading with head lamp.

What is this hut thing all about, really? And what do you do once you got there?

I turns out that you put the kettle on. Then you spread a map out across that table, and that leader (there's always one) traces the rout you will take in the morning. I hope he's joking when his hand makes an arc big enough to include the topographical lines almost kissing each other and says, “Or we could always take the harder way.” I wish I knew the definition of cheeky , and if he's being it.

When it's time to bunk down for the night, which just happens to be earlier that I've gone to bed in the last four years, it's last one in is a rotten egg. Or rather, last one has to turn off the lights and then stumble up the ladder. I pull on my sleeping bag as if it's a godly suit and lay on my back with my hands crossed on my chest like a corpse. If I die here, at least with my flashlight by my side.

My last thought , after I say hello to the moon while squat as close to the door as possible without it being a health violation, is, “Couldn't I have just taken a day hike?”

But in the morning, I'm perk. No, I'm more than perky. I'm proud, and I haven't even climbed the mountain yet. I made it through my first night, and everything seems, well, sunshiney. The mattresses are kind of charming. And I could even chortle at the spider web that sagged over my head all night like a swollen dew drop.

Ah tea. Put the kettle on! And what was it you were saying about a more challenging route? My sleeping bag, my little friend, I'll just roll you right up and see you tonight.

In my 10 hours that I stayed in the first hut, I already think I've seen it all. But I really still have a lot to discover about hut culture. Or, haute couture. It seems like there's no way to fake the real deal here. I'm spotted as an impostor from a mile away. Still, do my best to play that part of my seasoned weekend tramper.

There's nothing like reaching the top. Of anything really. But give me a steep mountain whose tiny top hat – our next hut- I can barely view with my zoom, and I'm ecstatic when I finally touch the stairs of the hut like a castaway greeting the sand.

The view Its fantastic. But we passed a lot of people on their way up too., and even though it's only noon, I know I better claim my bunk. In most of the huts you can't book ahead. You never know that you're going to get, and who you're going to share it with.

In this case, we're early enough to stick our flag in the top row. This hut is much bigger than the last – it has room for about 40 people – and is much cleaner. There are three long tables with benches and lunch has never sounded so good. I grimace as I watch someone slater Marmite on a rye cracker, something akin to a sweeter version of of a slat-lick for deer.

Right now, it's peaceful, with only my group of eight in the hut. And the day is made brighter knowing I have a bed for the night.

But not everyone is so lucky. When we return tho the hut from a second wind, it's more frat house than the charming cottage I left a few hours before. Everyone seemed to have this hut marked as their final destination, and before long, all the beds are taken.

I watch group after group stumble into the hut ready to plunk their packs down. One by one it registers that there's no room at this inn. Inevitably, they turn to each other and in rapid whispers, try to decide what to do.

I overhear: “Do you think we could all fit if we slept sideways?”

I overhear: “Do you think the next hut will be full? And can we make it before dark?”

It's not pretty watching a hungry man gamble. In the end, most people opt for the hard concrete rather than the dimming path.

We start cooking before the sun goes down. Like a concert with general admission, people rush to use the burners. We secure two and a table. It was a mistake for me to think the canned pineapple I was assigned to bring was for desert. It goes in with a the rest of the food-bacon, pasta, cheese, powdered tomato soup-to form our trampers delight.

Interested in what others are cooking, I watch as a group of guys enjoy spag in a can like it's gourmet meal. I'm convinced tramping is only an excuse to eat foods your mother would otherwise outlaw.

There aren't many written rules, and yet, instinctively, everyone seems to knowhow to act. It isn't as though everyone is one their best behavior. People are rowdy. Men walk around in shorts that make me blush, and I see more than one butt cheek playing peek-a-boo as people change for night (if this is the meaning for cheeky, then I'm confused). We drink three bottles of wine, if only because I don't want to carry mine back down. A group of pre-teens laugh and flirt on their bottom bunk. Somehow, there are multiple universes spinning at once. It's like my tramping mate said, “This is proof that anarchy works.”

Without a clock to tell us otherwise, people start to go to bed from pure exhaustion. If we didn't share anything else, its that we all want a good night's rest. No one has to ask anyone else to be quiet. Its just time for bed, and everyone knows it. I'm impressed that 40 people are in bed with the lights out without even the tantrum from half-drunk hunter.

I half expect people to say good night to each other in the dark from across the hut. No one does. There's complete silence. Then someone farts.