Armed with a long list of essentials - but not her beloved hairdryer - Lisa Scott heads for the hills.
''I don't care how flash your boots are, they're going to leak,'' MMM said.
''No, they won't,'' I said huffily, getting a bit sick of this me-outdoorsman, me-know-it-all business. ''It says 'waterproof' on the side.''
''They're going to leak because there's a hole in the top of them.''
"Five."
I got there, eventually.
By the time you read this I will be climbing to the summit of an alpine pass or, like an Israeli tourist fresh out of the IDF, require an expensive search and rescue as a result of my overweening arrogance (the New Zealand bush being so like the Sinai desert).
I've never been tramping - actuals, for reals haven't, as the Omaroovians would say, in between gossiping about each other, or in the absence of gossip, making stuff up while being transported in the mobility scooter covered with a clear plastic tarpaulin that is the town's Uber - the closest I've got is leaving the house in a questionable skirt as a teenager. ''That's not a skirt, that's a belt!'' my mother yelled out the kitchen window as I scarpered off to mix the purloined contents of parental liquor cabinets with others, the resulting noxious mess guaranteed to require some romantic hair-holding-back later (Reader, I'd do it again in a heartbeat if it meant I still had those legs).
You've got to go a long way to find a bit of New Zealand that's not putrid these days and even passing the Overseas Investment Office's good character test isn't enough to stop landowners blocking access to the good bits: not surprised face. To get away from all the cow shit and corruption, I'm heading high into the hills above Ohau, which might be a haiku.
According to the Mordacious Mountain Man there will be crying, there will be whingeing, there will be outdoor pooping, but there won't be blisters thanks to my new boots from Rich and Baz at Oamaru Sports & Outdoors (not sponsorship so much as pity and a childish desire to see what might happen). They do have holes in the top, but that doesn't detract from their awesome ability to make me taller. After months in jandals, I almost cried when I accidentally stood in sheep poo yesterday and they lost their virginity.
Tramping is basically a long walk every day for all the days it takes for you to get from one place to another, which sounds extremely boring and remarkably like the Bataan Death March, but people come from all over the world to share a Doc hut with the risotto farts of others, so it must have some good points.
I have it on good authority tramping food has come a long way since the freeze-dried packets of squared vegetables and mashed dehydrated spuds of yore (''You'll be so hungry you'll eat anything,'' said MMM, a damning indictment of any recreational activity if I ever heard one), but you still need to carry everything in with you. Stuff I am not allowed to take: my makeup bag, hairdryer and bottles of pinot; pretty much eliminating dignity, selfies and good times in one fell swoop.
''How much is the pack going to weigh?'' I asked.
''More than anything you're ever travelled with.''
Unavoidably true, as I've schlepped my way around the world carrying nothing but a spare pair of knickers and some lip gloss, the most I've ever tipped the baggage scales being 3kg, yet according to his list of essentials for a trip inside my own country I'll need, among other things: gloves, over-trousers, gaiters (whatever they are), a personal first aid kit, compass, GPS, thermos with a hot drink, water bottle, bush shirt, polar fleece, groundsheet, sleeping mat, sleeping bag and liner, personal locator beacon, head-torch, toilet paper, insect repellent, whistle, matches, candle, 1 litre of water, camera, spare batteries, antihistamine tablets, water purification tablets, a towel, sunhat, sunblock, stove and fuel, billy, tent, poles, pegs and, if in alpine conditions: snow goggles, crampons and ice-axe. All that and there might not even be coffee in the mornings unless we can find a tiny percolator.
''I've still got some of those Heritage vouchers left,'' I said. ''Let's not and say we did.''
