On Labour Weekend we were called to Queenstown for a wedding anniversary party.
The hosts had secured a large ski hut for the guests, dormitory beds, shared showers, no computer.
I put my foot down.
"Hosts," I said, "these conditions are inhumane and intolerable."
So we stayed at one of Queenstown's marble-bathroomed hotels.
Our hosts were incredulous I wished to stay somewhere with my own bathroom and, quel horreur, heating. "You've obviously never gone tramping," they sniffed.
And indeed I haven't.
In fact, I would rather press my face slowly down on a whirring DeWalt Bench Saw than do so.
I grew up thinking tramp meant Charlie Chaplin or Cher, but seemingly some humans go tramping, not by district court decree, but for pleasure.
I do not tramp.
I like scenic wonder, hence being helicoptered into key spots has merit, but only rich stupid lazy people do that, and I am not rich.
Listing the drawbacks of tramping throws me into a fury of confusion.
Which ones to mention first? Danger and death come quickly to mind.
I hate heights, water, predatory animals, darkness and strangers in huts.
You find me a tramp that doesn't contain one of those and you will have found me the unfindable.
This month's issue of Consumer takes a good look at tramping equipment.
I read this feature carefully, because I like to be well informed at prestigious dinner parties.
And I was stunned to find that the likelihood of death is not the only reason not to tramp.
There is a gobsmacking cost factor as well.
Were I to embark on an alpine tramp with ankle-high leather boots, a Gore-Tex jacket, emergency beacon, flares, a Vaude Ice Peak Extreme 220 sleeping bag, hand-held GPS, stove and pack, then I would be investing, though investing is hardly the word, thousands and thousands of dollars.
Did I mention the inevitable Westpac Rescue Helicopter, the Search and Rescue wallahs and the New Zealand Army? As Aristophanes once said, just do the math.
I don't mind a good walk; indeed, I can outwalk most people my age who are wracked by medical misadventure and nearly blind.
But why I would take that walk on crude ground as precarious as a Kuta footpath, up mountains flanked by ravines and swing bridges, knowing that at any minute ravenous keas will pick out my eyeballs, defies all the belief I can muster.
In fact, in 60 years on this planet, I can only recall three walking expeditions that come even remotely close to tramping.
There was one nine years ago in the Naseby Forest, no longer than 15 minutes in total, but long enough for me to suffer a hypoglycemic attack and nearly die.
This is not fanciful psychobabble - I have four witnesses.
Another came in Noosa's national park two years ago, when, despite a reasonable walking surface, I was done for after five minutes.
The omnipresent threat of snakes and lizards the size of small dogs didn't help.
Australia! Lastly was a grumpy shamble through the Catlins rainforest some time in the 1980s to see whether the Purakaunui Falls were as pretty as they looked on the cover of the second Lutha album.
They weren't.
I have, however, carved myself a survival hut against the elements, something only the finest trampers do.
I was 10, and the hut went underground, just outside my bedroom window.
I dug for weeks until there was room for two people.
I felt in the wild, one shouldn't sleep alone.
I laid down carpet to offset damp earth and worms, and put a semi-permeable plank roof across the top.
My sister told me recently this hut had shelves, but as girls were never allowed in there, I suspect she speaks with forked tongue.
The seeds for a life in tramping were clearly sown right there.
Thank God my life went down a different path.
