here to Nelson. It would have been a much shorter trip, too, but instead we’d gone and booked those bloody berths in Kepler.
At least here you had the freedom to decide for yourself how long each leg was going to take. We’d left St Arnaud in good time that morning, and our aim was to complete a 27 -kilometre stretch of even terrain on a gentle incline before ending up at Upper Travers Hut. According to the guidebook, the leg should take somewhere between ten and eleven hours.
We hadn’t encountered anyone else for the last few hours. Occasionally, when we came out of the forest cover, we were able to see Mount Travers. Its peak was covered in snow. At last, a fleeting glimpse of something real.
Having said that, Upper Travers Hut itself was big and new. Two separate dormitories; berths in bunk beds for about thirty people, each one equipped with a thick foam mattress covered in wax cloth. An enormous lounge with a kitchen area and dining tables and chairs. A veranda. A composting outdoor toilet a decent walk from the hut and a large tank to collect rainwater.
At least we were the only people in the hut.
Even out here they charged for the use of the cabins, all except for the most basic shacks. The price was in a different league to those along the Great Walks. The series of tickets cost only a couple of New Zealand dollars, and you were supposed to leave individual tickets in the cabins according to their standard. This cabin cost two tickets. Each ticket had a perforated tear-off section with the same serial number on the remaining stub. The idea was to keep one half of the ticket and leave it somewhere visible while you were staying at the hut — attaching it to the straps of your rucksack, for instance. The other half was to be dropped into a locked postbox 011 the wall of the cabin. If the ranger taking care of the track happened to come in and inspect the cabin, you could easily check to see who had paid. Freeloaders could expect a substantial fine.
I’d bought a book of eight tickets back in St Arnaud, but I should have bought sixteen. It was an oversight. Two times four nights, times two. I’d only counted enough for myself.
At least it was quiet now, and it would soon be dusk. Nobody would turn up after dark.
She’d thrown her rucksack on to the floor in one of the dormitories and was busy digging out her civvies. She’d just pulled her sports bra over her head and was groping for her sweat-free clothes when I moved my hand swiftly and stopped her in her tracks.
She looked at me, and the sports bra fell to the floor. Her beautiful breasts, the size of a fist, heaved slowly. The chilly air in the cabin and her damp clothes had left her nipples wrinkled like raisins.
I kissed her and said that now was the time.
Heidi
Sex?
There I stood in nothing but my panties, my skin covered in goosebumps, ready to collapse into anything that was clean and dry; the sun was setting and the air getting colder, and here was Jyrki coming at me in this primitive shack halfway up a wooded mountainside when I was absolutely exhausted and wanted nothing but food and sleep.
‘Time for a wash.’
‘I don’t know if I’m really in the mood for ... A wash?’
‘Naked. Bring your mug. And a towel.’
Jyrki was already rummaging through his own rucksack and soon produced the said items. I must have been looking at him like a madman as he started taking off his own clothes.
‘Out by the back door there’s a barrel of rainwater. There’s no stream round here, so we’ll have to use the water in the tank — but sparingly, mind.’
‘But that’ll be cold.’
‘What were you expecting?’
Jyrki walked across the dormitory in all his naked glory and strode towards the emergency exit, a mug in one hand and a towel the size of a handkerchief that he’d bought in Wellington in the other: a super-absorbent travel towel packed in a small netted bag, the kind that, apparently, you couldn’t get anywhere in
At least here you had the freedom to decide for yourself how long each leg was going to take. We’d left St Arnaud in good time that morning, and our aim was to complete a 27 -kilometre stretch of even terrain on a gentle incline before ending up at Upper Travers Hut. According to the guidebook, the leg should take somewhere between ten and eleven hours.
We hadn’t encountered anyone else for the last few hours. Occasionally, when we came out of the forest cover, we were able to see Mount Travers. Its peak was covered in snow. At last, a fleeting glimpse of something real.
Having said that, Upper Travers Hut itself was big and new. Two separate dormitories; berths in bunk beds for about thirty people, each one equipped with a thick foam mattress covered in wax cloth. An enormous lounge with a kitchen area and dining tables and chairs. A veranda. A composting outdoor toilet a decent walk from the hut and a large tank to collect rainwater.
At least we were the only people in the hut.
Even out here they charged for the use of the cabins, all except for the most basic shacks. The price was in a different league to those along the Great Walks. The series of tickets cost only a couple of New Zealand dollars, and you were supposed to leave individual tickets in the cabins according to their standard. This cabin cost two tickets. Each ticket had a perforated tear-off section with the same serial number on the remaining stub. The idea was to keep one half of the ticket and leave it somewhere visible while you were staying at the hut — attaching it to the straps of your rucksack, for instance. The other half was to be dropped into a locked postbox 011 the wall of the cabin. If the ranger taking care of the track happened to come in and inspect the cabin, you could easily check to see who had paid. Freeloaders could expect a substantial fine.
I’d bought a book of eight tickets back in St Arnaud, but I should have bought sixteen. It was an oversight. Two times four nights, times two. I’d only counted enough for myself.
At least it was quiet now, and it would soon be dusk. Nobody would turn up after dark.
She’d thrown her rucksack on to the floor in one of the dormitories and was busy digging out her civvies. She’d just pulled her sports bra over her head and was groping for her sweat-free clothes when I moved my hand swiftly and stopped her in her tracks.
She looked at me, and the sports bra fell to the floor. Her beautiful breasts, the size of a fist, heaved slowly. The chilly air in the cabin and her damp clothes had left her nipples wrinkled like raisins.
I kissed her and said that now was the time.
Heidi
Sex?
There I stood in nothing but my panties, my skin covered in goosebumps, ready to collapse into anything that was clean and dry; the sun was setting and the air getting colder, and here was Jyrki coming at me in this primitive shack halfway up a wooded mountainside when I was absolutely exhausted and wanted nothing but food and sleep.
‘Time for a wash.’
‘I don’t know if I’m really in the mood for ... A wash?’
‘Naked. Bring your mug. And a towel.’
Jyrki was already rummaging through his own rucksack and soon produced the said items. I must have been looking at him like a madman as he started taking off his own clothes.
‘Out by the back door there’s a barrel of rainwater. There’s no stream round here, so we’ll have to use the water in the tank — but sparingly, mind.’
‘But that’ll be cold.’
‘What were you expecting?’
Jyrki walked across the dormitory in all his naked glory and strode towards the emergency exit, a mug in one hand and a towel the size of a handkerchief that he’d bought in Wellington in the other: a super-absorbent travel towel packed in a small netted bag, the kind that, apparently, you couldn’t get anywhere in
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