"A picture is worth a 1000 words" - The Last Hut on the Te Araroa

How cute is this hut? Martins Hut, built in 1905, was the last hut on the Te Araroa trail. My affinity for New Zealand huts grew over time and it's another reason on the list of why hiking in NZ is world-class.

On the North Island, we only stayed in a handful, but on the South Island, we slept in huts at least 80% of the time. I started to avoid hammocking and sought out huts whenever possible. After a long day, it's easier to throw my sleeping bag on a cushioned bunk bed then go out scoping for two suitable trees.

The huts symbolized a finish line and cured cravings for the most basic creature comforts. My short sighted vision turned into eagle eyes, scouring the landscape for the first glimpse. Any time we had less than a few hundred meters to go, I was crestfallen when a hut failed to appear around a bend.

A first impression materialized as I walked up. Sometimes the roof gave me concern, or other times I marveled at the unique wooden shelters built far from civilization.

I walked up to smaller 4 person huts silently praying a bed was available. Sometimes not so silently. As soon as my eyesight allowed, I started to count the pairs of shoes and trekking poles left outside. My mood inversely correlated to any increase in number.

I always looked for the year built usually stamped on the front door. The huts built in the last 15 years had 16 - 32 bunks. They reminded you of a modern open home layout with a plethora of light coming through a row of large single pane windows. The common room had one long picnic bench for seating with sinks and counters for cooking near by. Bunk beds were either along a wall in the same room or tucked away into a bedroom or two.

Martins Hut, and other older huts, dated back to the 1800's had 2 - 8 bunks. They reminded you of entering an attic. You were careful to watch your head. You heard noises in the walls, unsure what rodents resided within. Pots and pans, decades old, hung on the wall off of rusty nails. I often thought of the word musty when I walked in. A small table for two sat in the middle or the corner. Bunks lined the walls. Water either came from a tank outside replenished by rain or a stream close by.

On this day, we spotted Martins Hut just in time. Since lunch, the on and off rain slowly turned the forest into a mud pit. I went to fetch water for Sarah and I from a stream nearby. Taking shoes and socks off were always the first order of business. I went off in sandals. The rough outline down to the stream descended steeper and farther than any previous hut water source. After my initial slip and slide down, I resorted to walking barefoot. I came back later than expected with a new coat of mud. I did not want to talk about it.

Shortly after, the rain turned aggressive and never stopped. I barely drank any water to avoid needing to go outside again. Three other TA hikers joined us. They've hiked at our pace for the past few days, but we kept to ourselves. One of them slept on the floor. We all left our shoes and socks outside. With no fire, trying to dry them before morning would be like trying to dry your laundry with your breath.

At the start of April, the summer months were in our rear view mirror. We spent the evening curled up in our sleeping bags. We journaled, read, and planned our last day on the TA. We fell asleep to rain pounding the corrugated metal roof panels.

Sarah caught me in this picture putting those wet shoes and socks back on. I typically sat outside the hut for a few moments mentally preparing myself.

To put it into perspective for you. You wake up in a warm bed. You get ready for work as normal. But today, you put your shoes and socks under cold tap water. You also let each shoe play around in the flower pot for a few seconds. Your first steps are similar to stepping on a wet sponge. Now repeat for two months.

The version on the TA left you no choice. Your feet were soaked from a daily combination of river crossings, rain, or mud.

After a couple pairs of socks fell apart, I tried Injinji Toesocks. Although they worked well with flip flops, trying to get each cold, wet toe over each of my dry toes qualifies as slow torture and is actually illegal in certain countries. They will be my last pair of toe socks.

Some people preferred to put their dry socks on before sliding their wet shoes on. I never understood this. I still don't. Putting wet shoes on dry socks is easy, but just how many dry socks are you carrying in your bag?

I thought back to when I put on wet socks and shoes for the first time. The morning after the Raetea forest. On day 8. I spent a part of that previous evening standing in a cold stream, washing a layer of mud off my shoes. We woke up the following morning to clear skies, but I remember staring at my shoes indefinitely, asking myself, "What do I do?". Did I bring enough socks? Before this thru hike, I've mostly done day hikes. The management of wet gear and clothing was a new, unpleasant, but almost daily part of trail life, especially on the South Island.

You can make out a grin while I put on my shoes and socks above. I was probably about to yell out to Sarah something along the lines of, "This is the last time! The last time!". I would like to report I haven't started a day with wet feet since.