And there we were 20 kilometers into the bush in our backcountry hut. We had just woken up from a night of wine-drinking and tale-telling with bunch of Dutch, Kiwi and English. Garth, a Kiwi dairy farmer, had given us lessons on how to birth a cow. Heald, a Dutch actuary, enlightened us with the immigration policies of Holland. And I never said a word about Bush. We were packed and ready for the infamous Tongariro Crossing, a New Zealand Great Hike at 9000ft elevation that crosses Hot Thermal Pools spitting steam and bubbling sulphur, volcanic lakes and craters, not to mention the volcanos themselves. Clad in rain gear and thermal jackets, we made our way, when suddenly, we were passed by a couple wearing jeans, a polo sweater and carrying a purse. Huh? We looked
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