KEY POINTS:
It hasn't rained for two weeks. "So it'll still be wet as buggery," our chauffeur says.
Halfway into the hike over Waikato's Maungatautari, we see what he means. The all-female procession erupts into curses and shrieks as unsuitable footwear fills with mud and bottoms thud gracelessly to the forest floor.
Horror and hilarity battle it out as mud cakes hands, legs and hiking gear. But the laughter always wins because this is a great crowd.
I am among a dozen 30- and 40-something women who have been hauled out of Tauranga and tossed together on the side of a volcanic cone near Cambridge. Some of the crew know only one or two others but location accelerates the bonding process, ensuring a stream of chatter between the puffing and yelping.
The noise level is ironic given that silence helped create the path we are treading.
Environmentalists, farmers, Maori land owners and other mountain neighbours have banded together to see the big hill encircled with an astounding 40km of high tech fencing. That's 3500ha of native bush - some of it 1000 years old - enclosed by pest-proof wire mesh.
Now the fence is finished, the Maungatautari Ecological Island Trust is working to eradicate the troublesome critters that have decimated native bird and plant life on the mountain. Kaka, kiwi and other endangered species are slowly being re-introduced to two enclosures that guard the northern and southern entrances to the main walking track. The trust also hopes to boost populations of native fish, frogs, reptiles and bugs.
Mourning the loss of so much flora and fauna, its website laments "the mountain, like much of forested mainland New Zealand, is almost silent".
Clearly, these people have never hiked over Maungatautari behind 12 women. We do spot a few fantails and someone reports seeing a wood pigeon but the trading of personal details well and truly drowns out any birdsong.
Since we are spending the night at Out in the Styx cafe and guesthouse, host Lance Hodgson has transported us to the northernmost trailhead. It is Hodgson who cheerfully warns that one section of the track is perpetually muddy. He also promises us hot showers, a communal hot tub and a fine meal at the end. All we have to do is scale a mountain and make it down the other side in one piece.
The tramp starts with an uphill hike that is fairly steep but even underfoot. The light drizzle is no bother, with cover from the bush canopy.
Further on, our feet have to battle a maze of tree roots while bodies bend around branches that claw and grasp. Impressive psychedelic funghi crouch on felled logs and any open sections are shrouded in a low mist.
By the time we reach the summit, 797m above sea level, the group has spread out. Three women have zoomed on ahead, intent on breaking land speed records for Saturday morning walkers. The middle group looks merry enough, while the stragglers display only polite interest in magnificent views over the Waikato plains.
On the gnarliest sections of the trail, some vocally rue the day they allowed our mutual friend to talk them into this crazy scheme. Most wish they had worn boots instead of running shoes. Several lament their lack of training and fitness.
The well-prepared are armed with decent boots, fancy hydration packs and gourmet sandwiches. My cousin, who breeds and trains horses, has even packed a first aid kit complete with a roll of self adhesive horse bandaging.
The sticky blue tape saves the day when one woman slips on a tree root and wrenches her leg soon after we leave the summit. Turns out, we even have a physiotherapist on hand to supervise the strapping.
While some take the most direct downhill route towards the promise of dry, clean feet, a few of us scale an extra peak. The climb to Pukeatua is hand over hand at some points but we are exhilarated and crowing by the time we reach the top, to admire verdant views over farmland to the Kaimai Ranges.
At the end of the trail, we take a quick peek inside the southern enclosure. Entry and exit is via a double gate system designed to ensure that nothing undesirable follows visitors inside the pest-free parameter.
The fine, stainless steel mesh is impervious to everything from mice to pigs, deer and farm livestock. Traps and poison bait have taken care of existing pests so that, inside the enclosure, birdsong is noticeably louder and plant regeneration is obvious.
Most of us finish the walk in a reasonably respectable five hours, including stops. The speedsters shave 1.5 hours off that and they are well clean and rested by the time we shed our filthy footwear, find food and wine and head for one of the guesthouse hot tubs.
As glasses empty and the pool turns a nasty shade of browny-grey, tramping talk inevitably gives way to discussions on relationships and intimate personal revelations.
By dinnertime, the great outdoors and the wine have turned this morning's strangers into friends.
Out in the Styx is the brainchild of ex-farmers Lance and Mary Hodgson, who bought the farmlet with the aim of catering to the backpacker and tramping market. Mary's kitchen wizardry and Lance's quiet, dryly witty front of house management have spurred expansion into other markets.
These days, they sleep up to 30 guests in comfortable bunkrooms and smart ensuite bedrooms, while filling their dining room with functions and dinner groups from neighbouring cities.
Groups of female trampers are apparently popular visitors, with many returning annually to the foot of the mountain.
Established gardens and the rural heartland outlook augment the venue's attractions but Mary's food is the star of the show.
There is no menu. Instead, Lance hails the arrival of each gorgeous buffet-style course by blowing into a series of train whistles.
We begin with pork and prune terrine, inspired by the Hodgsons' recent sojourn to France. There is pumpkin with chilli glaze, lamb with eggplant and coriander seeds, tamarind chicken and more before finishing with citrus crumble cake, home made cappuccino icecream and a cheese board.
No one has the energy for Lance's suggested night walk among kiwi in the enclosure up the hill. But my cousin, who wakes during the night, reports hearing the "eerie, lovely sound" that is the national bird calling to its companions.
It is a reminder that, with luck and good management, the mountain will find its voice again and birdsong might overpower even a group of Tauranga trampers.
* For more information see website links below.
