I have joined the Auckland University Tramping Club, which is far less risqué than it sounds. Its primary purpose is “tramping,” or the Kiwi term for hiking, although crafting baked goods seems to be a secondary endeavor. (As a side note, letters home that mentioned “Tramping Club Evening Dessert Parties” were met with much alarm in regards to my moral character.) The club, which organizes multi-day “tramps” through the New Zealand bush, mountains and snow, seemed to be both an easy social outlet and an opportunity to get poor-quality sleep in exotic places.

When it comes to the outdoors, I maintain a somewhat rugged self-perception. Thanks to a mutation on the Burris family genome for grotesquely enormous calf muscles, I can scamper up Humpback Rock or Old Rag with minimal effort. I love both scenic mountain views and mud, which lends well to most hikes, and my mind is neurotic enough to keep itself occupied during long stretches on the trail. But it took only one night of camping in New Zealand to enlighten me: I am, in fact, a total pansy.

New Tramping Club members are initiated through “May Camp,” a three-day stay in the Kaimai Range. Gorges and mountaintops are explored, trail mix is communally enjoyed and bonding inevitably occurs. Each initiate is requested to bring food, outdoor clothing and a sleeping bag. I packed enough peanut butter sandwiches to feed an elephant army and enough layers to clothe it but I suffered from a severe sleeping bag deficiency. The May Camp coordinator assured me that I would be fine with just a blanket instead, so I headed to the local discount store and picked up what I believed was a suitable alternative: a knock-off fleece Snuggie, complete with armholes and pockets. I immediately envisioned throngs of Tramping Club members lined up to catch a jealous glimpse of my “mobile sleeping bag.” Impressed by my own parsimony — especially since the said pseudo-Snuggie was on sale for $10 — I made my purchase and set off for camp.

The Tramping Club was mostly comprised of young Kiwi men, although a few females were scattered within the bunch. I had previously heard that the typical Kiwi guy was a scrappy young MacGyver, as skinny and tough as a steak at Golden Corral. When I first laid eyes on my fellow trampers, a forest of sinewy legs peeked out at me from muddy hiking boots. As I introduced myself, I wondered how I could dupe these hardy guys into liking me, an American blonde who had packed eyeliner in her rucksack.

Friendships were first cultivated during the breathtakingly beautiful day hikes. As I stumbled through places too beautiful to describe and too complicated to pronounce, my eyes greedily drank in the scenery as my brain unsuccessfully struggled to take in every meter. I can now confidently say that I have forgotten more beauty than most people will ever experience. It’s a humbling feeling.

Perhaps as astounding as the scenery, however, was the sociological landscape of the Kiwi Male. Weakness in the Tramping Club was taboo; injury was unheard of here. Complaining was a sort of treason, totally treacherous to the Kiwi Code. If I wanted to fit in with the Tramping Tribe, I decided, I had to follow suit. Not one complaint would emerge from my lips.

Night fell on the campsite, and everyone shared a hearty camp meal. Keeping up a tough girl façade had been surprisingly easy, since by that point my biggest complaints concerned blisters and sore muscles. By sunset though, I noticed that my breath had become visible and my hands were beginning to tingle. It was readily apparent that I had grossly overestimated both the temperature and my own hardiness. I watched as my fellow trampers slid into their insulated sleeping bags, while I grabbed my flimsy Snuggie. It appeared that my true Tramping Club audition was to take place well after the actual hike.

Several hours later, the boys all were sleeping deeply, burrowed in their nylon cocoons. I crossed my Snuggie-covered arms and drew in my legs to conserve heat, an aggravated roly-poly in a room full of enormous, snoring caterpillars. The temperature had dipped below freezing, and I lacked insulation from the bitter cold. In a feeble attempt to lull myself to sleep, and because sheep reminded me of the wool blankets I so sorely lacked, I counted reptiles basking in the sun. Several hundred lizards later, it was clear that sleep was an impossible goal. I stayed awake through the night, my body continuously shaking to warm itself.

The next morning, I shivered on a park bench, watching my fellow trampers slowly emerge from slumber. I was astounded; the Kiwi guys strutted by in T-shirts, shorts and flip-flops, happy and warm through some Herculean endothermic feat. I was sure at this point that I was not dealing with actual Homo sapiens. One guy was, inexplicably, even sitting and eating a bowl of muesli while wearing only a burlap sack.

“How’d you sleep, Snuggie girl?” one smiling, shirtless compatriot inquired. “Warmer night than expected, eh?”

I hid my fingers, which were blue up to the wrists, and replied, “Of course. Now let’s get going, boys. Hope you can keep up.”