Trekking, backpacking, hiking, tramping. It’s all just walking in the outdoors, innit? Yeah. Nah.
So what’s the nah? Trekking tends to be global – long-distance, high-endurance journeys through challenging environments.
Backpacking straddles budget travel and deep wilderness, often with a North American flavour. Hiking, meanwhile, emerged as a genteel pastime of the European aristocracy in the 18th and 19th centuries – short excursions, light gear, fresh air.
Here in Aotearoa, something quite different took root. Tramping, as it became known, was developing its own culture – rugged, egalitarian and deeply tied to the land.
In 1919, in the teeth of a post-war recession, the Tararua Tramping Club, New Zealand’s first, was formed. By 1931, more than a dozen clubs had joined together to create the Federated Mountain Clubs (FMC).
“In the decade that followed, outdoor pursuits such as mountaineering, tramping, hunting and skiing enjoyed growing popularity, despite (or perhaps because of) the Depression,” Shaun Barnett wrote in the book he co-authored, Tramping: A New Zealand History. “Many of our modern tramping tracks and climbing routes were first pioneered during this so-called ‘Golden Era’ of the 1930s.”
Of course, the word “tramp” carries very different meanings elsewhere. For much of the English-speaking world, it conjures up a hobo, a vagabond, or someone of dubious repute. But in New Zealand we kept the word’s older sense of walking heavily and with purpose and turned it into a beloved national pastime. The timing is telling: tramping emerged as a recreation during times of economic hardship.
There were those with gear from yesteryear: Fairydown jackets, enamel mugs and faded canvas packs.
When I took to tramping as a 10-year-old living in Otago, the tracks were no fashion parade. I remember woollen jumpers with worn elbows, kitchen gear repurposed for camp cooking, and a battered cotton sleeping bag jammed into a pack older than I was. Even my “new” boots looked like they’d been designed in the 1930s. The aesthetic? Hobo chic.
If the look was hobo, the ethos was egalitarian. Tramping has long been classless, in the best way. Everyone has access to the same national parks and reserves. On the trail, professors and pothole-fillers sleep side by side on shared bunk platforms. Around the potbelly stove, we swap stories as our socks steam dry. It’s no place for airs and graces.
As Wilderness magazine put it in 2018, “Early tramping clubs weren’t filled with elite adventurers; they were made up of clerks, railway workers and seamstresses who pooled resources to buy shared gear. This collectivist spirit turned tramping into a national ritual.”
Tracks of time
Beneath it all lies the deeper traditions of te ao Māori. Long before Department of Conservation signs marked our tracks, traditional walking routes – ara tawhito – criss-crossed the land. James Cowan’s The Māoris of New Zealand (1910) was among our first guidebooks. Perhaps at its core, tramping carries an indigenous spirit. We walk the land as it was walked by the first people of this place.
Earlier this year on the Tongariro Northern Circuit, my partner and I stopped at Oturere Hut for lunch. As we boiled a billy, Jo, the hut warden, admired its dented, old-school charm. I offered some spare hot water to the hiker next to me. She nearly fell over with gratitude. That moment got me reflecting on changes I’ve been noticing in the culture of tramping.
Later that day, at Waihohonu Hut, the contrasts between trampers and backpacking hikers were easy to spot, if subjective. (Other outdoor tribes such as hunters or climbers have their own cultural language.) There were trampers with gear from yesteryear: Fairydown jackets, enamel mugs, faded canvas packs and kerosene cookers. They cooked communally, pulling out food pre-measured in ziplock bags and old plastic bottles. Their boots were heavy and their sleeping bags warm. And, yes, they looked older (the average age of FMC members now hovers around 58).
In many ways, we’ve gone from ‘tramping’ to ‘outdoor tourism’. Tellingly, they are not called The Great Tramps.
Then there were the hikers: synthetics, trail runners, sleek one-person cook systems, dehydrated meals. Their packs were small and shiny, often with rain covers but no internal waterproofing. They filtered all their water, carried no maps, and were laser-focused on weight reduction and speed.
I looked at myself: fusion. My stove is a clunky old Primus, my sleeping bag is nearly 30 years old, and my food is still mostly DIY. But my pack is lightweight, my clothes are synthetic, and I carry poles and a phone with a backup battery and locator beacon.
Some of these changes are technological – lighter gear, better fabrics – but there’s a broader shift happening. Our tramping culture is evolving.
The Great Walks, for example, are a commercial triumph. But in many ways, we’ve gone from “tramping” to “outdoor tourism”. Tellingly, they’re not called Great Tramps.
On a recent re-walk of the Routeburn Track after a gap of 40 years, I was startled to see a luxury private hut, bookable for thousands of dollars, in a national park. Even some of the public huts can now cost more than $100 a night for a Kiwi adult. If a family of four decides to walk the Milford Track they might spend several thousand once you factor in hut fees, transport, gear and accommodation.
Sure, you can go off-season for cheaper rates but that takes serious skill. Crossing Dore Pass in Fiordland National Park or tackling the Routeburn midwinter isn’t for the faint of heart. I know. I’ve done both.
Booking essential
Meanwhile, the numbers are growing. DoC figures show Great Walk bookings grew 15% in the 2023-24 financial year, with international bednight usage growing at 27% compared with a modest 2% for locals. International visitors, who now account for 36% of bednights, hike or backpack. They don’t tramp.
We now have “Instahuts” popularised on social media, overrun and in need of careful management. When my son and I set out for Brewster Hut in Mt Aspiring National Park a few years back, I figured we’d just rock up. Instead, we found a sign at the trailhead: bookings essential. It was a long drive for nothing. Over 70 huts outside the Great Walks now require bookings. It’s not as free and easy as it once was.
The new Hump Ridge Track isn’t even managed by DoC, but run by a trust. You can add a jet boat or helicopter ride, book hot showers, or grab a cold beer en route. To misquote Star Trek, “It’s tramping, Jim, but not as we know it.” And maybe that’s okay.
I’ve had friends walk the Hump Ridge and they have mentioned the delight of being able to buy a beer while on the track. Perhaps some, just some, of our tramping shibboleths need to change.
At the same time, a richer history is coming to the fore with our tramping story also beginning to embrace a deeper history. The rise of the Māori-led Lake Waikaremoana Track in Te Urewera is a good example. The rainforest Te Urewera is now legally designated a living entity, spoken for by a board of guardians.
While on the Great Walk called the Whanganui Journey, (which is actually a Great Kayak, and we could do with a few more of those) you can stay in the only DoC hut that is also a marae. Elsewhere, Nic Low has documented some of Ngāi Tahu’s oral maps in Uprising: Walking the Southern Alps of New Zealand as he follows the old paths.
By all accounts hut usage in the deeper back-country areas is down. But maybe all is not as it seems. Lighter tents might be reducing hut dependence, so we are still on the trails but not in the huts. And we may be getting to these huts in different ways and not needing to stay. Trail running and mountain biking are all new ways of getting into and out of our wild areas quickly.
For those tramping purists, thankfully there are still huts in stunning country that haven’t yet been discovered on social media or commandeered as a Great Walk.
On these trails, we can still rock up to a hut on a whim, with the only booking required a knock on the door. Here, we’ll swap embellished stories of little tramping epics with whoever is there. Surgeon or songwriter, new friends or old.
Ross Hanan is a former banking industry consultant, now living in Sydney. He tramps in New Zealand, has hiked in Europe, backpacked in North America and trekked in Central Asia.
