Tongariro campsite

The bus back from the Tongariro Crossing walk drops us and another couple off at the gate of the Whakapapa campsite. We walk, packs still on sweaty backs, footsore and weary but high once more on fresh air and the sights we'd seen, through the camp in the late afternoon sunshine. Past the little reception hut that is also a shop selling full-priced packets of soup and pot noodles. Past the track down to the grassy area for tents. Then up the narrow strip amongst the trees with pitches on either side for campervans.
It's the time of day when campers are returning from their day's adventures or when new arrivals are turning up looking for a safe haven for the night. People are unpacking, connecting power, soothing children tired from a long day, chilling out in folding chairs, faces towards the last of the sun.
We throw off the packs, get out the chairs and sit for a while: Lawson with a cold Tui beer and me an orange juice. Then I collect up the breakfast things left unwashed when we dashed for the bus in the morning, the flask and food containers- now empty - that we'd taken on the walk and the rubbish, and carry it all down to the communal kitchen.
I get rid of the rubbish in the correct bins (recycling and waste) then move to the sink. First the rinse through with cold - the dishes clattering in the deep, stainless steel sink - followed by a wash in soapy, scalding hot and a final rinse for the cups. Pile everything back in the bowl. Head back to the van, sun sinking fast now, dappled light through the trees.
I report to Lawson that the kitchen is beginning to get busy and agree we'll eat right away. He puts food and utensils in the bowl and disappears, leaving me to bring the wine, glasses, plates and cutlery in 15 minutes. I remain sitting outside as the last of the light goes.
Lawson returns, wanting the spatula. He goes off again. A Bellbird runs through its repertoire of cork popping, whistling, croaking and cuckoo imitating in the tree over my head but invisible in the dusk.
I go down to the kitchen and lay a place for us in the dining area. I pour 2 glasses of white wine then hide the bottle; no alcohol allowed here. If we're asked, it's grape juice. We're never asked.
We eat dinner surrounded by people of all ages, most talking in languages we don't understand. A small child, liberated from the baby carrier on his father's back, sits on the floor, sucking a biscuit and chortling.
I wait until quite late, and the site has gone quiet, to have my shower. Walking through the site the night sky is speckled with stars. There is still a glow around the edge of the curtains of some vans but most are in darkness. A Morepork calls from the hills around. I can hear the river rippling over stones. Otherwise there is silence.
The shower block is empty. I take my time arranging my soap, shampoo, bag of clean clothes, towels. There are plenty of hooks. I clean my teeth at the basin then shut myself into the cubicle. Remove my clothes.
Someone comes in, uses a toilet, washes her hands, leaves. Door bangs behind her. Silence again.
I stand in the shower tray and let the hot water run over my head and my body.
I give a big sigh.
The perfect end to another amazing day.