High 5 Hiking Trail Weekend - The Hairdryer Was My Red Flag

So, the thing with communal living, to truly embrace it, you must be totally uninhibited. Like, butt naked in a shared bathroom uninhibited. Either you are… or you aren’t.

Well… I am not. Have never been. I am a bundle of social rigidity. We’re talking Victorian governess levels of uptight.

THE NEWLY RENOVATED KITCHEN

INSIDE THE KITCHEN

So when it comes to the warm, fuzzy, kumbaya-filled fantasy of communal living? The odds of me thriving in that bosom of togetherness are somewhere between slim and get out of my personal space.

Now, this particular weekend. was a group hike at the High 5 Hiking Trail — formerly known as the Num-Num Trail. I had booked it late last year in a flurry of “I’m not missing a single weekend away in 2025!” optimism… paired with my signature move: blindly RSVP-ing without reading the fine print.

A detail which, it turns out, included a Saturday night dinner at the lodge — because apparently, this weekend came with a complimentary side of social anxiety, served warm with a garnish of my absolute worst nightmare.

My hiking “Munchkin” and I (met her through the group in the early days — adore her, would hike into a canyon for her) were travelling together. Pre-hike discussions were rolling along fine... until I heard the sentence that sent me spiraling:

“I’m bringing a hairdryer so we can fix our hair for Saturday night.”

INDOOR BATHROOM

LEADING INTO THE OUTDOOR SHOWER

There was an internal scream. Not even a scream, really — more like my spirit quietly packed a bag, rolled its eyes, and walked straight out of my body.

Even back when “effortless beauty” was actually effortless — I couldn’t be bothered to put in the work. But now that I’m old, weathered, and physically incapable of “cleaning up”, the idea of glamming up for an evening I’d normally avoid like the plague? Absolutely not.

At my core, I’m just a humble hippie. Give me my hiking pants, a few fresh scratches, and a generous layer of trail grime… with decent Wi-Fi and zero communal living. Obviously. Let’s not get ridiculous — I’m not a savage. Just dusty.

ONE DAY I WILL BE AS ORGANISED AS MUNCHKIN...

But I’ve been trying. Why? Because communal living is often the only way to access these stunning, remote spots without selling a kidney.

And so far? I’ve been lucky. No 12-person dorm nightmares. No PTSD-inducing flashbacks to school trip sleepovers.

But I knew — deep in my crusty little soul — that this would be the weekend my luck ran out and I finally met my bunk bed match.

Except… the Hiking Gods, in their infinite mercy (and clear understanding of my limits), intervened. Again.

Munchkin and I drove up together - early — not to admire the views or “connect with nature,” but to avoid the dreaded top bunk death sentence. Because if we attempted a top bunk, one of us would plummet — probably backwards, in the dark. And if, by some miracle, we didn’t fall? We’d absolutely launch ourselves off during a 2 a.m. bathroom sprint, inadvertently delivering a surprise kick to the head of the poor soul in the bottom bunk.

So we secured our two lower bunks. And miracle of miracles, by the time the rest arrived, we’d secured a cozy little nook with two other absolute gems. Everything I love about hiking humans.

So Communal? Sure. But honestly? Could’ve been way worse.

Bottom bunks secured, Munchkin and I wandered the perimeter like two dusty sheriffs. The place had full Wild West ghost town energy — dry, sandy, and eerily beautiful. I half-expected a cowboy to trot up and order a whiskey.

Being the first ones there, we naturally appointed ourselves the unofficial campsite hosts. Well… Munchkin did. I just stood behind her smiling awkwardly like her emotionally unavailable assistant, radiating the energy of someone who didn’t want to talk but was too polite to disappear.

The rooms? Surprisingly cozy. We had electricity for light, hot water, and plug points to charge phones.

The newly renovated kitchen had a gas stove, utensils, and mysterious little gadgets I didn’t know I needed but immediately respected.

And then there was the honesty box — a charming little corner full of snacks, drinks, and random trinkets, where you pay based on trust.

So listen — if you’re looking for a sorta rustic, kinda communal, mostly charming weekend away that doesn’t go full Bear Grylls, I’d highly recommend it.

Now, did I get dressed in front of everyone in the blinding morning light? Absolutely not. I was up before sunrise, stealthily pulling on my clothes in the dark like a shame-fueled ninja.

Did I shower in the communal shower? Please. No. I opted for the outdoor cold shower. Why? Because being sentenced to hypothermia was still better than someone wandering past mid-lather.

We stayed at Aloe Kaya Camp (not the lodge), so I can’t speak for the other spots. But compared to some of the truly rustic camps — like Candlewood, where the rest of the group stayed — ours was practically five-star. They had donkey boilers and outdoor showers, while we luxuriated in our fancy indoor communal shower, complete with hot water and only mild emotional scarring.

Honestly, it felt like a spa… if your spa has bunk beds.

Could it use more toilets? Sure. A couple more showers? Absolutely. But if you pack your sense of humor, a tolerance for cold showers, and a firm stance on bunk bed politics? You’ll be just fine.