Embarking on a winter expedition to Mount Katahdin a few years ago, I hooked up with a few casual acquaintances accompanied by other climbers I only met just as we began the long drive from southeastern Connecticut to northern Maine.

I struck up a conversation with one of the more taciturn members of our party during a 13-mile trek on cross-country skis to Roaring Brook Cabin, our first night’s destination, and learned he had been in the Navy.

“So, you decided not to re-enlist?” I asked innocently.

“Actually, I was discharged,” he replied.

From his tone I surmised it had not been an honorable termination, and since I would be spending virtually every minute with this man for the next several days en route to the icy, mile-high summit, I felt compelled to learn a few details. Keeping my tone casual, I continued my inquiry.

“Really? What happened?”

“I shot a guy.”

“No kidding?” I tried to react as if he had confessed to neglecting to polish his boots for inspection.

Happily, he proved to be a capable, reliable and reasonably friendly companion for the duration of our trip, though I slept with one eye open.

As it turned out I had more to fear on our second night, at Chimney Pond hut, when a group of climbers – off-duty New York City firefighters, no less – nearly set the wooden structure ablaze while lighting their camp stove.

On other occasions during decades of forays in The Great Outdoors I’ve shared quarters with drunken hikers (the “Loud Crowd” who lugged several cases of beer to a cabin in Maine’s Hundred-Mile Wilderness on the Appalachian Trail); with a distraught backpacker who claimed he had been chased the previous night by a creepy stalker; with a couple who hung all their soaked gear from the rafters one rainy night so that it dripped over everybody and everything inside the shelter; and with snakes, mice, squirrels and virtually every species of stinging insect in the Western Hemisphere.

Don’t get me wrong: Staying in a trailside shelter can be and often is a magical experience. When my son and I hiked Vermont’s Long Trail several summers ago a bagpiper appeared at the Clarendon Shelter one morning and escorted us back to the main path while playing “Scotland the Brave”; on most other occasions huts are a welcome haven for sharing stories, munching gorp, playing cards and getting out of the elements.

A few years ago I holed up for a mostly stormy week as a replacement winter caretaker at the remote Gray Knob cabin, perched in the snow at 4,370 feet in New Hampshire’s Presidential Range. After three nights of solitude I greeted my first guest the way Robinson Crusoe welcomed Friday.

A night in a remote hut can be like Forrest Gump’s proverbial box of chocolates: You never know what you’re gonna get.

I thought about this paradox last week when a group of friends and I spent two nights at a hut in New Hampshire’s White Mountains as part of a cross-country skiing and snowshoeing weekend.

The first night, which I described in last week’s dispatch, “Cross-Country Skiing and Snowshoeing in New Hampshire’s White Mountains, Part I: A Voice in the Wilderness Saves the Day,” was a transcendent experience.

After dinner we sang songs, recited poetry and huddled around the wood stove until it was time to turn in. With the outdoor temperature plunging to the single digits I filled a nalgene bottle with hot water and tucked it next to me in my sleeping bag and slept soundly until dawn.

After a day of snowshoeing we returned to the hut and learned that all 36 bunks would be occupied that night. It was a bit crowded, but not unexpected during prime skiing and snowshoeing season, and everyone proved polite and considerate. The caretaker had thoughtfully instructed each group to sign up for cooking times on the single stove, an efficient system that kept hordes from bumping elbows and knocking over pots in the kitchen.

At dinner I sat next to a 10-year-old boy and his father, who, like our group, had traipsed nearly 7 miles to the hut while lugging heavy packs. The two departed to the unheated bunkroom soon after their meal while friends and I stayed at the table a couple hours longer, playing cards by headlamp.

Most people were asleep when I crept into the pitch-black bunkroom and crawled into my sleeping bag (again bringing a hot-water bottle).

Soon I was fast asleep. But then …

WARNING: HERE COMES THE DISGUSTING PART. YOU MAY WANT TO SKIP READING THE NEXT 10 PARAGRAPHS!

… shortly after 2 a.m. I awoke to loud voices and a commotion from the bunk directly above me. Headlamps clicked on and a man’s voice boomed, “Dude! You better get over here, and bring a towel!”

Something was dripping on the floor next to me.

“Mop it up! Mop it up!” someone cried.

The only thing I could think of was that snow or ice on the roof had started to melt from all the warm bodies in the bunkroom. I burrowed deeper into my sleeping bag but couldn’t block the zig-zagging lights, frantic shouting and steady drip-drip-drip.

Finally, after what seemed like an hour but probably lasted only about 15 minutes people calmed down, the dripping ceased and I drifted back asleep.

I rose again at dawn and shuffled into the kitchen to prepare tea and oatmeal. Another early bird already was sipping coffee.

“What was all that excitement?” I asked.

He grimaced.

“Poor kid was throwing up. What a mess!”

I stared at my oatmeal and realized I wasn’t all that hungry.

OK, THE GROSS PART IS OVER. YOU CAN START READING AGAIN …

I felt bad for the boy, and for his dad, and hoped the experience didn’t sour them on camping.

After packing gear, our group hefted packs and prepared to don snowshoes and skis for the long tramp back to the parking lot. Just before heading out the door I saw the boy emerge from the bunkroom and plop down on a bench next to the wood stove. I walked over to him.

“How you feeling today?” I asked.

“Not that great,” he replied.

“You’ll be OK,” I said. “Happens to all of us.”

I was tempted to tell him about the ex-sailor who was kicked out of the Navy for shooting a shipmate, or about the night a red squirrel got into my sleeping bag, or about the inebriated crew who partied until dawn, but I wasn’t sure those stories would cheer him up.

The boy’s dad came over and put an arm around his son. He seemed to brighten.

“You’ll be OK,” I repeated, and headed for the door.