Our only roaring horn, the sleeves on my merino shirt and a litre or two of sweat seemed a small price to pay for the view of the basin above me. It wasn't long before the critters began moving about. A lonely one-antlered stag revealed his track to the tops and a couple of chamois could be seen high up on a steep rock face.
I kept climbing higher and higher before realising it was now going to be a headtorch mission to the bottom. The only trouble was that a headtorch wouldn't last five seconds on my head fighting through the thick dracophyllum, alpine totara and leatherwood. I radioed Charlie on the opposite face and told him I'd stay up here and see him the next day. As the air began its nightly haunt down valley I hunkered in behind a rock and tried to sleep the best I could under the stars.
As the morning dawned I wasn't too bothered about hunting in the slightest. It was only the third day of 13 on a roar trip that had been in the making for half a year. The plan was to spend a few days hunting our way from the East Coast, to then climb cross the main divide and explore some Westland catchments before looping back to the car
