THIS WASN’T the gentle saddle between hills that it’d looked like when we set out, it was a bloody canyon! Coming this way was my first bad call. I looked back down into the narrow chasm I’d climbed out of, hanging on for grim death as I slid my feet around a slender piece of crumbling rock, and realised my second bad call was scaling this face: now that I was committed to the ascent I could see a clear path along the flat bed below me.
FEELING stupid, I struggled on, followed by columnist Dylan Smith and guide Temps. I knew they’d curse me for leading them off the garden path and up this little cliff. It wasn’t really a life-threatening detour, but it wasn’t good. Any hope of stalking undetected had long vanished as we battled the steep terrain.
A few minutes later we rejoined the animal pad we’d been following. It was clearly in use by a buck who we might run into any minute as he did his rounds. This whole area was chock-a-block with
