A week of heavy rain had made negotiating the steep slopes of the towering mountains a challenge for the driver of the four wheel drive, but this morning was different from those of the past seven days.
It was clear and crisp, and as the man sat huddled in the warmth of the cab, he looked out to the horizon where the sun's rays were starting to touch the eastern sky, turning it a deep brilliant shade of red, with the greyness that always accompanies dawn in the mountains.
The man navigates across the hill, crunching over icy alpine plants.
A worn but well loved .308 rifle sits on the passenger seat next to him.
His face is rough and weathered, the look of a man who has seen everything that could possibly be seen in these harsh mountains.
He experienced it all, driving snow storms and rain that poured down for days on end, howling winds and fierce droughts that left the soil as dry as powder.
But despite this, the man viewed himself as one of the luckiest in the world, for being able to live in this rugged, yet beautiful wilderness.
As the Land Cruiser nears the crest of the ridge, the man stops, applies the handbrake and kills the engine.
He sits silently in the truck for a moment, as the cold morning air starts to creep into the cab.
After a few moments, the man opens the door, and steps out on to the crunch of glittering frozen tussock.
Walking around to the passenger side, he opens the door and leans in to grab his battered old .308 off the seat.
The man listens intently, as his breath rises up in thick white plumes around his head.
There is no sound on the ridge for several minutes, until a low moan drifts up from a gully a few hundred metres down the opposite side of the ridge that the Land Cruiser is parked on.
Despite having heard it hundreds of times throughout his life, the sound of a stag roaring always fills him with excitement.
He sets off towards the noises continuing to float upwards to him on the breeze.
By Nick Ainge-Roy
Year 10, John McGlashan College
