Harry had entered the bush from Otaki Forks. The river was up when he went over the swing bridge but not dangerously high and it was twilight. Now, as he moved up in the tree line he caught occasional glimpses of the moon as it rose. The track was a bit wet and he had struck soft pug in the lower valley but as he rose through the forest floor the track firmed.

The beech trees were thick overhead and the darkness closed in. In the day this was welcome shade after the hard climb. He used his headlight as the track became indistinguishable in the groundcover of fine leaf mould over roads of tree roots, reaching up to miniature hill ranges of moss encircling each trunk. 

The first time he’d done a night tramp was with his father. He’d stumbled along until his father told him to stop trying to see the ground.

“Feel it under your feet. Trust your feet.”

And he had – right until he’d walked face first into his father’s pack. Then his father had talked about listening too.

“You’re an adolescent elephant, just because we’re walking hard doesn’t mean you have to plant your foot with so much force. When you’re an old codger you’ll want to keep that effort for the hills.”

The night tramp had opened his senses to the bush. He was listening more than looking, feeling the track and as they walked on he realised his sense of smell could tell him how close his father was. 

He’d made the crossing twice before at night. Both times he’d experienced a rush of what he supposed was spiritual elation when he got to the tops.   The terrain changed again, the beech giving way and the first mountain cabbage trees started to let in a little light. This section of the bush was over with sooner. The cabbage trees could take cooler temperatures than the beech but the track was still climbing and he was soon at Field Hut. Minutes later the height of the vegetation dropped away and the sting of Spaniard Grass at his calves would have told him he’d reached the alpine terrain if the night sky hadn’t been revealed to illuminate the blasted hillside.

Up on the tops the night was cold as Harry stopped. He rolled up his socks to shield his legs and put the torch in his pack. Only then did he look out on his first night solo Southern Crossing of the Tararua ranges. The moon was barely above his shoulder and the ranges were a frilled outline all around. The track was very visible now but experience told him not to trust his eyes – moonlight had a way of smoothing out the dips and ruts. Better to use his night sense and save his eyes for the view – a not quite monochrome frozen landscape that even now awaited the finishing touches of frost.

Magic.

He shouldered his pack again – a fit man can make the walk up to the next hut in four hours and then on to the dress circle and down to Alpha hut in another five. Harry expected to be starting to walk out of the bush at Kaitoke in 7 hours. Moving off he savoured the moonlight accompaniment that would be his until the decent if the night stayed cloudless. 

Unbidden he remembered the last time he’d done this tramp. He was with two other guys from the tramping club. There had been snow on the top then and the moonlight had been reflected in it until it was almost daylight. One guy had kept saying how happy he was and the only thing that would make him happier would be if his wife was there to share it with him. Since their bootlaces were frozen Harry doubted his wife would be so ecstatic to be there but he knew what the guy meant. Now, alone on the track, he felt the beauty was almost too much to take in alone. It would be good to be able to say to someone something like,

“Hard yards getting up here but she’s worth it eh?”  just to make it easier to cope with perfection. 

All too soon the walk across the tops was done and the bushline started to meet him, scrubbier on this side. He was halfway in when he heard voices. He slowed and listened. There had been no entry in the first hut diary that anyone else was going over from the south and the north was for masochists. He’d made tea at Alpha hut and there had been no signs of recent habitation. There was silence now but he figured he’d hear them again soon enough – sound carried well in the early hours of the morning. He didn’t hear them again for a while and then his senses went blank as he descended into trees again and the path disappeared from view.

For a few steps he was on firm footing but then his boots met the spring of scrub and he knew he was off the route. He stood to put the headlight on again – annoyed to have to go to artificial light again so soon. The track was out to the left  – he must have stepped out several feet but it was wide and he ought to be able to follow it now he had had a visual check. A pair of mountain bikes had gone through recently leaving ruts. He snapped off the light, used the beginning of their rise to guide against his left foot, and started confidently down. 

Not long down the track and the air shifted perceptively with the decline. He felt the warmth of the beech forest layer before he smelt the wet tang of moss. He paused to take off his wind breaker – no more shifting air for the descent and he’d overheat with it on. He heard the craaagh of a bloody possum and underneath it, out of place, a whimper – what was it? a dog? It was close. 

Hunters use these tracks. They’d take dogs in but hunting dogs were valuable – you wouldn’t leave one here. This one could be injured. A small rustle at ground level – not the possum then – somewhere up ahead. He snaps on his headlight, shoulders the pack and moves slowly down the track. 

He saw the child about 3 metres off the route – might have missed it completely but for the big eyes reflecting off his light and the dayglow of some picture on his (her?) clothing. When he got there he saw a lot more – cuts, grazes, very little clothing and all of it damp. The kid wasn’t scared of him – didn’t smile but seemed to relax.  His impulse is to pick the kid up and when he does he finds a heavy nappy snagging at the trousers the kid has half on.

So he does what you do with any hypothermic person in wet clothing. He strips off the cold gear and replaces it with some of what he’s wearing – warmed by his body and like a tent on this small small person.  And then he starts rooting around in his pack to see what else will do when it hits him the kid will fit in the pack so he pads her – he saw it was a she when he took off the nappy – he pads her in his sleeping bag and straight away she’s happy there and nodding off. 

Now he is walking carefully down the track with a little girl – warm, asleep and sucking her thumb on his back and he presumes he must be going to find a rescue party or hear voices of someone looking for her soon. Later he wonders why he didn’t shout out, but he didn’t. In this way he is able to make out the sound of a shovel or spade, of digging, as he comes down the track. He hears male voices – one low and calm, another more high pitched – anxious. And he’s thinking – why are they digging? Why dig in the bush?  

He knows where he is now – and the beech is soft underfoot mostly – so he takes off from the track and heads toward where he knows there’s a creek and he follows it down the hill where he knows the farmland it will spill out on to. If those guys lost this kid they can pick her up from the police station – he’s not going to meet two guys out digging at 4 o’clock in the morning.