You wake with the early morning light, and the wisps of clouds retreating along the tops of the hills before the rising sun. The day lightens slowly and you're surrounded by mountains and gullies and ridges and bush.

You know you'll be climbing there later that day.

There's two directions when you're tramping — uphill and downhill. Uphill is physically harder, downhill is mentally harder.

Once you climb above the bushline, you're exposed to the elements. The wind, the sun, the rain. The wind is the worst. It's the wind that will force you back again.

You try and go as long as you can without a rest. A rule of thumb is resting once an hour. Another rule of thumb is that a good climbing pace is 1,000 vertical feet in an hour.

You might climb 3-4,000 feet up a mountain.

The top is always further than you think, there's always one more bump to climb. But you get there eventually.

On a clear day you can see from one coast of New Zealand to another. Your heart always soars when you reach the top.

As evening falls the clouds start to roll in.

You're tired and hungry, but there's a purity about both your tiredness and hunger that enables you to walk that last half an hour to the hut.

The hut rises unexpectedly out of the gathering gloom. Ramshackle, leaking, there's three bunks inside. There's wires attached to the outside of the hut, to hold it down when the wind rises and shrieks.

You can't think of anywhere you'd rather be right now.

Luxury is a good book and warmth.

You'll think about tomorrow, tomorrow.