With headlamps off, a new world appeared.
Cradled above the sleepy stream, my tramping group gazed up at uninterrupted skies as stars emerged behind our improving night vision.
Each end of the suspension bridge was freckled with neon glow worms, inadvertently guiding exhausted eyes as they awaited midnight feasts.
It was a beautiful scene – even more so in darkness than in sunlight – and we had it all to ourselves. Four tired trampers smiling in the dark.
It felt like one of those ideas that would fizzle out before it found legs, extinguished by better judgment and common sense.
A Sunday night sunset atop The Pinnacles, followed by a three hour night walk back to the car.
My initial intentions were to walk the track during the day like most normal people, but after seeing photos of the summit drenched in golden hour sunshine, I knew I would regret the plain lighting of midday.
With work awaiting me on Monday morning, there was but one choice.
Fortunately, three companions didn’t even need an arm-twist, so beneath welcoming blue skies, we set off.
We made mental notes of landmarks and tricky sections on the ascent, all of us preparing for the return journey in the dark.
After the steep, but brief, climb, the massive 80-bunk Pinnacles Hut greeted us around 3.30pm and carrying just my daypack, I arrived feeling fresh.
We enjoyed a late lunch on the deck, while the hut warden shared the legend of Racehorse Jack, the resident ghost who has been haunting the forests since the kauri logging days.
Fired for gambling on the job, the vengeful vagrant burned down swathes of forest to ensure his lumbermen colleagues would lose their livelihoods too.
But as poor Jack discovered, one doesn’t pick fights with axe-wielding pioneers and get away with it.
The arsonist’s body was hacked to pieces and spread around the forest.
None of his body parts were ever found, but it’s said you can hear his ghost wandering the forest at night, searching for his missing pieces.
It was a spooky tale, but the real horror story was yet to begin – around 70 teenagers were on their way to the hut for their Year 12 outdoor education trip.
We’d passed them earlier on the trail, hurling stones into the river in testosterone-fuelled madness.

