Gulp. I suggested we go the other way. It’s not as far up to Alpha Hut, and I knew I’d be better doing the long day in a downhill direction.

“Well, the top of the Neill–Winchcombe Ridge isn’t marked, so I’d rather go up that.” He checked the map. “Actually, no, we’ll be fine; we can go to Alpha first. I’ll pick you up at 6am. Do you promise not to be grumpy?” Ever cheerful, ever positive. He knew I wasn’t a morning person.

We wandered into Cone Hut where a DOC sign indicated a three-hour climb to Alpha. Do not believe this. We crossed the Tauherenīkau River, Shaun reminiscing about the four lost trampers rescued, amazingly, back in 1933, starving and injured after two weeks battling Tararua’s stormy tops and inadequately mapped gorges. Tramping with Shaun was like this; he was a walking encyclopedia of tramping tales.

But those lost trampers were made of sterner stuff than me. I was feeling sick. There was a point where I scrambled under a fallen tree and my body just gave up. It took a herculean push to get out. This was where Shaun, who had skipped neatly over the tree and noted my pain, took charge of my pack.

About 20 minutes later the track emerged from bush onto the beautiful ‘Bull Mound’ wetland. There was Shaun in his happy place, my pack discarded, tripod and camera out and tussock and Tararua peaks to capture.

Shaun pointed out our return route across the valley. He was buzzing with the thought of covering this new ground tomorrow.

Next morning I felt much better. I heard Shaun go out, as he always did, camera in hand to catch the morning light while I snuggled deeper into my sleeping bag.

We continued on to Alpha Peak in the morning sun and across the Southern Crossing, then overgrown with dense tussock as it wasn’t much used since access into Ōtaki Forks was closed. Of course, being the Tararua tops, we soon went into clag. Miserable, cold, damp, windy clag. We couldn’t see a thing.

We stopped for lunch just beneath Mt Hector. It was decision time. Should we go down the unmarked ridge in the clag to Winchcombe Biv or escape to Kime Hut, just 40 clearly poled minutes away? We checked the forecast; rain was due tomorrow. Shaun checked the map. “I think we’ll be fine,” he said. I was totally in his hands, having forgotten the little compass and map work I’d ever done and hoped I wasn’t being a burden. He must have been a bit worried, given my performance the day before.

With Shaun clutching his compass we descended cautiously through the murk from Mt Hector, away from the sturdy Memorial Cross that Tararua Tramping Club members built to remember their lost colleagues from World War Two. Another Shaun story ensued of how, in those pre-helicopter days, they carried not only the wood for the cross but also cement and water all the way up to the 1527m peak.

The cloud cleared briefly and revealed our route. It looked obvious. Shaun looked relieved. Next minute he let out a wild yahoo of excitement and yelled something that I didn’t catch.  It turned out he’d spotted a rare Brocken spectre, his own shadow reflected in sunbeams across the valley.

We did mess up the route-finding a bit. The going became steeper and we clawed our way down rocky bluffs until a cloud scudded past, revealing the main ridge where we should have been – way over and up there!

So we climbed back up. Shaun was impressed with my quiet acceptance of the down and up bit, but the truth is he set the example. He was always positive; getting grumpy was never going to help.

The main ridge to Winchcombe Peak entailed craggy stuff that was fun to climb, and not the dreary plod, plod of walking uphill. From the top of Winchcombe we spotted our goal, the orange-painted dog-box bivvy nestled on the bush edge. I left photographer Shaun and headed down.

There was no one at the bivvy. I dropped my poles, filled my water bottle and guzzled. Shaun arrived, noted my guzzling and gently asked if I’d checked if the tank had plenty of water. He quietly tidied my poles so that he could get into the bivvy without falling over them. It’s called hut etiquette, Kathy. Shaun had it in spades.

And, of course, he signed the hut book. It was the first thing he always did on arrival at any hut. Winchcombe Bivvy was possibly number 803 of his exhaustive hut-bagger’s list.

The new bivvy was great – with mattresses and shelving and a vent so we could safely cook inside. Shaun cooked pasta and was later gutted that he forgot to add the parmesan after carrying it all this way. I remember that we had a lovely long chat. First, of course, was the history talk – this one about early trampers and climbers Wally Neill and Alex Winchcombe. In the 1920s they explored this then unknown ridge, climbed the craggy bluffs, thrashed through the snow-covered leatherwood and continued to Field Hut in one immense 15-hour day. Shaun described them as staunch, colourful characters, and it felt good to be following in their footsteps, albeit in the opposite direction and with decent food and shelter.

It’s a special thing to be in the hills with a good friend, having time to chat with no distractions and with the trust and comfort that you can share stuff, also be challenged if that’s required. And with someone who gets your warped humour.

In the morning we headed down. The bush was dense, misty, moody. At times Shaun fell back, taking photos. We had lunch at Cone Peak, then headed home. We were feeling very staunch (me) and satisfied (both of us).

Shaun had waited a long time to ‘do’ the Neill–Winchcombe Ridge and wrote a beautiful story about the trip. He didn’t mention lots of things, like me getting stuck under a log and him carrying my pack. This is the rest of the story. It’s also, I hope, a little glimpse into Shaun, the thoughtful, safe, strong, funny, engaging tramping companion, and the wonderful man.

Shaun Barnett died from cancer on June 5, this year.