It’s cold. Slowly, reluctantly, the camp comes to life in the pre-dawn darkness. Wrapped up against the early-morning chill

A burst of crimson gave the game away. There, clinging to the cliffs towering above the rushing waters of the Mohaka River

It’s dead. Very dead, judging by the stench and the smooshed appearance of the remains – all fur, bones and black-brown gloopy stuff.

He was a typical Kiwi bush-dweller. No nonsense, a bit rough around the edges, unused to attention and certainly not fond of the limelight.

Deep in the Bay of Plenty back-blocks 24 youngsters scramble up a forest trail. Breathing heavily after their climb from the valley floor

Garry was just one badly-tied knot away from lying broken and twisted at the foot of the cliff against which he was now hanging. A sheer dro

Stomachs churn in unison as the chopper clears the ridge and the ground beneath us falls away to reveal a hillside cleared of the ubiquitous

High in the back-country hills a string of six rafters threads its way along a narrow mountain stream, hemmed in by sheer rock worn smooth..