Brittany Boddington's tahr is an outstanding specimen (and bigger than her old man's, to boot). Mature tahr bulls develop a long, flowing coat in winter, which is as much a part of the trophy as the horns.

The canyon rose in front of us, ever steeper and narrower. Soon the track took us to a rock wall, and from there it was footwork. Jet-lagged, feeling the altitude, inexperienced at wading through snow, Brittany looked at me and rolled her eyes. What had I gotten her into? After 20-some hours on airplanes I wasn't feeling much better, but of course I couldn't let on.

This was just a reconnaissance, though, and after locating several bulls that looked really good, we headed for camp. The next morning we hiked back to the same spot, and after a good night's sleep it was much easier. But the tahr had moved even farther up the mountain, probably seeking the sun along the crest.

Chris, one of New Zealand's most experienced tahr hunters, figured we needed to go up after them--provided I was up to it. Brittany was just as happy to stay on the bottom with the spotting scope, and I suspect John was just as happy to stay with her. I would have gladly volunteered, but that wasn't in the cards.

We hiked around the mountain so we could climb unseen in the shelter of a big hogback. It was steep enough, but the deep snow made it tough. I guess I did okay until we reached one steep, rocky spot that Chris had gone up effortlessly. Me, I got stuck, unable to go either up or down and trying to fight panic from my fear of heights. Chris came back and saved me, offering a hand so I could swing to another snow-choked bush and get a handhold.

That was the last bad spot. Now the mountain ascended in a series of benches, and much of the snow had been blown away. We crept up to a little knoll and peered over the other side. Several tahr were spread out before us, from about 80 yards off in a brushy pocket level with us to perhaps 400 yards away at the top of the mountain

There was a great bull far up near the crest. In retrospect we should have taken him right then, but he was the farthest animal and the most difficult shot. He wasn't going anywhere, and the judgment isn't easy; Chris was trying to make out as little as an extra inch of horn, and there were other, closer bulls to look at.

We checked out a few other animals, and when we swung our binoculars back to the big bull far up the mountain, we saw him vanish around a cornice.

Once all the tahr had gone over the top, we followed, reaching the knife-edged crest perhaps an hour later. I had envisioned seeing lots of tahr on the far side, and I guess Chris had, too, because we stalked to the top very carefully. There was nothing on the other side. We had seen as many as 40 animals top the ridge in five or six groups, and they were all gone. Now what?

The northern slope dropped away endlessly--a steep, open slope for several hundred yards, then series after series of rimrocks and chutes. The tahr were down there somewhere. We simply had to go find them.

Moving back and forth to see below the ledges, we dropped down at least 600 yards before we saw the first group. They were still far below us, feeding in a steep canyon below some rimrock. There were two or three bulls, apparently mature from body size and fullness of mane.

Out came the spotting scope, and I was struck by how difficult this was. Much of the time the wind-blown mane obscured the horns altogether, and Chris was trying to make a comparative judgment on bulls separated by several hundred yards of tough country. They all looked fine to me.