The briefing is short. A ranger reads out the rules — seven metres, no flash, no eating in sight of the group, one hour — splits everyone into eights, and then you’re walking.
The first hour is a farm track. It’s easy, and it tricks people. Then the track ends at a wall of green and the guide takes a machete off his back. From there it is hands-and-feet steep, wet underfoot, and slow.
Then the radio crackles, the guide stops, and says: packs down, cameras out.
The trackers have been with the family since first light. You close the last hundred metres quietly and they are just there — a blackback stripping bark, juveniles wrestling down a slope, the silverback watching you with complete indifference.
The hour goes fast. On the walk out nobody talks much. Back at the trailhead there is a certificate, a warm soda, and porters singing while they wait for the next group. Most people are already asking when they can do it again.