If you visit Fox Glacier anytime of the year you will see groups of people. Theres the young and trendy usually independant travellers, theres the family groups giving there kids a worldwide education and there are the busloads of older folk, seeing the world once more before they die.All corners of the world will be represented.
But if you visit on a Friday from the last week of may onwards you will spie another group. Often dressed in green, and with footwear somewhat stouter than the average traveller they don't look at the surrounding mountains with the same awe as the rest, instead they look to the sky and ask each other, "Is the weather going to hold?"
Once they have the nights lodgings sorted,they head to the local watering holes (of which there are a few) and start to gather. As they enter the room they scan for others of there ilk, no need to ask, a raised eye and nod and once the beer is bought they pull up a seat and the conversation starts. "Where you from?"
"What block did you get?"
"I had Baker last year."
"Oh yeah how did you go." And the classic "There was this ( young guy, old guy, Aussie) who shot a 14 last year.... didn't realise what it was..... cut the horns off and left the cape behind.... it walked right into camp."
Next morning they gather again at James Scotts hanger, hopeing the West Coast will allow them access, and if James whips in, its all hands on deck, help get that machine loaded fast incase the cloud close's in.If he calls it off for the day then its back to town to take over once again and discuss the recent roar, or upcomeing duckshooting, and god help if a guide walks past with an older, overweight gentleman from... anywhere. Then you want to hear the comments.
If however the Coast has been kind, and the chopper has departed and left you standing on a peice of ground that you couldn't beleive a chopper could land on. Then you are in for a week you will never forget. First job, get the camp set up and weatherproof. Next job "recce" the area, find the best paths to the likely looking spots. After that, start hunting.
At the end of the week you will have seen Tahr, got wet,climbed high, got wet, been scared, got wet, shot a bull, worked yourself to the bone and probably got wet.
When you land back in civilisation again, the first job is a warm shower, then off back to the watering hole where you meet the guys again and the stories have changed too, "I saw this bull.... then he slid 200 meters down a sheer face.... standing on a ledge.... BOOMFA and down he came."
Or just as likely, "don't know how I missed, must have been panting too much".
Final step is getting home and downloading your photos to your computer, so they can keep you going for the next 11 months 2 weeks.

Sounds like the roar or ducking in any rural NZ pub