His only attire is a pair of black shorts, made from a kind of gaberdine-type fabric. His feet are broad and his wide toes curl around the earth. The skin on his muscled back is mottled. His strong neck and back muscles sculpt his sloping shoulders, lending a slight stoop to his posture, a quality of being weighed down.

Now, as he stalks, this stoop is beneficial, as he swoops beneath the palms and creepers and keeps his body closer to the ground.

Occasionally we pass an orange mushroom sprouting on a log, or the imprint of a wild pig’s hoof, or an old pile of cassowary stools. There’s the crunch or crack of twigs and branches, and damp humous underfoot. Choruses of cicadas ululate persistently.

I am doing my best to watch my step, my clumsy boot clad feet, from breaking twigs, or knocking against roots. I cannot look ahead and watch my step, and decide quietness is priority.

I want to see a crowned pigeon, and though I’ve heard them cooing constantly during my visit, I’ve yet to set eyes on one. This is my last day here, and Sep is obliging by leading me through the bush in search of one.

Occasionally we hear their cooing, and move in the direction of the sound.

Suddenly Sep spots one. It has obviously scuttled off on hearing us as the pace picks up. Sep’s strides get longer, he bends lower, weaving more quickly. While I hear the bird’s movement in front of us, I don’t actually see it.

Sep is running now – a graceful figure moving through forest, attuned, attentive, taut.

In his slip stream, I try to mimic, following his every step.

Then suddenly there’s a huge flapping and fluttering and a shadow rises up into the pale green canopy above us.

We slow down, but stalk on, wordlessly. My heart is racing and I’m a little out of breath. Sep says it’ll be up high in one of the big trees.

I have no idea where we are. We’ve wound down through gullies, up rises, through, wetter, boggier ground for about an hour now.

We walk on another few hundred yards. It’s as if Sep can sense where it’s gone. It seems random to me.

Then he points up into the canopy. “There.” I see a shadow of a figure up high in the tree.

I focus my binoculars and see the dark tail and back part of the body but not its head and the infamous crown.

Sep suggests we head around the other side of the tree for a better look, but it takes off – a flutter and it’s gone. We follow for a while, before losing it completely.

Undeterred, we stalk on, looking for others.

We have wheeled around now and are returning to the camp. It seems to take a long time now that we’re walking not running.

There are bush fowl calls, the screeches sound like parrots to me. And short, sharp cheeps and whistles. At one point, we pass a wallaby. But Sep is focused on crown pigeon.

Suddenly there’s a thin-trunked tree lit up with pink and red cherry size fruits. It’s incongruous amongst the greens and browns, a vibrant pole of colour.

There’s a small flutter and Sep points into the green of a tree. It’s a small green bird, he says. I can’t see it amongst the leaves.

He puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me closer to him, to line me up with his vision, so I can see. It’s hardly distinguishable from the leaves. I fix its position and with binoculars make out the small green parrot, sleek and shiny.

We cross a creek which actually has water pouring from one pool into another. Sep leads me to the path and signals the direction to the camp.

I’m going to take my wash, he says.

I thank him and walk on. I’ve only gone a few yards and there’s Murray with a bush knife. He leads me out. I feel as if I’ve been in another world, where the rules are different. And I feel that I’ve been in these men’s care, completely.

As I return, I notice how charged and exhilarated I feel -- by the effort and concentration and the pure energy of virgin forest.

[Ed notes: Stay tuned for a pigeon pic!]