Drive to Okarito and see a kiwi in the wild.

We take forever to pack, book some kiwi hunting for the next day, gas up and leave Hokitika by 11:30, wending away from the coast and toward the foothills of the southern alps, toward pine-covered mountains that jut upward from a flat valley as though a hand under the earth just thrust them straight up. The valley is carved by several glacially green rivers with wide meanders covered in gray granite boulders. When we are about half-way to Okarito, our destination, we stop in a one-horse town with a store called the One Stop to get some vegetables to cook tonight (because the place we’re going has no stores or restaurants). Down the street from the One Stop, the Whataroa Service Station has a flat-bed 1965 Citroen truck with Michelin tires. Pristine.

What can one expect in such places? Where’s Elvis? David hopes to find the Lapin Agile soon.

We motor on south and cut to the coast to get to Okarito’s lagoon, which has a collection of six batches, two boarding lodges, and is home to Andres Apse, one of, if not the most, famous photographers of New Zealand landscapes. We wax administrative after an hour’s walk along the beach: confirm tonight’s tour to see kiwi in the forests nearby — “Wear dark clothes that cover your arms and legs, bring patience and indomitable calm, and don’t use commercial insect repellent as a more kiwi-friendly smelling version will be provided free of charge,” we are told — confirm our three-hour kayak bird-watching adventure for tomorrow morning with “Bazz” — “short for Bentley, man. It’s gonna be cool if you get here by 8:45 so we get an assist from the tides. But no worries, we’ll work sumthin’ out.” — and try to enveigle assured seats on the left side of the TransAlpine Express we’re going to take from Greymouth through Arthur’s Pass to Christchurch this coming Friday — “perhaps,” says the nice lady. “We DO have your request, sir.”

Cynthia steams the broccoli she got at the One Stop — the ONLY store between Okarito and Hokitika to the north or Franz Joseph, equally distant to the south — David concocts some G&Ts, Cynthia makes an omelette, David slathers cheese on some crackers and dinner is served. We’re in kiwi countdown mode now. Hope springs eternal.

We arrive at Ian’s house dressed in our finest black clothing, swaddled for the chill in Mountain Hardware jackets that, the moment we walk in his office door, he tells us he could hear when we were on the road and that we must remove them and wear one of his variety of sweatshirts. Kiwis have a very keen sense of hearing and they are extremely shy, he tells us. “No,” he admonishes Helen, a member of the tour who is about to spray her legs with mosquito repellant. “Kiwis have the second best sense of smell of any birds on the planet. I’ll provide all the protection you need.”

“Now, there are five things you need to know about tonight,” Ian tells the eight of us hopefuls. “One: Fewer than one-half of one percent of New Zealanders have ever seen a Kiwi in the wild. The percentage of foreigners … no number’s that small. Two: What we’re trying to do tonight is impossible. Three: We’re going to an area approximately 10,000 square acres and we’re hoping … no promises … hoping … to see one of three pairs of kiwi. Four: The only chance we have of seeing a kiwi is to be absolutely silent. Five: I am the boss. You must do what I say or our whole group will be disappointed.

”Jackets and gloves are in the shelves there,” Ian points. “Take what you want and load into the van. We’ll drive about 15 minutes to a track into a swampy area and I’ll give you further instructions on the trail.”

”Will there be a bathroom there?” Helen asks.

”A very big one,” Ian says.

We load into the car, drive to Pahini Walk, a narrow track of rock and moss in the middle of nowhere, receive hats with mosquito netting sewn onto them and a flashlight each. Then Ian starts to lead us down the track. Helen asks, “Where’s the bathroom?”

Ian points in a large circle. “Anywhere you want but be quick. We’ve got to get down the track.” And he takes off, gabbing constantly with Katarina, a pretty Swiss gal traveling with her mate Pascal. After half an hour of hiking, we reach a small clearing at about 8:15 and Ian tells us to gather round. “I want you to stand in a line, shoulder to shoulder and face me,” he instructs us. “This is how we will wait for a kiwi to come to us.” He stands dead still, silent for two minutes. “If you can’t do that, we won’t see a kiwi. If you can’t touch the person next to you, we are too far apart. If one person stands too far to the side of a straight line, that person will spoil everyone’s chances of seeing a kiwi. Here’s how we will help each other.” He taps Katarina, the first in line. “You will squat down.” He taps Pascal next to her. “You will lean to the right.” He taps the next person, “You will lean to the left. Then, alternate. Got it. Let’s go.”

We walk close file down the narrow track in the forest, Ian in the lead waving a small orange radio telemetry device. We’re hoping to find Jocelyn, a female with a radio band on her leg, who is courting another kiwi named Fancy. It’s getting dark, hard to see the path. Ian stops suddenly as a distant keening sounds twice.

He instructs us to stand in a line, side by side and shoulder to shoulder, our backs against the edge of the path, facing the forest on the other side, three feet in front of us. We lower the nets attached to our hats and stand stock still.

We hear owls in the far distance. After 10 minutes, all Cynthia and David hear are the mosquitos swarming our faces, inches away. They are so numerous and thick and hungry that they sound like race cars buzzing around an Indy track. After 30 minutes we have not whispered a word or moved an inch. Nothing stirs in the forest.

After 45 minutes, Ian grabs David’s arm and whispers for him to move left. David can’t see a damn thing; the path is an indistinct gray blur in total darkness. Ian stops David and eight of us stand shoulder to shoulder, silent but for a new onslaught of mosquitos.

At 9:15, the scrub brush on the floor of the forest about 10 yards in crackles twice. Then silence. Minutes pass. The scrub crackles again … twice, three … four times. Without warning the forest in front of us is pierced with two sets of three loud, demanding cries, almost sounding as though a child were in pain.

More crackling, closer. Ian shines an infrared flashlight about 10 feet into the brush and there, almost the size and color of a brown medicine ball, is Jocelyn, chortling along but almost invisible against the copper fronds of ferns and tree trunks and bracken around her. Holding on to each other in total darkness we stumble as a group a few yards down the path, paralleling Jocelyn, who is incapable of seeing the red light, watching her scuttle along. And then she makes a break toward us, reaches the track just to our right, and waddles away at a fast but rather stately clip.

”She’s going for a little loving with Fancy,” Ian tells us. “We’ll leave them to do their thing. What we have seen and heard is extraordinary. I have been leading tours for 19 years now and hearing a male signal his mate, and then to hear the female broadcast her presence and desire and to see him and see her eagerness to find him … in a single night, after only an hour. We have been very very lucky indeed, and privileged.”

Indeed.

Another day in Paradise.