Tussock tops near Pinnacle, in the West Coast’s Victoria Range. Full moon, the air crisp and still. I’m listening attentively for kiwi, hoping to hear a shrill whistle above the faint murmur of the creek tumbling some distance below. Despite the summer season, it’s cool, and dew collects on the outside of my long johns.

After three hours I stand up, stretch cramped limbs and begin to make my way back to camp by moonlight. It’s so bright I don’t bother with a torch. The tussocks form quicksilver medusas in the pale light, and granite peaks rise in black symmetry around me. Rarely have I felt so contented. Sadly, though, this is yet another site where no kiwi has called.

New Zealanders might be surprised to learn that as late as 1993 the distribution of the great spotted kiwi (Apteryx haastii), the largest of the five kiwi species, was still not fully known.

The West Coast boasts three kiwi species: the Haast tokoeka (which lives only in the mountains between the Waiatoto and Arawhata Rivers); the Okarito brown kiwi, or rowi (confined to a restricted area near Okarito); and the great spotted kiwi, or roroa. A fourth species, the little spotted kiwi, once the most common and widespread on the West Coast, largely disappeared during the first half of the 20th century.

Although populations of great spotted kiwi in the Arthur’s Pass–Hurunui region, in the Paparoa Range and in north-west Nelson were well known by the 1990s, a question mark remained over other large areas of the West Coast. During April–May 1992, scientist Jim Jolly and others surveyed many valleys in south Westland for DOC but failed to find any convincing evidence of roroa.

The following summer, 1992–93, DOC decided to put its efforts into surveying north Westland, using funding from the BNZ-sponsored Kiwi Recovery Programme (a partnership also involving the Royal Forest and Bird Protection Society, and predecessor of today’s BNZ Save the Kiwi Trust). In November 1992, I obtained a DOC kiwi-surveying contract with my then girlfriend, Jo Stilwell. Together we spent the best part of a year surveying kiwi under the supervision of DOC’s amiable John Lyall, whose generosity extended to sharing his house at Ross with us on many occasions.

We spent most time in the Victoria Range, a band of granite mountains in north Westland stretching from the Buller River south to the Grey River, although we also visited sites on the fringes of Nelson Lakes National Park and in the Mokihinui valley, south-west of what is now Kahurangi National Park. Another team, led by Dave Barker, surveyed kiwi in the area between the Ahaura and Taramakau Rivers. Later, in the winter of 1993, Jo and I also followed up some old records of little spotted kiwi around Franz Josef and Haast.

The male great spotted kiwi makes a high-pitched whistle, usually repeated 10–20 times, while, in contrast, the female produces a harsh, throaty churr. It was these noises we were listening for, while also looking out for other evidence of kiwi, such as probe holes, burrows or feathers. Ideal listening conditions for great spots occur during the first few hours of darkness on still, moonless summer nights. Whenever possible, we surveyed on fine nights in places with wide listening coverage and minimal river noise. We recorded our results on a kiwi-survey card, which John Lyall later added to DOC’s national kiwi database. When the weather was good enough, we worked, and when it rained we holed up somewhere to write reports and read books.

To many of my friends, desk-bound in office jobs, kiwi-surveying seemed like a paid tramping holiday. True, we visited some fine country, enjoyed the physical outdoor work and experienced many moments of peace and serenity. But, like any job, kiwi-surveying brought its share of frustrations and hardships. Kiwi being nocturnal creatures, all surveying had to be done at night, and tramping off-track in the dark took a bit of getting used to.

Like most trampers, I had walked in the dark on occasions, sometimes purposefully (starting a weekend trip on Friday night) and sometimes unintentionally (when winter darkness arrived before reaching the hut). But spending long periods poised and quiet on a mountaintop under a galaxy of stars is an entirely different experience.