Things That Go SCREECH In The Night

North Island, New Zealand
By Brittney Bush

It had been a long day.

Two mornings before, I had stepped into the Department of Conservation office in Dargaville, New Zealand, with boyfriend Benn at my side and my trusty A-frame on my back, eager to set off on my first antipodean tramping adventure. Benn and I indicated a nearby trail in our Lonely Planet, and the helpful ranger kindly opened her filing cabinet and produced the appropriate trail map. She made a couple of photocopies, which she gave to us, free of charge, then sent us out the door with a friendly smile and a hearty “Good luck!”

We set off the next day, beginning with a gentle descent through emerald pastureland, which led us to the shore. With the Tasman Sea gently roaring on our left, we made several kilometers of boot tracks through the sand, then stopped for lunch before beginning the most difficult part of the day’s hike: an assault on a densely jungled seaside hill. The map indicated that we would spend about an hour going up, and hour going down, and soon thereafter reach our campsite.

Maybe Benn and I misread the map’s handwritten scribble, or maybe we were just desperately out of shape, but a one-hour climb turned out to be a three-hour scramble over damp, slippery rocks and through tangled rainforest. By the time we reached the top of the hill, we harbored no illusions of continuing down. It wasn’t an official campsite where we pitched our tent, but if someone wanted us to camp elsewhere, he could darned well carry us himself. We were exhausted.

By the time we finished dinner – sandwiches, as the stove wouldn’t light – it was dusk, and after dishwashing and toothbrushing, we crawled into our cozy tent. With our packs laid neatly outside the zip-up doors and the flashlight illuminating from a loop on the ceiling, Benn and I wriggled into our mummy bags. I dutifully filled out my journal, then clicked off the light, and sleep soon overtook me. I was just drifting into dreams of hot showers and featherbeds when – SCREECH! – I was awakened by the most horrific sound I’d ever heard from a living creature. It was followed by a scrabbling sound that I recognized sickeningly as coming right next to the tent, near my backpack.

I looked over at Benn, who was also awake and, bless him, as scared as I was. Our eyes made a tacit agreement and, with a nod, we began thumping on the sides of the tent and screaming exhortations for the mysterious visitor to be on its way. It worked – soon we heard a receding scurry – and soon I felt brave enough to open the door and haul my pack inside. It was an awkward fit in the tent, two people and one big pack, but I felt better. As I zipped the flap shut again, I noticed a trail of muesli leading off into the trees, and realized what our invader had come for.

Benn and I were still too charged with adrenaline to return to sleep. “What was that?” I wondered aloud. “It sounded sort of like a frog, but I don’t think they eat muesli.”

“I was thinking killer, man-eating android,” said my boyfriend, the sci-fi fan.

I laughed, and felt a bit better. After tossing around a few more hypotheses – Raccoon? Warthog? Wildebeest? – we closed our eyes and began once more our slow drift towards dreamland. The flannel sheets were turned back and steam was just starting to fog the bathroom mirror when – SCREECH!

It was back, and it was pissed that I had hidden the muesli. I was angry myself – the bugger had stolen my breakfast and woken me twice in one night. SCREECH! We banged again on the tent walls, warning and cursing and adding a few screeches of our own for good measure, though we couldn’t begin to match the spine-chilling, banshee-like quality of the monster outside. It was a little more persistent than last time, but eventually rustled off again, and, again, Benn and I tried to sleep.

SCREECH! SCREEEEEEECH!

I don’t know how many more times that night we were awakened. My anger reached its peak around the fourth incident, and after that I was too tired to be angry, and instead resorted to woe. Needless to say, neither Benn nor I slept well, and abandoned our attempts soon after dawn.

As we opened the tent flaps, we were greeted by another glorious New Zealand day: force-six winds and diagonal rain. We didn’t care. We inhaled some peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast, donned our rain gear, packed our tent and were off. It took me an hour to shake the lingering fear that whatever hideous beast had stalked us last night was going to leap out and take me instead of the muesli. Exhausted and staggering, we made our way down the hill.

Only several months later did we finally figure out what our mysterious assailant had been. Visiting an aviary in a South Island national park, I spotted a sign describing the kiwi’s “loud, caustic cry.” I suddenly forgot the fear of that night and was overcome by excitement – perhaps we had had an encounter with New Zealand’s most famous and elusive bird! Seeking confirmation, Benn asked the ranger if he had any audio recordings of a kiwi’s call.

In fact he did, and was happy to share them with someone so sincerely interested. From a back room he produced a tape player and a cassette, which he set up on his desk, and then pressed play.

SCREECH!

Exactly the sound we had heard in the tent, down to the last horrifying note! “So, that’s exactly what a kiwi sounds like?” Benn asked.

“Exactly,” confirmed the ranger, still cringing a little. “Then repeated nine more times.”

Oh.

“Always ten times?” I was hopeful for an exception.

“Always,” he confirmed.

We had heard the sound only once or twice in a row, certainly not ten times. I felt my kiwi hopes being cruelly dashed. Still, maybe this man, obviously knowledgeable about New Zealand wildlife, could help us make an ID.

“Is there anything else that sounds something like that?” Benn inquired.

“As a matter of fact, yes.” The ranger was really warming up now, so excited to have a couple of eager pupils. “The common possum makes a very similar cry. I always thought it was quite ironic, in fact – one of New Zealand’s biggest pests mimicking the country’s most famous natural treasure.”

Ironic, indeed. I suddenly remembered the anxious chewing noises, the scrabbling of tiny paws, and reality hit me like a five-ton bag of muesli. I was too ashamed to stick around, so Benn and I thanked the ranger for his time and went on our way. We spent four more months in New Zealand, but never told anyone about the night we spent in terror of a…common possum.