Glenorchy, New Zealand has been described as the ‘Gateway to Paradise.’ That sounded heavenly to me, until I was attacked by a couple of its angels… After twelve days alone on the road, Glenorchy was the last stop on my New Zealand tour. Its soaring mountains and crisp streams are what postcards are made of. There’s no needless paved roads or senseless fast foods. This was the real world. A call of the wild dawned within my soul. I began thinking of ways I could live off the land, become a true mountain man! In fact, it didn’t take me long at all before I put that plan in motion. I ditched the car and started hiking through Glenorchy on my own two feet, and it was marvelous. The nature and me, truly united at last: a cool creek grazing against my boots; the wind gliding down the mountain side; a loud, irritating screech in the near distance. Wait, what? I stopped and looked around to find the source of this noise, but it was hidden. Then louder, it grew… “A-ke-ke-ke-ke!” First behind me. Then in front. To my left. To my right! But where? Where?! As I spun around, seeing one blurry image after another, I recalled the months of preparation I had gone through for this trip. The hours spent searching the internet, fanning through books, and joining New Zealand fan clubs to learn about every morsel of this beautiful country. When to go. Where to stay. What to do. But this—this “A-ke-ke-ke-ke!” swooper of the clouds had somehow slipped through my research. Then finally, I saw it. Brown feathers of thunder, barreling toward me. Claws engaged. Eyes enraged. Still wailing those words… “A-ke-ke-ke-ke!” The bird lunged at my head. The wind of its wings sprayed against my hair, though, miraculously, its talons missed. Before I could celebrate, another bird swooped overhead, even closer than the first. My fear had doubled. There was not one, but two enemies. It was time to go. As I sprinted back to my car, I began speculating if maybe, just maybe, I had been duped by a country-wide conspiracy. “Where was this in the ‘Visit New Zealand’ brochure?” I wondered. Was it behind the cuddly Kiwis they love to proclaim? Or did they conveniently fail to mention these bombers of the sky? Then the questions went even deeper, and, in hindsight, became more ridiculous… “Could these birds be… Kiwis?” “Can Kiwis actually fly?” “Have I been lied to?” “Has everyone been lied to?” As far as birds go, New Zealand is only known for Kiwis. They’re truly adored by the residents. But are these oddball fowl respected, or feared? Is it possible they do fly? Perhaps Kiwis have been veiled behind the propaganda of being sweet, innocent, and flightless for generations. When in reality, they’re menaces to society, confined within the islands to save the rest of humanity! It made sense at the time. Once I reached my car, I was eager to launch back into the real world, where paved roads and fast foods never put me in despair. Soon enough, the roads grew firmer and the hills less wavy, when I spotted a Sheep Farmer. He was the first person I had seen since my perilous encounter, and the first lucky contestant of my new mission in life: spreading the truth about Kiwis. I rolled down my window. “Sir. Hello, sir.” “Huh?” he answered. “Don’t go up the way I came.” “And why not?” “I got attacked by Kiwis.” “The birds?” “I think so. Yeah.” “Well that’s strange,” he said. “Why you say that?” “They’re about as aggressive as my sheep here.” “Really?” I said. “And do they…” “Do they what?” “Fly?” “Do Kiwis fly?” He burst out laughing. “Young man,” he said. “Everyone knows Kiwis don’t fly.” “Then what attacked me?” “Falcons, I betcha.” “Falcons?!” Five years ago I was in Glenorchy. A place like Heaven that quickly became Hell. With views reminiscent of a dream, and birds of prey hunting humans for sport. I can’t wait to return.