VR Test

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First, you’ll set up camp on the tops, above the bushline, where tussock and wind make the air blurry. You’ll have to rise before dawn to start your watch, because kea are crepuscular—they go foraging at the times when day and night merge. As you wait, huddled up against the chill, you may see a glow of light on the next ridge over, as someone else gets ready to survey.

You’ll wait, and listen. You don’t want to attract birds from several ridges over, because you’re trying to figure out if there are any kea in this particular spot. If there’s a resident bird, or pair, you’ll hear them before you see them, a long screech: ‘Keeeee-ah’. They’re named after this call—it’s what researchers refer to as a contact call, when one kea meets another. In human terms, it’s hello.

When you hear one, or glimpse a dark-green shape gliding across the valley, you’ll need to get its attention. Feel free to make a lot of noise—in fact, the more noise you make, the more interested in you the kea will be. Something brightly coloured pretty much always works. That’s where the jandal comes in, although if your tent is red or orange, you might not even need it. Kea-catching expert Corey Mosen uses whatever he has to hand—a bit of tape, a hat, a glove—to lure them into the range of his net-gun.

Each bird that’s caught receives leg bands, and some of them get a name, too, so they can be spotted and identified later. A couple of adult females get tiny backpack transmitters, so Mosen can find their nests and return the following year to see if the kea parents succeed in raising any chicks.

This is how Mosen spends his summers—catching kea. It gives him an idea of how many there are in a particular area, and how many new kea are being added to the population.

But that’s all it’ll be, an idea. No one knows how many kea there are, because their habitat extends along the whole spine of the South Island, from Waitutu in the south to Kaiteriteri in the north. Most populations aren’t monitored, but according to those that are, the number of birds has crashed.

The density of kea in Nelson Lakes National Park dropped 80 per cent between 1998 and 2011, across just one generation of birds. Nationwide, kea numbers are estimated to have fallen between 50 and 80 per cent over the past 36 years—that’s three generations of birds. Kea were added to the Department of Conservation’s list of nationally threatened species in 2012, and in 2017, their ranking on the International Union for Conservation of Nature’s Red List was changed from ‘vulnerable’ to ‘endangered’.



First, you’ll set up camp on the tops, above the bushline, where tussock and wind make the air blurry. You’ll have to rise before dawn to start your watch, because kea are crepuscular—they go foraging at the times when day and night merge. As you wait, huddled up against the chill, you may see a glow of light on the next ridge over, as someone else gets ready to survey.

You’ll wait, and listen. You don’t want to attract birds from several ridges over, because you’re trying to figure out if there are any kea in this particular spot. If there’s a resident bird, or pair, you’ll hear them before you see them, a long screech: ‘Keeeee-ah’. They’re named after this call—it’s what researchers refer to as a contact call, when one kea meets another. In human terms, it’s hello.

When you hear one, or glimpse a dark-green shape gliding across the valley, you’ll need to get its attention. Feel free to make a lot of noise—in fact, the more noise you make, the more interested in you the kea will be. Something brightly coloured pretty much always works. That’s where the jandal comes in, although if your tent is red or orange, you might not even need it. Kea-catching expert Corey Mosen uses whatever he has to hand—a bit of tape, a hat, a glove—to lure them into the range of his net-gun.

Each bird that’s caught receives leg bands, and some of them get a name, too, so they can be spotted and identified later. A couple of adult females get tiny backpack transmitters, so Mosen can find their nests and return the following year to see if the kea parents succeed in raising any chicks.

This is how Mosen spends his summers—catching kea. It gives him an idea of how many there are in a particular area, and how many new kea are being added to the population.

But that’s all it’ll be, an idea. No one knows how many kea there are, because their habitat extends along the whole spine of the South Island, from Waitutu in the south to Kaiteriteri in the north. Most populations aren’t monitored, but according to those that are, the number of birds has crashed.

The density of kea in Nelson Lakes National Park dropped 80 per cent between 1998 and 2011, across just one generation of birds. Nationwide, kea numbers are estimated to have fallen between 50 and 80 per cent over the past 36 years—that’s three generations of birds. Kea were added to the Department of Conservation’s list of nationally threatened species in 2012, and in 2017, their ranking on the International Union for Conservation of Nature’s Red List was changed from ‘vulnerable’ to ‘endangered’.



First, you’ll set up camp on the tops, above the bushline, where tussock and wind make the air blurry. You’ll have to rise before dawn to start your watch, because kea are crepuscular—they go foraging at the times when day and night merge. As you wait, huddled up against the chill, you may see a glow of light on the next ridge over, as someone else gets ready to survey.

You’ll wait, and listen. You don’t want to attract birds from several ridges over, because you’re trying to figure out if there are any kea in this particular spot. If there’s a resident bird, or pair, you’ll hear them before you see them, a long screech: ‘Keeeee-ah’. They’re named after this call—it’s what researchers refer to as a contact call, when one kea meets another. In human terms, it’s hello.

When you hear one, or glimpse a dark-green shape gliding across the valley, you’ll need to get its attention. Feel free to make a lot of noise—in fact, the more noise you make, the more interested in you the kea will be. Something brightly coloured pretty much always works. That’s where the jandal comes in, although if your tent is red or orange, you might not even need it. Kea-catching expert Corey Mosen uses whatever he has to hand—a bit of tape, a hat, a glove—to lure them into the range of his net-gun.

Each bird that’s caught receives leg bands, and some of them get a name, too, so they can be spotted and identified later. A couple of adult females get tiny backpack transmitters, so Mosen can find their nests and return the following year to see if the kea parents succeed in raising any chicks.

This is how Mosen spends his summers—catching kea. It gives him an idea of how many there are in a particular area, and how many new kea are being added to the population.

But that’s all it’ll be, an idea. No one knows how many kea there are, because their habitat extends along the whole spine of the South Island, from Waitutu in the south to Kaiteriteri in the north. Most populations aren’t monitored, but according to those that are, the number of birds has crashed.

The density of kea in Nelson Lakes National Park dropped 80 per cent between 1998 and 2011, across just one generation of birds. Nationwide, kea numbers are estimated to have fallen between 50 and 80 per cent over the past 36 years—that’s three generations of birds. Kea were added to the Department of Conservation’s list of nationally threatened species in 2012, and in 2017, their ranking on the International Union for Conservation of Nature’s Red List was changed from ‘vulnerable’ to ‘endangered’.



First, you’ll set up camp on the tops, above the bushline, where tussock and wind make the air blurry. You’ll have to rise before dawn to start your watch, because kea are crepuscular—they go foraging at the times when day and night merge. As you wait, huddled up against the chill, you may see a glow of light on the next ridge over, as someone else gets ready to survey.

You’ll wait, and listen. You don’t want to attract birds from several ridges over, because you’re trying to figure out if there are any kea in this particular spot. If there’s a resident bird, or pair, you’ll hear them before you see them, a long screech: ‘Keeeee-ah’. They’re named after this call—it’s what researchers refer to as a contact call, when one kea meets another. In human terms, it’s hello.

When you hear one, or glimpse a dark-green shape gliding across the valley, you’ll need to get its attention. Feel free to make a lot of noise—in fact, the more noise you make, the more interested in you the kea will be. Something brightly coloured pretty much always works. That’s where the jandal comes in, although if your tent is red or orange, you might not even need it. Kea-catching expert Corey Mosen uses whatever he has to hand—a bit of tape, a hat, a glove—to lure them into the range of his net-gun.

Each bird that’s caught receives leg bands, and some of them get a name, too, so they can be spotted and identified later. A couple of adult females get tiny backpack transmitters, so Mosen can find their nests and return the following year to see if the kea parents succeed in raising any chicks.

This is how Mosen spends his summers—catching kea. It gives him an idea of how many there are in a particular area, and how many new kea are being added to the population.

But that’s all it’ll be, an idea. No one knows how many kea there are, because their habitat extends along the whole spine of the South Island, from Waitutu in the south to Kaiteriteri in the north. Most populations aren’t monitored, but according to those that are, the number of birds has crashed.

The density of kea in Nelson Lakes National Park dropped 80 per cent between 1998 and 2011, across just one generation of birds. Nationwide, kea numbers are estimated to have fallen between 50 and 80 per cent over the past 36 years—that’s three generations of birds. Kea were added to the Department of Conservation’s list of nationally threatened species in 2012, and in 2017, their ranking on the International Union for Conservation of Nature’s Red List was changed from ‘vulnerable’ to ‘endangered’.



First, you’ll set up camp on the tops, above the bushline, where tussock and wind make the air blurry. You’ll have to rise before dawn to start your watch, because kea are crepuscular—they go foraging at the times when day and night merge. As you wait, huddled up against the chill, you may see a glow of light on the next ridge over, as someone else gets ready to survey.

You’ll wait, and listen. You don’t want to attract birds from several ridges over, because you’re trying to figure out if there are any kea in this particular spot. If there’s a resident bird, or pair, you’ll hear them before you see them, a long screech: ‘Keeeee-ah’. They’re named after this call—it’s what researchers refer to as a contact call, when one kea meets another. In human terms, it’s hello.

When you hear one, or glimpse a dark-green shape gliding across the valley, you’ll need to get its attention. Feel free to make a lot of noise—in fact, the more noise you make, the more interested in you the kea will be. Something brightly coloured pretty much always works. That’s where the jandal comes in, although if your tent is red or orange, you might not even need it. Kea-catching expert Corey Mosen uses whatever he has to hand—a bit of tape, a hat, a glove—to lure them into the range of his net-gun.

Each bird that’s caught receives leg bands, and some of them get a name, too, so they can be spotted and identified later. A couple of adult females get tiny backpack transmitters, so Mosen can find their nests and return the following year to see if the kea parents succeed in raising any chicks.

This is how Mosen spends his summers—catching kea. It gives him an idea of how many there are in a particular area, and how many new kea are being added to the population.

But that’s all it’ll be, an idea. No one knows how many kea there are, because their habitat extends along the whole spine of the South Island, from Waitutu in the south to Kaiteriteri in the north. Most populations aren’t monitored, but according to those that are, the number of birds has crashed.

The density of kea in Nelson Lakes National Park dropped 80 per cent between 1998 and 2011, across just one generation of birds. Nationwide, kea numbers are estimated to have fallen between 50 and 80 per cent over the past 36 years—that’s three generations of birds. Kea were added to the Department of Conservation’s list of nationally threatened species in 2012, and in 2017, their ranking on the International Union for Conservation of Nature’s Red List was changed from ‘vulnerable’ to ‘endangered’.



First, you’ll set up camp on the tops, above the bushline, where tussock and wind make the air blurry. You’ll have to rise before dawn to start your watch, because kea are crepuscular—they go foraging at the times when day and night merge. As you wait, huddled up against the chill, you may see a glow of light on the next ridge over, as someone else gets ready to survey.

You’ll wait, and listen. You don’t want to attract birds from several ridges over, because you’re trying to figure out if there are any kea in this particular spot. If there’s a resident bird, or pair, you’ll hear them before you see them, a long screech: ‘Keeeee-ah’. They’re named after this call—it’s what researchers refer to as a contact call, when one kea meets another. In human terms, it’s hello.

When you hear one, or glimpse a dark-green shape gliding across the valley, you’ll need to get its attention. Feel free to make a lot of noise—in fact, the more noise you make, the more interested in you the kea will be. Something brightly coloured pretty much always works. That’s where the jandal comes in, although if your tent is red or orange, you might not even need it. Kea-catching expert Corey Mosen uses whatever he has to hand—a bit of tape, a hat, a glove—to lure them into the range of his net-gun.

Each bird that’s caught receives leg bands, and some of them get a name, too, so they can be spotted and identified later. A couple of adult females get tiny backpack transmitters, so Mosen can find their nests and return the following year to see if the kea parents succeed in raising any chicks.

This is how Mosen spends his summers—catching kea. It gives him an idea of how many there are in a particular area, and how many new kea are being added to the population.

But that’s all it’ll be, an idea. No one knows how many kea there are, because their habitat extends along the whole spine of the South Island, from Waitutu in the south to Kaiteriteri in the north. Most populations aren’t monitored, but according to those that are, the number of birds has crashed.

The density of kea in Nelson Lakes National Park dropped 80 per cent between 1998 and 2011, across just one generation of birds. Nationwide, kea numbers are estimated to have fallen between 50 and 80 per cent over the past 36 years—that’s three generations of birds. Kea were added to the Department of Conservation’s list of nationally threatened species in 2012, and in 2017, their ranking on the International Union for Conservation of Nature’s Red List was changed from ‘vulnerable’ to ‘endangered’.



First, you’ll set up camp on the tops, above the bushline, where tussock and wind make the air blurry. You’ll have to rise before dawn to start your watch, because kea are crepuscular—they go foraging at the times when day and night merge. As you wait, huddled up against the chill, you may see a glow of light on the next ridge over, as someone else gets ready to survey.

You’ll wait, and listen. You don’t want to attract birds from several ridges over, because you’re trying to figure out if there are any kea in this particular spot. If there’s a resident bird, or pair, you’ll hear them before you see them, a long screech: ‘Keeeee-ah’. They’re named after this call—it’s what researchers refer to as a contact call, when one kea meets another. In human terms, it’s hello.

When you hear one, or glimpse a dark-green shape gliding across the valley, you’ll need to get its attention. Feel free to make a lot of noise—in fact, the more noise you make, the more interested in you the kea will be. Something brightly coloured pretty much always works. That’s where the jandal comes in, although if your tent is red or orange, you might not even need it. Kea-catching expert Corey Mosen uses whatever he has to hand—a bit of tape, a hat, a glove—to lure them into the range of his net-gun.

Each bird that’s caught receives leg bands, and some of them get a name, too, so they can be spotted and identified later. A couple of adult females get tiny backpack transmitters, so Mosen can find their nests and return the following year to see if the kea parents succeed in raising any chicks.

This is how Mosen spends his summers—catching kea. It gives him an idea of how many there are in a particular area, and how many new kea are being added to the population.

But that’s all it’ll be, an idea. No one knows how many kea there are, because their habitat extends along the whole spine of the South Island, from Waitutu in the south to Kaiteriteri in the north. Most populations aren’t monitored, but according to those that are, the number of birds has crashed.

The density of kea in Nelson Lakes National Park dropped 80 per cent between 1998 and 2011, across just one generation of birds. Nationwide, kea numbers are estimated to have fallen between 50 and 80 per cent over the past 36 years—that’s three generations of birds. Kea were added to the Department of Conservation’s list of nationally threatened species in 2012, and in 2017, their ranking on the International Union for Conservation of Nature’s Red List was changed from ‘vulnerable’ to ‘endangered’.



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