Annual Geekout at Cass

May 8, 2026 / Robinne Weiss / Leave a comment

Last weekend marked the 2026 Cass Mountain Research Station bioblitz.

The weather was perfect, and the views from Cass Hill were spectacular.

Twenty-four enthusiastic naturalists participated in the weekend—a mix of university students, former students and faculty, and others like me, with ties to those students and faculty. A great mix of expertise and enthusiasm.

The weather was gorgeous—sunny and calm. On Saturday, the group I was with followed a maze of pig trails out towards the northernmost tip of the research station, where the Cass River meets the Waimakariri River. Then we climbed the ridge to the top of Cass Hill. Along the way, our group recorded a variety of lichens, mosses, fungi, native and exotic plants, and insects. We scared up a pair of pigs, and watched a harrier lazily circle the ridge above us.

We returned to the research station, scratched and sweaty, in the late afternoon to find it buzzing with the enthusiasm of our fellow naturalists returning from their own adventures.

Throughout the afternoon and evening, people shared photographs, examined specimens under the microscopes, and debated about identifications as we started to log our observations on iNaturalist.

By the end of the evening, we’d already passed our goal of increasing the total number of species recorded at Cass to 1000.

On Sunday, I decided on a mission to find stick insects. There is only one record of a stick insect at Cass, from 2021, and they have not been recorded at the previous bioblitzes. I am convinced they’re more common than the records would suggest, because they are easily overlooked. They also have an irritating tendency to hang out in the forest canopy, far out of reach.

In other locations, I’ve had good luck finding stick insects on forest edges, where the canopy is lower, and stick insects hang out at eye height. So I took a beating tray and a few other participants willing to tolerate my obsession, and slowly crept along the shrubby forest edges, peering at foliage and shaking branches.

Alas, I found not a single stick insect, although I did record some lovely little spiders, a beautiful moth, and a few interesting plants. Undaunted, I will try again next time. The creatures are out there, I know.

Indeed, lots of living things are out there at Cass. Every time we’ve had a bioblitz, we’ve set what seems like an ambitious goal for recording new species at the research station. And every time, we blow our goal out of the water. In 2023, we were thrilled to exceed 500 species. In 2025, we sailed past 800. Last weekend, we added an amazing 119 new species to the list of life at Cass, bringing the total number of observed species there to 1093.

The more you look, the more you see.

Unfortunately, I fear many of the native species at Cass are at risk. The population of feral pigs at the research station has exploded in recent years. Five or ten years ago, pig damage was confined to certain areas, but today there’s barely a square metre of the station not impacted by the rooting of pigs. Other mammals, too, have an impact on the native flora and fauna—rats, stoats and possums are all present there.

My worry was shared by many over the weekend, and we dreamed collectively of a predator fence around the station, combined with intensive pig, stoat, possum, and rat control. What a jewel the station could become! I wonder what our Bioblitz species counts would be like ten or twenty years after effective mammal control?

For now, Cass Mountain Research Station remains as an incredible resource for scientists and others to study and explore. Our bioblitzes show there’s much out there to be learned.

Short walks on the Banks Peninsula

April 30, 2026 / Robinne Weiss / Leave a comment

Last weekend, my husband and I spent a day on the Banks Peninsula doing three short walks we hadn’t done before.

Our first stop was Hay Reserve in Pigeon Bay. This short, family-friendly track circles through lowland old growth podocarp forest. It’s a slice of what the whole peninsula would have been like before human colonisation. Huge kahikatea and tōtara, supplejack looping through the branches, cabbage trees and ferns—so dense at spots, I almost wanted a head torch despite the bright sky overhead. If you’re a fan of big trees, Hay Reserve is a fantastic stroll.

Our next stop was Ellangowan Scenic Reserve, on Hickory Bay Road. Though poorly signed, it’s not difficult to find the track. It follows a two-track to a rocky ridge, with a fabulous 360-degree view of the peninsula, then drops back down through a beautiful patch of bush that includes some very old, though dwarfed native trees. Lower down, massive red beeches punctuate the forest. Just 2.4 km long, the track has it all—forest, views, rock scrambling. Definitely worth a visit if you’re out that way.

Finally, we popped over to Akaroa, where we walked the Children’s Bay Walkway (with a detour to the creek waterfall). I can’t believe we’ve never done this walk (it would have been great when the kids were younger). The out-and-back, well-maintained track winds through a patchwork of farmland and forest. The creek waterfall was minimalist on the day we visited, but magical nonetheless. The really special thing about the walkway isn’t the landscape, though, but the fabulous sculptures along the way. No spoilers, but there are surprising creatures all the way to the end.

All three of these walks are relatively short and easy (though the Ellangowan Reserve track requires a bit of confidence on the ridge), and the three together made for a fun day, which naturally ended with a beer and chips in Akaroa.

Spectacular Stick Insects

November 27, 2025November 20, 2025 / Robinne Weiss / Leave a comment

One of the first things we did when we bought our new property, even before we built the house, was to establish native plantings. Those plantings have grown spectacularly well, and many of the trees are four metres tall already.

Invertebrate life on the property has increased with the growth of our gardens. Our lush akeake attract katydids, the herb garden is alive with butterflies, native bees, and hover flies. Preying mantids stalk the flowers, snatching up prey. Jumping spiders of several species prowl among the foliage and rocks. And web-building spiders festoon the branches of nearly every plant.

But there are some notable absences. Species that aren’t good at dispersal.

One of those absences is stick insects. Our common native species here in Canterbury are particularly fond of kānuka and mānuka. The kānuka we planted in our gardens has grown beautifully, but is completely devoid of stick insects.

But not for long …

I was recently gifted some stick insect eggs from a researcher who is studying them. I set them up in an aquarium with some kānuka branches and eagerly awaited their hatching. The researcher warned the eggs were a bit old and might not hatch, but over the course of a few days, seven successfully emerged (a few more died in hatching).

The seven stick babies are now happily munching kānuka in captivity. I’ll release them into our garden when they’re a little older and I’m more confident they’ll survive. For now, I’m enjoying watching them in their tank on my desk.

Stick insects are some of my favourite bugs. I love their improbable shape. I love their crypsis-enhancing behaviours—sitting with their forelegs stretched out in front to make them look even more stick-like, and swaying in the ‘wind’ when disturbed.

I also love the fact that many species are parthenogenic—the females can lay fertile eggs without mating with a male. In fact, there are some species of stick insect for which we’ve never found males.

This parthenogenesis is the result of a strange relationship many insects have with the reproductive parasite Wolbachia. Wolbachia is a genus of bacteria that is passed from female insects to their offspring. Because Wolbachia’s spread is only through the females of its host species, it’s in the bacterium’s best interest to eliminate males. It does this by a variety of methods, depending upon the strain of bacteria and the host species. The result is insects in which males are rare or nonexistent and females can reproduce parthenogenically. Its a cool and complex relationship that I find fascinating.

I look forward to establishing stick insects on our native trees. Hopefully my seven lovely babies will grow into a thriving population.

Franz Josef Glacier–Vanishing West Coast Wonder

November 20, 2025 / Robinne Weiss / Leave a comment

My husband and I spent Canterbury weekend on the West Coast. We stayed in Hokitika, because I had a market there on Sunday, but on Saturday, we drove down to Franz Josef Glacier.

We hiked up to Alex Knob. This 17 km hike is a steady, occasionally steep climb of about 1000 metres. It’s not technically difficult, but it’s a good hike. It’s rated as 8 hours return, but we did it in about 5 1/2—it’s easy to speed on the way down. On our way up, we got glimpses of the glacier. Unfortunately, by the time we reached the top, where the view should have been spectacular, the whole top of the knob was in cloud, and a fierce wind was driving snow into our faces. Despite the wind, snow and cold, we tucked ourselves behind a tussock and had a snack, enjoying the sheer wildness of the weather, before driving hail hurried us down.

It’s been ten years since I’ve been to the glacier. What I saw on this visit was heartbreaking.

Sixteen years ago, I did some interpretation work for the Department of Conservation, researching and writing text for interpretive panels at Franz Josef Glacier and Fox Glacier. I also did some research around visitor behaviour at the glaciers and the effectiveness of various warning messages. At the time, the glaciers were easily accessible on foot. They were advancing and dropping deadly chunks of ice on visitors who ignored warning signs and crossed barrier ropes to get up close.

Today, Franz Josef Glacier has retreated so far, it is not possible to walk to it. Ironically, the only way to visit the glacier these days is by helicopter—further spewing the greenhouse gases that are killing the glaciers.

There were thousands of tourists in Franz Josef Township last weekend, and the glacier carpark and tracks were crowded. Many of these tourists were here for the lure of New Zealand’s spectacular glacial landscape. New Zealand used to be the only place on earth where you could see glaciers reaching down into temperate rainforest. Today the glaciers come nowhere close to the forest, and soon there will be no glaciers left at all.

There are many other wonders on the West Coast—the rainforest, the mountains, wildlife and beaches—but the loss of the glaciers is tragic, not just because of their natural beauty, but also because of their role in water storage and release. Their loss will have long term consequences for all of New Zealand.

It may be another decade before I go to Franz Josef Glacier. I hope there is still a glacier to see when I get there.

Spectacular Spiders: Sooty Orbweaver

October 16, 2025 / Robinne Weiss / Leave a comment

Anyone who knows me knows how much I love spiders. One of my favourite story books as a child was Be Nice to Spiders by Margaret Bloy Graham (never mind the subtle misogyny in this 1967 publication). Growing up, we called the big hairy jumping spiders in the basement “friend ‘pider”.

When I was bitten as a teen by a large wolf spider who’d taken up residence in one of my sneakers, my main concerns were: was the spider okay? (Yes, she appeared unharmed by me squishing my foot into ‘her’ shoe), and was wolf spider venom strong enough to do anything to humans? I was fascinated to find that, yes, my pinky toe, near the site of the bite, was paralysed for about fifteen minutes. Cool, right?

Having lived in Panama, a place with spectacular spiders, the relatively small and harmless New Zealand spider fauna was initially disappointing. But Aotearoa has some fun and quirky spiders. And though none of them rival the tarantulas and golden silk spiders in Panama, New Zealand wins the prize for the sheer volume of spiders. They seem to inhabit every nook and cranny here.

I’ve recently started a wee project to document the spiders on our property. Last Friday, I spent my morning tea break photographing a few.

One of the more common spiders I found on my stroll was the sooty orbweaver (Salsa fuliginata). Despite the name, these dainty arachnids are beautiful creatures, and quite variable in appearance. The three individuals in these photos were hanging out within 50 centimetres of one another—one brown, one rosy, and one yellow-hued. I always find them among the broad beans, capitalising on the heavy insect traffic around the aromatic blossoms.

The sooty orbweaver is native to Australia, and likely arrived in New Zealand from there around 2000.

Writing Jitters

September 5, 2025 / Robinne Weiss / Leave a comment

Yesterday marked 15 years since the M7.3 earthquake here in Canterbury. I doubt there’s been a single day since then that I haven’t, at some point in the day, thought about earthquakes. I even sleep under a quilt inspired by the 2010 quake.

Working on the quake quilt. Wow! Look how little grey hair I had back then!

Earlier this year, I took a friend, who was visiting from overseas, to Quake City, the museum dedicated to our earthquakes in 2010-2011, which devastated Christchurch. I thought I would be okay visiting the museum, since the quakes were so long ago. But facing that exhibition, everything about those days, weeks, and months came rushing back. At one point, my friend turned to me and said, “You talk like this happened yesterday.”

It felt like it had happened yesterday.

The quakes changed me, changed everyone who was here at the time.

The quakes made me a New Zealander. In the aftermath, when communities were rallying together to help everyone, I realised that this was the place I wanted to be. When the world came crashing down, I wanted to be in a place where university students mobilised a massive volunteer force to dig liquefaction from people’s houses, where farmers airlifted food into the city, where ordinary people organised the collection and distribution of blankets and other homewares for people who had lost everything, where spaces left empty in the city by demolished buildings were turned into temporary parks and places of joy.

The Famous Grouse in Lincoln, post quake.

This week I got the beta reader comments back from my next book, Draconic Search and Rescue, in which the Alpine Fault ruptures, so earthquakes have been on my mind a lot. None of my beta readers experienced the Canterbury quakes—most of them hadn’t even been born yet. Writing the book, I worried that I would frighten my readers (8-13 year-olds are my target market) with a book about the Alpine Fault rupture. When it happens (and it will), the consequences for the whole country will be huge, and some towns are likely to be entirely destroyed. Researching for this book kept me awake at night, inspired me to be even more particular about my own earthquake preparedness, and reminded me that I’m not entirely crazy to ensure that, wherever I go, I’m prepared to walk home (hi vis vest and water bottle in the car, check, comfortable shoes, check, jersey, check).

But my beta readers wanted more danger, more fear. For them, it isn’t real. The rumble of a large truck doesn’t have them pausing to listen, make sure it’s just a truck. They don’t look for the emergency exits every time they enter a room. They don’t mentally assess the construction date of every building and consider whether it will collapse in the next quake.

So this week, I’m ratcheting up the danger in my book. Shoving my characters closer the destruction, maybe breaking a limb or two. And if I’m a bit jumpy for the next week or so, you’ll know why.

Magpies in the dark

August 8, 2025 / Robinne Weiss / Leave a comment

As though they know
What I need
When winter returns
On the eve of bud burst,
Magpies warble
On fence posts
In the dark.

Spring comes!
Spring comes!

Ten years ago I posted a blog titled, It Ain’t Over ’Til the Magpie Sings. The post was prompted by the first morning that a magpie warbled for an hour before dawn. At the old house, where the windows weren’t double glazed, the magpies were my alarm clock in spring and summer, warbling an hour or so before sunrise, urging me up to do the milking and make the most of the day. It’s harder to hear them in our new house, where the double glazed windows deaden outdoor sounds, but I’ve been tuning into the magpies for years.

And I’ve discovered that the magpies are remarkably predictable. Ten years ago, I heard the first pre-dawn magpie song on August 8th. Today (the 8th of August) I heard the first pre-dawn magpie song of the year.

And just like that day a decade ago, the first magpie song was followed by a winter lashing reminding us that, while spring was on its way, winter was still in charge. Today’s weather forecast shows the temperature dropping from a 4 am high (a balmy 12.3℃) all day, to 3℃. We can expect rain and icy wind for the next couple of days.

But in the dark, the magpies will keep singing.

Winter Hiking

August 1, 2025 / Robinne Weiss / Leave a comment

I love hiking at any time of the year, but there’s something particularly enjoyable about winter hikes.

Part of that enjoyment for me is that it’s the only chance here in Aotearoa New Zealand to walk in snow, because it rarely snows at lower elevations. To get to snow, you’ve got to hike to it. (Yes, you can hike to snow even in summer, but it’s easier to do so in winter, and there’s more of it.)

Last weekend, my husband, daughter and I headed to Red Hill, which sits between Lake Lyndon and Lake Coleridge. At 1640 metres, Red Hill is higher than nearby Porters Skifield, but lacks the snow making machines. So the snow was patchy, even at the top.

Still, winter hiking was in its full glory. On the way up, we hiked across crunchy frozen mud, pushed up by countless ice needles. We teetered on icy tussock mounds as we crossed a wetland. As we gained altitude, the wind increased and the temperature fell. We passed pockets of spectacular frost, with ice crystals so long, it looked like leaves. Snow in the shady hollows was wind sculpted and hard, more ice than snow.

By the time we hit the open tussock and scree-covered tops, the freezing wind was burning my cheeks, and I was thankful for my snood, which I pulled over my face to block the worst of the wind.

The view from the top was definitely worth the windburn. Winter mountains—covered in snow—stretched across the skyline. Down below us, the water of Lake Coleridge glistened blue in the sun.

The only bad part about winter hiking is that it’s often not pleasant to sit on the top for lunch, and last weekend was absolutely not a weekend to hang out on top of any mountain. After a quick look around and some photos, we hightailed it back down.

But one of the cool things about winter hiking is that, on a sunny day, you can start the hike in winter conditions, and end in spring or summer-like conditions.

Having donned all our warm layers at the top of Red Hill, we began shucking them as we descended. We went from thermals, jacket, hat and gloves to just t-shirts by the time we were back to the car. It was a balmy 17℃. Warm enough for a swim … according to our daughter. (We decided not to swim that day, but she did take a swim the following day after a hike with a friend.)

As someone with mediocre circulation, I struggle with overheating when I hike. I can be sweating, but still have numb fingers and toes, because my body doesn’t push the heat to my extremities. It turns summer hiking into a sweat-fest. But hiking during winter is much more pleasant. I can shuck my jacket to cool my core, but keep hat and gloves on to warm my extremities. It makes for a much more pleasant experience.

We’ve enjoyed some memorable winter hikes: Cragieburn under a freshly fallen 15 centimetres of fluff, a trek to Woolshed Creek Hut in fresh calf-deep snow, followed by barefoot wading in the stream at the top, a winter wonderland of wind-sculpted ice atop Mount Isobel … Winter landscapes are spectacular.

Hopefully, we’ll get out for a few more hikes before the end of winter. Gotta enjoy the snow while it’s there!

Weekend Tramp in the Two Thumb Range

May 1, 2025 / Robinne Weiss / Leave a comment

Last weekend, my husband and I got out for a tramping trip in the Two Thumb Range, in Te Kahui Kaupeka Conservation Park. We parked on Rangitata Gorge Road at Forest Stream, then slogged two hours up the road to Bush Stream—not a very exciting start, but better then than at the end of the tramp. We followed Bush Stream Track up the stream to Crooked Spur Hut. The stream flows through some pretty spectacular scenery, and you ‘get’ to cross the stream quite a few times before a steep climb to the hut.

Crooked Spur Hut is one of several historic musterer’s huts in the area. It’s old and the walls are full of holes and rats. We opted to sleep in the tent, but we hung out in the hut, since we had it all to ourselves.

On the approach to the hut, a kea came to investigate, watching us climb the hill. It must have invited its friends later, because shortly after dark, while I was reading in the tent, I heard the thump-thump-thump of a couple of kea bouncing around outside. I shooed them away, knowing their penchant for mischief, and eventually they got the hint and left.

But by morning the kea had mustered reinforcements. They started about 4 am, thumping around outside the tent, plucking at the tent strings, and calling loudly right by our heads. By 5 am, we were up out of a sense of self-preservation, retreating to the hut to start our day.

When I stepped out of the hut a few minutes later, there were three kea, each one working on pulling out a tent stake, and more calling in the darkness beyond. We quickly took down the tent in the dark, before the kea tore it to shreds.

We got the billy boiling to the sound of kea on the tin roof. They seemed to have multiplied. The noise was deafening, and grew louder as dawn approached. Our trips out to the loo were accompanied by no less than three kea, who then sat on the loo roof, peering in through the skylight to watch the show.

Returning from the loo, I counted fifteen kea, most of them on the hut roof, picking at the roofing nails (which thankfully had been replaced with non-leaded ones, because the old lead nails kill kea), and sliding down the tin. It was the most kea I’d ever seen at once. And as obnoxious as the cheeky buggers are, it was the highlight of the trip.

Leaving the kea behind, on day two, we hiked up from the hut through frosty tussocks to a scree-covered saddle where we were treated to some new spectacular scenery—tussock, scree and craggy peaks all around. At Swamps Stream we scared up a herd of 28 tahr—a non-native pest, but cool to see nonetheless. We arrived at Stone Hut at lunchtime, and had a lovely meal next to the stream before carrying on to Royal Hut.

Royal Hut is similar in age and condition to all the old musterer’s huts, but has the distinction of having been visited by royalty. The accounts I’ve found differ in the details—it was either in the 1960s or in 1970, and the royals involved were either Prince Charles and Princess Anne, or Prince Charles and Princess Diana (Diana being highly unlikely, given the date range suggested for the event).

In any case, it is said the royals zipped in by helicopter for a ‘brief’ visit. I doubt they spent the night. With mice scrabbling over our packs within 15 minutes of our arrival at the hut, we opted for the tent again.

Frost heave on the track, with 4 cm-long ice needles.

The morning of day three was fine and frosty (with frost inside the tent!). The DOC signage indicated we had an 11-hour hike to the road, and with daylight only being 11 hours or so long at this time of year, we made an early start, as soon as it was light enough to see the track.

We warmed up quickly, with the first leg of the day being a climb to Bullock Bow Saddle.

By the time we reached the saddle, I knew I’d pushed too hard over the previous couple of days—my left knee was stuffed, and hurt with every step.

It was a loooong 14 or 15 km from there to the road—the first few kilometres steeply downhill, then a long slog down the Forest Creek riverbed.

Still, we made it to the car well before dusk, and enjoyed more spectacular scenery (and a few more river crossings) along the way.

Overall, a fun long weekend! Spectacular views, awesome wildlife, and some real character huts. And the weather couldn’t have been better.