Annual Geekout at Cass

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

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

Hay Reserve

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.

Pīwakawaka in Hay Reserve

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.

Kererū in Ellangowan Reserve
Akaroa Harbour from Ellangowan Reserve

Autumn Garden Assessment

First week in April, and instead of having the heat pump on, I’m sitting here with all the windows open, because this year has been weird, weather-wise. It’s made for a challenging gardening year.

Seventeen pumpkins from one plant!

Last weekend, I brought in the last of the pumpkins and potatoes. I picked the popcorn, and I processed a heap of sweet corn. The garden is looking bare, though there’s still lots of vegetables coming out of it.

I thought it was time for my annual post-harvest assessment.

The weather was challenging for the spring crops, because it got summer-hot in November/December. Though I kept the garden well watered, the spring crops didn’t stand a chance. The pea harvest was marginal—enough for fresh eating, but not for freezing. Despite several plantings, I never did get spinach to grow—it bolted before I’d even planted out the seedlings. And the broccoli raab and pak choi bolted so fast, we never ate either of them—they went directly to the chickens.

I thought we were in good shape for the heat-loving crops, but in mid-December, summer seemingly ended. It got cool and rainy. There were some warm days, but they were few and far between. The tomatoes, eggplants and peppers languished. Powdery mildew cut down half my zucchini plants in February. I fought slugs, slaters and mould as tomatoes and peppers rotted before ripening. Beans rotted wherever they touched the ground. And aphids were rampant all year on all sorts of plants—the predators couldn’t keep up. 

All in all, it was a challenging summer.

We ate well (and still are), and the larder is full of food, but it was hard-won.

Things that did surprisingly well:

  • The volunteer pumpkins—the pumpkins I actually planted were marginal and were nailed by powdery mildew. But the two volunteer pumpkins—out on their own with good air flow around them—did well. One of them, in particular, was the most spectacular plant I’ve ever seen—the plant itself was enormous, and it produced 17 pumpkins with a total weight of 41.6 kg!
  • Rosella tomatoes—This black cherry tomato has been my favourite for flavour since I began planting it a few years ago. This year it proved itself as a tenacious variety, producing decently in both greenhouses and out in the garden, where most of the tomatoes languished.
  • Sweet corn—The corn got a terrible start, with poor germination and uneven growth. In mid-January, I expected to get no corn harvest. But somehow, the plants shot up after that, evened out, tasselled, and produced a gorgeous crop of big ears. Every single plant has at least two nice ears on it, and some plants have managed three. I honestly have no idea how it happened, but I’ll take the win.
  • Nutri-purple carrots—I’ve struggled for decades to grow nice, big purple carrots. This was my first try with the variety Nutri-purple, and they were fantastic. Long roots, healthy growth, and no aphids (the aphids were usually the downfall of other purple varieties I’ve tried).

Things that did poorly:

  • Window Box Red tomatoes—usually these little plants produce bumper crops in the pots in front of the house, but every one of them expired quickly in the cold this year, without producing a single fruit.
  • Fantastico tomatoes—This was a new cherry tomato variety for me this year, and I found the plants to be unmanageable (large sprawling plants that resisted any sort of pruning or training), slow to ripen, and not terribly tasty. At the moment, the fruits are finally ripening, but because it’s cool and wet, and the plants are sprawled on the ground, the slugs and slaters are getting most of them.

Of course, the gardening season never really ends here, and while we continue to eat the remaining summer crops, the winter crops are happily growing. I look forward to tallying up the full year’s production in a few months. Stay tuned for the final tally!

Happy Equinox!

Here we are at the autumnal equinox! Hard to believe my garden year is three-quarters over. But the days are feeling very short, and the vegetable garden is slowing down.

basket of vegetables

Despite the short days and cool weather, the harvest is really just getting going. I picked over 64 kg of pumpkins last weekend, and there are more to bring in. I’ve been harvesting dry beans for weeks, and will continue for another few weeks as they mature on the plants. Most haven’t been weighed in yet, because they’re still drying, but I’ve recorded over 4 kg so far, and I estimate my final total will be around 10 kg.

Sweet corn is at its peak at the moment, and one of these days soon, I’ll be picking and freezing a whole lot, because we can’t keep up with it, despite having corn on the cob pretty much every day for dinner (it’s a rough life…).

The popcorn still has a few weeks of maturing on the plant before it will be ready to harvest, and there are still two apple trees and a pear awaiting harvest.

Meanwhile, the summer crops continue to trickle in at a pace to keep us feasting.

In total so far, since the winter solstice, the garden has given us over 526 kilograms of fruit and vegetables and 490 eggs. 

Having not bought vegetables in about 20 years, I was curious about the monetary value of our garden, so I checked the prices of a few of the currently in-season vegetables at the grocery store. I was, quite frankly, shocked at how expensive fresh vegetables have become.

Some quick calculations …

Our garden has (so far) produced this year:

  • $388 worth of zucchini
  • $348 worth of tomatoes
  • $379 worth of potatoes
  • $30 worth of onions
  • $235 worth of pumpkin
  • $60 worth of chilli peppers
  • $192 worth of green beans
  • $287 worth of garlic
  • $47 worth of carrots
pumpkins

And most of these calculations are based on the price of conventionally grown (not organic) vegetables, because organic options weren’t available at the store.

Just that short list of vegetables adds up to over $2000, and it doesn’t include any of the expensive berry fruits we produce. And, of course, it doesn’t take into account that we grow things that you simply can’t buy in the grocery store—delicious, but non-commercial crops like ugniberries and quince, heirloom tomatoes that can’t survive shipping, colourful carrot varieties. Add to that the fact that our vegetables have been off the plant for minutes when we cook them, versus days or weeks for the sad specimens in the grocery store, and it is clear that the value of our garden can’t be measured by an instrument as blunt as price. Still, it’s good to know that the hundreds of dollars I spend each year on seeds, pea straw, and other garden supplies are more than paid back in food.

Just three months to go to complete our garden year. The tally continues as delicious fruit and vegetables roll in!

Happy autumn (or spring, if you’re in the northern hemisphere)!

February in the Garden

We’ve had an overabundance of rain this summer, and not nearly enough heat and sunshine for many of the summer vegetables. Slugs and slaters are running rampant, and fungal pathogens are making an early appearance. 

Still, it takes more than too much rain to suppress the exuberance of late summer. The dahlias are blooming, the sweet corn and tomatoes are ripening, and the pears and apples are heavy on the trees. I picked over 40 kilograms of potatoes on Sunday, and we’ve been freezing tons of pasta sauce. It is a time of abundance, despite the summer’s setbacks.

So, I invite you to enjoy my late-summer garden with me on one of our few beautiful sunny days. 

Garden Tally Half-year Check-in

We’re nearly at the summer solstice, so I thought it was time to do a check-in on the garden tally project I mentioned back at the winter solstice.

Since 21 June, we’ve been keeping a record of all the food that comes out of the garden. Whenever we bring something into the kitchen, we record it in a little notebook I’ve placed there for the purpose. The months of June, July and August include lots of days when we brought in nothing but eggs. No surprise, the dead of winter is a slow time in the vegetable garden. 

That’s not to say we weren’t eating from the garden. All winter we enjoyed the stored up bounty from last summer—tomato sauces, pickles, jams, chutneys, pesto, pumpkins, frozen corn and peas … There may have been little fresh coming in, but we didn’t lack for delicious vegetables and fruits.

Since September, the incoming volume from the garden has grown rapidly, and some of the half-year numbers are already staggering, despite the fact that the early onset of summer heat wreaked havoc on the spring crops.

If you ever wondered what 6.6kg of gooseberries looked like …

We’ve harvested over 56 kilograms of vegetables, 40 kilograms of fruit, and 335 eggs since the winter solstice.

Those 56 kg of vegetables only covered about half of our theoretical daily need, but that was the ‘lean’ season, when most of what we were eating was stored food from the previous season. Even as a vegetarian, I didn’t feel any lack of vegetables over winter.

There were also some stand-out individual harvests.

The final sweet pepper from last year’s crop was harvested on 2 August! For those of you in the northern hemisphere, that’s like harvesting peppers in early January. The new greenhouse is truly amazing for extending our growing season.

And it not only extends the later crops, it also gives them an early start. This year, I was disappointed, because the zucchini I planted early for the greenhouse never germinated. So the plant I stuck into the greenhouse was sown at the same time as my outdoor zucchini. Despite this, we harvested the first greenhouse zucchini on 13 December, well before my ‘zucchini by Christmas’ goal.

No matter how small, the first tomato is the best.

Oddly, however, the first ripe tomatoes have come from the outdoor tomato plants. These plants are currently less than half the size of the plants in the greenhouses, and honestly look like they’re only barely hanging on. Yet the Gold Nugget cherry tomatoes are already ripening out there.

All these stats make me eager to see what the second half of the growing year has in store. I was blown away by how much we’ve harvested during the leaner half of the year, but the real harvest has yet to begin.

I hope you all have a lovely solstice full of family, friends, and good food. 

Pickling onions, harvested in December, but we’ll eat most of them next winter.

Spectacular Stick Insects

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

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. 

Franz Josef Glacier in 2009.

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.

Franz Josef Glacier in 2015

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.

Franz Josef Glacier in 2025

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

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

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.