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.
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.
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.
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!
Lately, it has still been light outside on our drive to and from work. The daffodils are up, and a few blooms are even open. When I weeded the asparagus bed last week, the Californian thistles were sprouting new buds 15 centimetres underground.
And most importantly, my seed order has arrived!
Yep. Spring is on its way. Never mind that the frost behind the house hasn’t melted in a week, and the bird bath is skimmed-over with ice at 3 pm. Never mind that much of the country hit yearly lows yesterday. Never mind that our worst winter weather tends to arrive after spring has already officially started.
This weekend, I’ll write my weekly spring to-do list, covering August to December. I’ll tidy the garden shed of winter detritus, and pull out the peppers in the greenhouse which have finally died. And I’ll finish the last of the winter pruning and deadheading. I’ll probably also fret over how little of those winter activities I accomplished—the sewing, spinning and other crafts I enjoy.
And with the windows open (for the few hours it’s warm enough … just), and the house smelling of fresh air and the promise of growing things, I’ll impatiently await spring.
Last weekend I had the pleasure of participating in a mini bioblitz at the University of Canterbury’s Cass Mountain Research Station.
Eleven of us descended on the station on the frosty Saturday morning. Fog enshrouded the mountains, but blue sky above promised a glorious day.
We set a goal for the weekend of increasing the number of iNaturalist observations at Cass to 4,000 and the number of species observed there to 800. Then we embarked on forays into the bush and across the outwash fan to search for life.
I was stuck near the station, because my knee hadn’t yet healed from the previous week’s tramp. But my geographical constraints didn’t prevent me from plenty of discoveries. Instead, it forced me to focus on the small and overlooked species. Mites, springtails, slugs … all manner of life abounds nearby and underfoot.
And because I was spending much of my time quietly turning over stones and picking apart rotting logs, larger organisms came to investigate me, including a pair of curious stoats who spent five minutes scurrying around me and popping up out of the vegetation to spy on me. In spite of the fact stoats are terrible pests here, and I would happily kill them, the encounter was pure magic.
As people returned to the station laden with stories, photos and samples, we moved to the microscopes in the lab, where the geek factor was cranked to 11.
“Oh wow! Look at this!” was a common refrain, as we crowded around the microscopes to examine the smaller finds. As dusk fell, we set up light traps for flying insects, to be checked later in the night.
On Sunday, a group ventured into the bush in search of the giant springtail, which was found at last year’s bioblitz. The quest was successful, and although it didn’t add a new species to the list, it was a highlight of the weekend for many.
In early afternoon, after a busy morning, and a lunchtime spent uploading observations to iNaturalist, we headed home, where we continued to upload our observations from the weekend.
When all was done and dusted, the 11 participants made 871 observations of 321 species. Almost 1 out of 3 observations were of organisms new to the Cass list, bringing the totals for Cass Research Station to 4484 observations of 869 species! An amazing result from a spectacular weekend!
The event reminds me again how important university field stations are for fostering science in general. The people at the two bioblitzes I’ve attended at Cass might never have collaborated or shared ideas in their everyday research life, but the research station brought them together in an atmosphere that fosters collaboration. The research station is a place where scientific curiosity can flourish, where scientists can explore the connections among disciplines and research projects. What an incredible asset for the university!
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.
Kea on a cold tin roof.
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.
Interior of 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.
Some years still feel summery at the equinox, but this year, the weather is decidedly autumnal. Monday, we hit our highest temperature of the summer—a blustery nor’westerly day that had my students wilting by 10 in the morning. It was 31 degrees at 5 pm when we left work. Dinner was a summer feast of sweet corn, soybeans and zucchini.
We slept with the windows open, covers kicked aside on Monday night.
Tuesday morning, I went out in the dark to water the plants at about 5.30. It was still 23 degrees. As I watered, the wind shifted.
By the time I left for work an hour and a half later, the temperature had dropped to 16, and rain spattered the windshield in fits and starts.
By ten o’clock, the skies had opened up. Wind drove the rain in sheets, and the temperature continued its slide downward.
Driving home from work, the temperature registered 11 degrees. Traffic moved slowly through the downpour, wind rocking the car and thrashing trees alongside the road. When I got home, I stripped off my rain soaked cotton clothes and replaced them with cosy wool. We had potato soup for dinner.
We woke on Wednesday morning to full autumn. Summer had been scoured away by over 40 mm of rain, and stripped bare by gale force winds.
A dramatic entrance for the season. But the truth is, autumn was already well underway. Our first frost came weeks ago, on 6 March. I picked the pumpkins last weekend. And the zucchini, tomatoes and other summer-loving plants were all showing signs of being nearly done for the season.
And, of course, squirrelly me has been in autumn mode for weeks, preserving everything I can in preparation for the dark days ahead.
Today we step into the dark side of the year. Although I very much enjoyed our last couple days of hot summer sun (and today promises some beautiful sunshine), I’m looking forward to all that the dark side has to offer.
It is the last day of January here, my favourite month in the garden.
This January has been more difficult than many, with cold wet weather rather than the usual dry summer warmth. But the garden has still been a January garden.
December is a month of weeding, because my vegetables aren’t yet large enough to compete against most weeds. The weeding effort spans the entire month, and I always aim to have a weed-free garden on Christmas Day.
All that effort pays off in January, when, as if by magic, the vegetables are suddenly huge, crowding out the weeds and basically looking after themselves. I pull the occasional weed that manages to pop its head above the vegetables, and I keep the paths relatively clear, just so I can move easily through the garden. I water as needed. Otherwise, there’s little to do to as far as maintenance goes.
In January, the gardening effort switches from establishment and maintenance to harvesting, reaping the benefits of my hard work. It’s not that we don’t eat from the garden all year long, but the stretch from January to March is a magical one, where production vastly outstrips our ability to eat. In January, the freezer and the cupboards begin filling up with fruit and vegetables preserved for winter enjoyment. The squirrel in me chitters smugly as I stash away the fruits of my labour, already savouring the meals, snacks, and desserts to come.
It’s as much work as the establishment and maintenance phase of the year, but the reward is immediate and tangible. By mid-March, I’ll be exhausted by the harvest, tired of making sauces, jams, and preserves. Tired of having to deal with overflowing baskets of vegetables every day. But here in January, the novelty hasn’t worn off. The excitement of each new crop coming on is palpable. The thrill of lining up jars of preserved food on the shelves banishes any fatigue.
So I say farewell to January with reluctance and look forward to several months more of deliciously exhausting harvest. And I’ll take you on a tour of my January garden. Enjoy!
Meet Katie Cochrane, budding restauranteur. She has no idea what she’s in for when her crazy Aunt Rachael gifts her the burnt out Rifton Pub for her birthday. Before long, it’s clear that renovations are the least of her worries. She always knew running a restaurant would be challenging, but she never expected it to involve witchcraft.
This cosy urban fantasy can be read as a standalone, but, Rifton being a small town, it includes many of the characters from book 1 of the series. I was excited to have a chance to spend more time with the quirky ladies of the Rifton garden group and Rifton’s demonic felines.
So pull out your gardening gloves and secateurs, and pop on down to the Rifton pub for some supernatural fun!
Preorder today, and be the first to read Demonic Summoning for the Modern Gardener!
Release date is 31 January, so you won’t have to wait long!
Robinne Weiss 