outdoors

Spectacular Stick Insects

/ 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

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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.

(Finally) Going Solar

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When my husband and I designed our current house, we did it with solar power in mind. The house faces north, the roof pitch is steep for better solar gain, and we had it pre-wired for solar.

Five years later, we’ve finally had the panels installed. And while I’ve been itching to have it done for years, I’m glad we waited.

Weaning ourselves off fossil fuels, the biggest impact we could make for ourselves and the environment was to get an electric car. So that purchase came first. We love the Leaf we bought, and it costs us about a quarter of what we were spending on petrol. Those fuel savings helped us save up for solar.

Additionally, the technology has both improved and gotten cheaper over the past five years, so what we are able to afford today is much better than what we could have gotten when we built the house. I’m sure if we waited another five years, we’d see more technological improvements.

But with so many people switching to electric cars these days, New Zealand’s electricity suppliers are more frequently firing up the coal and gas generators as our current renewables production falls behind consumption. So I’m thrilled to have our own solar array, for our own benefit, and for the benefit of the planet.

Spectacular Spiders: Sooty Orbweaver

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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.

A Fresh Perspective on a Changing Garden

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blooming daffodils in formal garden beds

Twice a year, on (or near) the equinoxes, I clean the gutters. It’s not a job I enjoy, but it’s a necessary evil living downwind of the neighbour’s huge pines, macrocarpas, and gum trees. 

The one thing I do enjoy about the job is the excuse to spend a few hours up the ladder, peering down at the yard from a perspective I don’t normally have. 

So last weekend when I was cleaning gutters, I took my phone with me and snapped a few pictures from on high.

The last time I photographed the garden from this perspective was in September 2022. At that time, we’d just finished establishing and gravelling the paths in the front yard. Look what a difference three years makes! And what a fun perspective from which to view it.

Three years of change in the herb garden.

Gardening and Community

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blooming daffodils
Blooming daffodils cover a multitude of sins (aka weeds) in spring.

The local veggie gardening group had our first Monday evening gathering for the season last night. And what a lovely gathering it was!

I hosted, which is always a bit nerve-wracking. You don’t want the place to look like it’s been abandoned or neglected, and in early spring, weeds are often more prominent than crops. And some of the group members have absolutely stunning gardens and are way better than I am at growing food. 

But we all have weeds. And we all have different challenges in our gardens and in our lives. And everyone comes in a spirit of community. Once people begin piling out of their cars and strolling the garden, any nervousness is forgotten as we all share our successes and failures so far this season, and catch up with each other’s lives outside the garden.

Conversations ebb and flow as the group wanders, breaking into subgroups around particular plants, garden structures, pest outbreaks, or other items of interest. 

Because we’re not quite on daylight savings time yet, we ended our garden stroll as daylight faded. But like any good gathering, we weren’t done yet—it was time for kai and a cuppa.

artichoke bud
Artichokes are on their way!

Last night, the party broke down on gender lines, as it often does (for no real reason … we laugh at ourselves all the time for this tendency to segregate)—the guys lit the brazier outside and commandeered the cheese and crackers to accompany some home brew. Indoors, the ladies had tea and cookies. 

Without the garden in front of us, the conversation diversified—and we’re such a diverse group outside our interest in growing plants, that you never know what might be under discussion on any given day. Crafts, books, digger operation, food, business interests, travel, rock collecting, climate change … you name it, we’ve probably discussed it. Garden group conversations are always intriguing and full of laughter.

When our guests headed home for the evening, the fire was still burning merrily in the brazier. The night was unseasonably warm, and the sky was clear and washed with stars. For an hour, my husband and I ignored the dirty dishes and sat in the dark by the fire, sharing what we’d both learned from the gathering.

While we sat there, a few thoughts occurred to me:

tomato seedlings
Tomato seedlings in the greenhouse.
  1. We don’t enjoy our garden enough. And by ‘enjoy’, I mean just sit or stroll and appreciate the beauty. Not that we don’t do this at all, but we could be doing it a whole lot more.
  2. We are absolutely blessed to be part of the local gardening community. I’m a total introvert, and being with groups of people where there are multiple non-stop conversations going on is exhausting for me. But I love this crowd of generous, community-focused people, and I look forward to each of our get togethers.
  3. Finding common ground with people can be as simple as sharing excess lemons or cuttings from your favourite herbs.

There is something humanising about gardening. The very act fosters community, brings people together. Reading the daily news, I can quickly begin to think the worst of the the entire human race. The garden group reminds me that there is beauty, not only in the garden, but in the ones who tend it.

Magpies in the dark

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Photo: Eric Weiss

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

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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!

Excitement Builds

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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.

Garden Tally

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Years ago, struggling with the feeling that I wasn’t pulling my weight in my family because I wasn’t earning much money with my business, I did a few back of the envelope calculations of what my gardening and milking/cheesemaking activities ‘earned’. At the time, I worked out that I was producing about $50,000 worth of food every year. The domestic accounting blew me away and put my mind at ease.

Plenty of food in the winter garden.

I’m no longer concerned about the monetary value of the gardening I do, but I’m still curious, and I love data and numbers. So I’ve decided to do some garden accounting this year.

Beginning at the winter solstice, I started keeping a log of all the food that comes out of the garden. Although the garden year never really ends here, I figured the solstice was as good a place as any to start. I’ve dedicated a notebook to the task and I’m recording as much information as I can about what I harvest—weight, number, variety, etc. I’ll periodically enter the data into a spreadsheet, so I can play around with the numbers.

Okay, yes, I’m a total nerd. But I love playing with data. And we always come to late summer (as we heave yet another laden basket onto the kitchen bench) wondering just how many kilos of courgettes we’ve harvested. But by then it’s too late to go back and weigh them. 

Peppers hanging on in the greenhouse.

Besides, there’s always the fascinating harvests, like the 500 grams of hot peppers I harvested yesterday. (in July?! For those in the northern hemisphere, July is the seasonal equivalent of January.) In addition, the exercise might tell me a bit about which varieties are more or less worth growing. Not that it would stop me from growing a crop I love, even if it doesn’t produce a lot, but it never hurts to have the data.

My intent is not to place a dollar value on what we harvest (Who can put a value on a warm, heirloom tomato fresh from the garden?), but to use the exercise to capture the quantity and diversity of food we enjoy.