A few days ago, on our nightly walk, my husband and I passed a couple of kids out after dark. They were fossicking around in the water race and had just caught an eel (barehanded!). We watched as the hapless fish wriggled in their hands before they released it back into the water. The kids’ excitement was as wriggly and sparkling as the eel.
We congratulated them on their catch and carried on with our walk, leaving them to their watery exploration.
And I couldn’t help smiling, thrilled that two kids were eeling after dark on a school night. I have no doubt they learned more in that 30-second encounter with an eel than they had all day at school.
Don’t get me wrong—school is important. But mucking around in the natural world, without adult supervision, is where lifelong passions germinate, where lasting learning takes place.
School simply can’t provide that. Thirty kids (or more) in a room with a responsible adult who’s being judged on how orderly the classroom is and how many reading levels the students have progressed is not a place experiential learning can thrive.
I know. I tried. I was lucky to have a little more leeway than a regular classroom teacher, but the constraints were insurmountable. I was still there—a sensible adult who was responsible for messes and injuries when they occurred. I was an impediment to the sort of wild learning I hoped to inspire.
And the tragic part is that school shouldn’t have to be the place where kids get experiences, but I was fully aware my students weren’t getting those experiences outside of school, where my generation got them.
No matter how hard I tried, in the confines of a classroom, with the need for accountability, safety, and justification, I could not make up for my students’ lack of solo ‘adventuring’.
So I was thrilled to see at least two kids bucking the trend, up to their knees in a stream with eel slime dripping off their fingers. And kudos to the parents who let them explore!
There’s a blast of winter forecast to blow in overnight, so I thought I should enjoy the blue sky day while I could. Ignoring all items on my to-do list, I had a wander around the garden …
Artichokes, looking good.Greenhouse, scrubbed and ready to go for the summer.The quince is leafing out.Pear blossoms ready to burst.Apricots in full bloom.Tree fuchsia is loaded with blossoms.Kaka beak is just beginning to bloom.Daffodils are stunning, as always.Tulips beginning to bloom.Almond is a showpiece at the moment.
I acquired my copy of this year’s spring season a week and a half ago, and so far it has performed largely as advertised. Spring 2026 has opened with the appropriate day length, and a healthy mix of sun and rain, so the basics are well covered.
The daffodils have begun blooming, although it remains to be seen just how spectacular they will become. The signs are promising.
The pea and lettuce seedlings have also grown as expected for Spring, though the performance of the onions has been a bit of a disappointment.
The birds of Spring 2026 are abundant and noisy. Lots of house sparrows, which I know are cheap filler, like the peanuts in nut mixes (probably my fault for not buying the Deluxe Edition). But there have been some excellent white-faced herons, a few little owls, and a generous number of paradise shelducks. The pīwakawaka of Spring 2026 are also abundant and extra cheeky. Good value for money there.
Though I haven’t had this version of Spring for long, I am concerned about the abundance of wasps and the lack of honeybees. I hope that as the Spring progresses, these issues sort themselves out.
And of course, I wish there were a pollen-free version of Spring on offer. I would definitely buy that over the current model.
Overall, Spring 2026 is a reasonably solid, if somewhat average edition of the season.
I wrote a blog post today, and realised I’ve written essentially the same post before. More than once. This same week of the year.
My post was about seeing signs of spring, despite winter weather.
And I thought, “Why does this matter? It happens every year.”
But that is exactly why it matters.
And, perhaps, that is exactly why I will mention it again, and again.
Especially now, when the fabric of what we consider ‘civilisation’ seems to be fraying. When world leaders have confused ‘lead’ with ‘greed’. When the air, water, and food we depend upon are increasingly poisoned. When the very planet that sustains us is threatened by our own actions.
We crave the familiar. We crave a sense of normalcy, a sense that, at the end of it all, we’ll be okay.
As a gardener and a keen observer of nature, I’m well aware that little is familiar anymore. It is too dry or too wet, warmer. New pests are encroaching, and planting and flowering dates are changing.
But spring still follows winter, and every year plants anticipate and herald spring with swelling buds, emerging shoots. It is familiar. It is comforting.
Like the story tropes we love, the sitcom formulae we watch over and over again, we know there will be a good ending. We understand that all will be lost, but we can tell how close we are to the resolution, where all will be found again.
That is what the month before spring is. Frosty, snowy, and often miserable, but the days grow inexorably longer, the sun a little higher every day. The plants begin to stir. The magpie sings in the darkness before dawn.
And the gardener experiences it all and knows that, whatever happens, we’ll be okay.
After 21 years living in Aotearoa New Zealand, I finally visited Australia. I know, I know—pathetic, but it is what it is. And, no, I wasn’t really hot and bothered (not much anyway), but the song Open Road was playing non-stop in my head for our whole visit, and that line seemed appropriate for this post.
After a miserable start (flight delays, missed connections, etc), we had a nice holiday, despite it raining nearly every day.
We tend not to be the organised tour sort of people, but on this trip, we did a number of very ‘touristy’ things. From Port Douglas, we took the Wavedancer Low Isles cruise for a day of snorkelling, which included a naturalist-led snorkelling tour and island tour. I’m not much of a snorkeller (I love the water, just not the snorkel), but we got to see lots of fabulous reef fish, a sea turtle, and (my favourite) a giant clam. And for me, anything on a boat is great. The weather was squally on the way back to Port Douglas, and the views across the water were fantastic.
Port Douglas afforded me my first real experience of sulphur-crested cockatoos en masse—loud and obnoxious during the day, but the most spectacular experience we had with them was after dark. Someone began setting off fireworks on the hill above town. It must have bothered the cockatoos, because suddenly thousands were silently cruising overhead like winged ghosts against the dark sky, escaping the noise.
We had lots of boat trips on this holiday, which I loved. On our way to Daintree National Park, we stopped in for a crocodile cruise on the Daintree River (and ended up doing a second one on our way out, further upriver, because they were offering a 2-for-1 deal). The crocodiles didn’t disappoint—we saw babies to behemoths—and we also saw lots of birdlife and a pretty little tree snake.
After crossing the Daintree River on the ferry, we stayed two nights at Noah Beach campground—basic, but quite nice. While in Daintree National Park, we hiked up the Mount Sorrow lookout track, where we were tormented by butterflies who wouldn’t sit still for a photo, and greedily descended upon by terrestrial leeches. The rainforest was full of curious plants and fungi, and we managed to photograph a wee skink, too. But the best sightings on this track, for me, were a dung beetle rolling a ball of poo along the path and a big black semi-slug with a gold Nike-like swoosh on its back (well, and the leeches, too, because, land leeches? How bizarre and cool is that?).
A bush turkey eyeing up my lunch.
With no showers at the campground, we stopped in at Mason’s Swimming Hole afterwards to cool down and wash the mud and sweat off. Great spot for swimming, and the beer and chips afterwards at the associated shop/cafe was the perfect ending to the day.
All along the road in Daintree, there are cassowary warning signs, and finally, as we were leaving we were treated to the sight of an adult male cassowary with two chicks strolling along the road (see the bad photo below, taken through the car window).
Next stop was the Atherton Tablelands. We swung through Kuranda late in the day, hoping to snag dinner before heading to our campsite, but discovered that the entire town closes at two, after the daily tourist train leaves. So we picked up food at the grocery store, and popped out to Barron Falls nearby before hitting the campsite at Speewah Conservation Area. A short night walk near the campsite was rich in cool bugs.
Having seen Kuranda without tourists, we decided it wasn’t worth returning for the market the next day. Instead, we took a nice walk at Speewah on a track littered with cassowary poo. Presumably the birds themselves were around, and saw us, but we never caught sight of them.
Then we were off to two days on the Atherton Tablelands waterfall circuit, with a westward jaunt to escape the rain and see kangaroos. We stopped in at a wide variety of falls, every one of which was worth visiting (check out my waterfall medley). Along the way, we also stopped in at a mango winery, the Golden Drop. The wine was surprisingly good, and I enjoyed hearing about their operation.
Sand bubbler crab sitting amongst its artistically arranged sand balls.
Leaving the Atherton Tablelands, we camped at Murray Falls—a lovely spot—and the following day, took a rafting trip down the Tully River. A fun and wet time was had by all.
Then it was back to Cairns for our last day of holidaying. We walked the Esplanade and hit the night market. Had a delicious dinner at Hecho en Mexico, then went back to our campground to watch the fruit bats squabble as they forayed out from the bat-laden tree near our campsite.
It was an interesting trip, and I ticked off a lot of cool Australian wildlife—crocodiles, cassowaries, kangaroos, tree kangaroos, fruit bats, kookaburras and more. But there were surprises, too. Having lived in Panama, the rainforest in Queensland was quiet and still by comparison—not much of a morning chorus, and not a lot scuttling around the undergrowth, either. And I never used insect repellant! I kept expecting mosquitoes, but came home with only two or three bites. So it defied my expectations in some ways.
It was nice to enjoy the tropics for a bit, but I’ll admit it was good to be back home. It’s back to the garden and the next book, now!
Semi-slug (Thularion semoni)Fungus root, parasitic plantFour o’clock moth caterpillarCassowaries have right of way…
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
