Down Under
Josh and I are in Sydney, basking in the heat of the Australian summer. It's sunny and fabulous here, even in the heart of downtown where we are staying. The streets are almost literally lined with beautiful girls in skimpy dresses and tanned young men on leave from the School of Lifeguarding Slash Surf-Apparel Modeling. The whole scene is very multicultural; you can't walk down a block without passing three conversations in Japanese, and at least another half-dozen in some other Asian language. The sushi is abundant and excellent.
Even will all Sydney has to offer, we still find ourselves missing New Zealand very much. Freshly returned from two weeks vacation there, we just couldn't get enough. Something about those islands just seems to get under your skin and makes you yearn for that ruggedly attractive and yet oh-so civilized part of the world. I couldn't tell you if I miss most the birds, the landscapes, or the hot cup of tea sipped while gazing at them.
New Zealand is beautiful. It's hard to add more to that- its just so beautiful all the time that it's overwhelming. We explored Auckland for a few days and then moved on to some birding hotspots in the area. The highlight (hard to choose but this one tops any list) was Tiritiri Matangi Island Preserve. It's a restoration project for native New Zealand species- plants, birds, fish, everything. The island is a tropical paradise, with several critically endangered species reintroduced- the kind that lived here before any mammals or predators arrive. They are so tame and unafraid. When we landed on the island, one big Takahe (it's like a giant flightless blue chicken), came right up to us to see who we were. They do that all over the island. There's only 75 of them left in the wild- they're too easy to eat. The Maori tribesmen ate most of them before the Europeans brought stoats that ate the rest. They're beautiful anyway, as are all of the birds there.
Wrybill in a Mudflat. Photo by Josh Weaver, gallery viewable on Smug Mug.
A Paradise Shellduck wakes from her nap in a field of daises. Photo by Josh Weaver, gallery viewable on Smug Mug.
It's very different in NZ then in Australia, like two different worlds. Before our NZ trip, we took a weekend in December to visit the blue mountains outside of Sydney, which look rather like the grand canyon except with a rainforest planted in it. Big red cliff walls drop down into clouds and tropical trees. Australia is full of parrots. And its dry there- everywhere except in the protected valleys full of rainforest. New Zealand by contrast is wet everywhere all the time, and is truly part of the south pacific. Palm trees and fern trees and little birds and lizards everywhere. It's a tropical paradise.
Everyone in New Zealand was kind and hospitable, and everything very comfortably laid back. One night we checked in to our B&B at sundown, having spent 3 hours in a mudflat pursuing the rare and unusual Wrybill, an unassuming grey peep with a side-curved bill. When we checked in, our hostess brought us milk and cake and little chocolates, and we settled into a hottub under the stars with the promise of clean clothes in the morning. This is a very "tea and cake" sort of countryside to go birdwatching in.
The Northern Island of New Zealand may be a tropical paradise in summer, but the Southern Island is like northern Canada, if Canada had somehow been miraculously blanketed with rain forest. Everywhere is wet, a surprisingly cold wet, and it rains almost constantly- there was at least one big rainstorm each day. It's strikingly beautiful and oddly captivating. Never have I had so many pleasant experiences (or so many suddenly dreadful ones) in the rain. No where else on earth would you find us drenched, pelted by sideways rain, huddled in a leaky bird hide with 5 strangers, delighted and excited by our first sighting of the worlds rarest penguin. He had much more sense then we did, and was waddling ashore to wait out the storm in the comfort of his home. Not many days earlier I had been similarly drenched with no reward whatsoever. In fact I had been under a tree, hunched in a wet tangle of cotton skirt, wishing I had shoes. But let's not dwell on the unpleasant experience of learning how rapidly New Zealand weather changes. Suffice it to say we have since established goretex is waterproof and indispensable.
Our trip through South Island began in the Catlains, a vast hilly and sheep-filled countryside that looks exactly like you imagine Ireland to be if you've never been there. It was Christmas, we were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded for miles by nothing but sheep, and it was wonderful. That night we slept in a guest house on a sheep farm. The following day we drove so far down so many dirt roads that we left behind even the sheep, and eventually emerged, triumphant, into the Waituna Wetlands. A huge expanse of smelly, salt-stained, and nearly inaccessible marshes may seem like the last place anyone would want to spend boxing day, but the birding was great.
In terms of birds, though, Steward Island was the real gem of our southern adventure. It's a remote bit of prehistoric jungle, full of plants and animals that time forgot. There we saw the furry, snuffling, nocturnal creature of legend. I refer of course to the Kiwi, the most unlikely bird on the planet, which looks more like an anteater then an ostrich (it's closest living cousin). We also saw our first Albatross, an inappropriately named Shy Mollymawk, who boldly followed our little hired boat out to sea. I could spend ages dwelling on the birds there, and all their fascinating details, but I will move on, just as we were forced by time and a pre-arranged ferry booking, to Fjordland National Park.
Lupines along Cascade Creek in Fjordland. Photo by Josh Weaver, gallery viewable on Smug Mug.
We moved through Fjordland with a kind of urgency that can only be explained by the certain knowledge that if we lingered too long in one place the endless moss would quickly envelop us. The continued rain and storms of our trip so far were no preparation for the raw, dense wetness of these mountain valleys. I still suspect that under all the foliage the mountains themselves were not stone at all, but merely a stand of miraculously gigantic plants that happened to be shaped like some vaguely conical rocks we call mountains back home. It was breathtakingly beautiful, every inch of it.
Eventually we did come to the real mountains of New Zealand. The drive out of Fjordland was predictably wet and treacherous, and our first glimpse of sunlight was a raw beam of wonder cutting through the horizon into a distant valley. Queensland, the city basking in that miraculous bit of sunshine, should by all rights have been Mecca, so we were a bit sad to discover it was more like Disneyland. Still, as tourist-traps go, Queensland surely has one of the best views on offer, as it is completely surrounded by crystal clear lake-front and snow-capped peaks. When we stopped to photograph one of these majestic vistas, we inadvertently came to the rescue of 5 hopelessly stranded local kids, whose ancient and beat-up car had run short of petrol not 5 klicks from the station. It took very little time to shuttle Chris, the clear leader of the carload, down and back to pick up a jug of fuel. In return he provided some amusing facts about fishing, barbeque's and airplanes, confusing instructions on how to indicate when merging into round-abouts, and his undying gratitude for enabling them to make it to the monster-truck rally.
New Years Eve took us, via a long but uneventful drive, to the Otago Peninsula. While the city of Dunedin celebrated with fireworks and fanfare, we waited quietly and patiently on Pilots Beach for something much more magical. They arrived with a crash of surf and darted in a hurried mob of small bodies for the low brush in front of us. Minutes of intense suspense passed as they recovered from their difficult journey, and we heard the whispered voice of the official cautioning stillness and silence from our small crowd. Then, softly and quietly, the first penguin emerged from the bush to look at us. He made his way towards us so slowly and tentatively it was hard to tell if he had moved at all. A few other faces began to emerge from the bushes- other Little Blue Penguins watching the first bold member of their party. Cautiously they began to follow him, waddling right up to and then past our speechless and wide-eyed group. One looked right at me, so close I could have almost touched him, before hurrying up the shore to feed his hungry family.
Sadly the beginning of the new year was just about the end of our stay. It's comforting to know with such certainty that we will go back, probably many times, and doubtless with as much joy and excitement on every trip. Next time, we are definitely bringing a boat.
Even will all Sydney has to offer, we still find ourselves missing New Zealand very much. Freshly returned from two weeks vacation there, we just couldn't get enough. Something about those islands just seems to get under your skin and makes you yearn for that ruggedly attractive and yet oh-so civilized part of the world. I couldn't tell you if I miss most the birds, the landscapes, or the hot cup of tea sipped while gazing at them.
New Zealand is beautiful. It's hard to add more to that- its just so beautiful all the time that it's overwhelming. We explored Auckland for a few days and then moved on to some birding hotspots in the area. The highlight (hard to choose but this one tops any list) was Tiritiri Matangi Island Preserve. It's a restoration project for native New Zealand species- plants, birds, fish, everything. The island is a tropical paradise, with several critically endangered species reintroduced- the kind that lived here before any mammals or predators arrive. They are so tame and unafraid. When we landed on the island, one big Takahe (it's like a giant flightless blue chicken), came right up to us to see who we were. They do that all over the island. There's only 75 of them left in the wild- they're too easy to eat. The Maori tribesmen ate most of them before the Europeans brought stoats that ate the rest. They're beautiful anyway, as are all of the birds there.
Wrybill in a Mudflat. Photo by Josh Weaver, gallery viewable on Smug Mug.
A Paradise Shellduck wakes from her nap in a field of daises. Photo by Josh Weaver, gallery viewable on Smug Mug.
It's very different in NZ then in Australia, like two different worlds. Before our NZ trip, we took a weekend in December to visit the blue mountains outside of Sydney, which look rather like the grand canyon except with a rainforest planted in it. Big red cliff walls drop down into clouds and tropical trees. Australia is full of parrots. And its dry there- everywhere except in the protected valleys full of rainforest. New Zealand by contrast is wet everywhere all the time, and is truly part of the south pacific. Palm trees and fern trees and little birds and lizards everywhere. It's a tropical paradise.
Everyone in New Zealand was kind and hospitable, and everything very comfortably laid back. One night we checked in to our B&B at sundown, having spent 3 hours in a mudflat pursuing the rare and unusual Wrybill, an unassuming grey peep with a side-curved bill. When we checked in, our hostess brought us milk and cake and little chocolates, and we settled into a hottub under the stars with the promise of clean clothes in the morning. This is a very "tea and cake" sort of countryside to go birdwatching in.
The Northern Island of New Zealand may be a tropical paradise in summer, but the Southern Island is like northern Canada, if Canada had somehow been miraculously blanketed with rain forest. Everywhere is wet, a surprisingly cold wet, and it rains almost constantly- there was at least one big rainstorm each day. It's strikingly beautiful and oddly captivating. Never have I had so many pleasant experiences (or so many suddenly dreadful ones) in the rain. No where else on earth would you find us drenched, pelted by sideways rain, huddled in a leaky bird hide with 5 strangers, delighted and excited by our first sighting of the worlds rarest penguin. He had much more sense then we did, and was waddling ashore to wait out the storm in the comfort of his home. Not many days earlier I had been similarly drenched with no reward whatsoever. In fact I had been under a tree, hunched in a wet tangle of cotton skirt, wishing I had shoes. But let's not dwell on the unpleasant experience of learning how rapidly New Zealand weather changes. Suffice it to say we have since established goretex is waterproof and indispensable.
Our trip through South Island began in the Catlains, a vast hilly and sheep-filled countryside that looks exactly like you imagine Ireland to be if you've never been there. It was Christmas, we were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded for miles by nothing but sheep, and it was wonderful. That night we slept in a guest house on a sheep farm. The following day we drove so far down so many dirt roads that we left behind even the sheep, and eventually emerged, triumphant, into the Waituna Wetlands. A huge expanse of smelly, salt-stained, and nearly inaccessible marshes may seem like the last place anyone would want to spend boxing day, but the birding was great.
In terms of birds, though, Steward Island was the real gem of our southern adventure. It's a remote bit of prehistoric jungle, full of plants and animals that time forgot. There we saw the furry, snuffling, nocturnal creature of legend. I refer of course to the Kiwi, the most unlikely bird on the planet, which looks more like an anteater then an ostrich (it's closest living cousin). We also saw our first Albatross, an inappropriately named Shy Mollymawk, who boldly followed our little hired boat out to sea. I could spend ages dwelling on the birds there, and all their fascinating details, but I will move on, just as we were forced by time and a pre-arranged ferry booking, to Fjordland National Park.
Lupines along Cascade Creek in Fjordland. Photo by Josh Weaver, gallery viewable on Smug Mug.
We moved through Fjordland with a kind of urgency that can only be explained by the certain knowledge that if we lingered too long in one place the endless moss would quickly envelop us. The continued rain and storms of our trip so far were no preparation for the raw, dense wetness of these mountain valleys. I still suspect that under all the foliage the mountains themselves were not stone at all, but merely a stand of miraculously gigantic plants that happened to be shaped like some vaguely conical rocks we call mountains back home. It was breathtakingly beautiful, every inch of it.
Eventually we did come to the real mountains of New Zealand. The drive out of Fjordland was predictably wet and treacherous, and our first glimpse of sunlight was a raw beam of wonder cutting through the horizon into a distant valley. Queensland, the city basking in that miraculous bit of sunshine, should by all rights have been Mecca, so we were a bit sad to discover it was more like Disneyland. Still, as tourist-traps go, Queensland surely has one of the best views on offer, as it is completely surrounded by crystal clear lake-front and snow-capped peaks. When we stopped to photograph one of these majestic vistas, we inadvertently came to the rescue of 5 hopelessly stranded local kids, whose ancient and beat-up car had run short of petrol not 5 klicks from the station. It took very little time to shuttle Chris, the clear leader of the carload, down and back to pick up a jug of fuel. In return he provided some amusing facts about fishing, barbeque's and airplanes, confusing instructions on how to indicate when merging into round-abouts, and his undying gratitude for enabling them to make it to the monster-truck rally.
New Years Eve took us, via a long but uneventful drive, to the Otago Peninsula. While the city of Dunedin celebrated with fireworks and fanfare, we waited quietly and patiently on Pilots Beach for something much more magical. They arrived with a crash of surf and darted in a hurried mob of small bodies for the low brush in front of us. Minutes of intense suspense passed as they recovered from their difficult journey, and we heard the whispered voice of the official cautioning stillness and silence from our small crowd. Then, softly and quietly, the first penguin emerged from the bush to look at us. He made his way towards us so slowly and tentatively it was hard to tell if he had moved at all. A few other faces began to emerge from the bushes- other Little Blue Penguins watching the first bold member of their party. Cautiously they began to follow him, waddling right up to and then past our speechless and wide-eyed group. One looked right at me, so close I could have almost touched him, before hurrying up the shore to feed his hungry family.
Sadly the beginning of the new year was just about the end of our stay. It's comforting to know with such certainty that we will go back, probably many times, and doubtless with as much joy and excitement on every trip. Next time, we are definitely bringing a boat.