Tiritiri Matangi, an Island for the Birds

Sitting on a bench watching dozens of brightly colored birds splashing in a bird bath just feet away. Watching the little blue penguins come ashore at dusk, growling to each other. Sitting in the sun surrounded by a few huge blue-green takahe, one of the world's rarest birds. Looking for kiwis in the night.

Quick Tips:

Check out the DoC website to see if they are looking for volunteers.

Best Way To Get Around:

Take the ferry from Auckland harbor -- it's easy and it's a spectacular trip.

It’s a sunny fall day in mid-May (yes, fall is May here) and I’m arriving on the small island of Tiritiri Matangi -- Tiri for short -- located just a hop, skip, and a jump by ferry from downtown Auckland. I’ve signed up as a volunteer for a week, bringing all my food, several changes of clothes, and a sleeping bag. I have little idea what the week will hold and I’ll admit to some concern about how this 50-something body will fare amid unfamiliar physical challenges. Seeing the takahe, about a dozen of them wandering around nonchalantly in the bright sunshine, is already a thrill. Catching a glimpse of an elusive little brown kiwi is not likely to be so easy and already it’s a goal I am willing to write off. I am not much of a bird watcher back home (they call them twitchers here), but I’ve brought my father’s binoculars and am looking forward to a week of fresh air with lots of peace and quiet on a little island with some of New Zealand’s endangered birds.

A massive, red, triangular beak is a showy touch, especially when set off against deep blue feathers on the head and neck. These gradually transition to iridescent green on the body and back. The body is solid, not quite as big as a turkey, with no hint of wings, and a markedly un-aerodynamic form; this is definitely an earth-bound bird. There’s a flash of white feathers at the rear, and sturdy red legs below. The matching beak and legs seem fashionably coordinated, but the feet are not at all nice, with their long fierce-looking claws, three facing forward and one to the rear. This fellow, who’s lumbering around, grazing beside me in the grass (they’re vegetarians), is one of only about 200 in existence. He’s my new favorite bird, the takahe, long believed to be extinct, until a few pairs were rediscovered in 1948 in a remote mountain valley in the South Island of New Zealand.

Tiri was designated as a sanctuary almost 30 years ago, in a last-ditch effort to save several unique bird populations that had been devastated on the main New Zealand islands due to voracious predators and severely diminished habitat. Here’s a shorthand version of this ecological fable: New Zealand was essentially an island aviary before man arrived about 1000 years ago, its birds having evolved through millions and millions of years without mammal predators (OK, not entirely without, they had a few bats.) In the absence of anything on four furry legs, they came to occupy the ecological niches that are elsewhere filled by mammals. Why bother to fly when you can walk? Why nest high up in trees if you can build a little home on the ground? So some wings shriveled up, some birds became grazers, some got huge, while others focused on scurrying around in the underbrush like mice and got tiny, and all the islands echoed with birdsong.

Then came people, hungry after their ocean voyages from Polynesian islands, and within a few centuries the giant moa and many other species were no more. Later arrivals with paler skins accelerated the destruction of primeval forest habitat and brought about further extinctions with their efficient firearms. As if that were not enough, they also introduced cats, rats, and dogs, which all feasted on the defenseless birds. Homesick Englishmen thought rabbits would be nice too, but they rapidly got out of hand and became a plague. So they brought over one of their natural predators, stoats (a relative of the weasel) but quickly the stoats found the ground-dwelling birds much easier prey than rabbits. These beasts must have thought they had reached the best all-you-can-eat buffet in the universe, with such easy pickings.

Now the forests of New Zealand are nearly silent, and many native bird species are known only through sad dusty stuffed specimens in museums. Others are precariously avoiding extinction, with some species down to only a handful of individuals. The rabbits are still around in the millions, of course, and so are the extremely aggressive stoats, which can sprint up tree trunks, get pregnant right after birth, and swim up to a mile. And there are an estimated 70 million possums munching their way through the forests.

Little offshore islands offer a viable way to create and maintain a predator-free environment, and Tiri is a gem among several such sanctuaries. Managed by the NZ Dept. of Conservation (universally known as DoC, pronounced "Doc") working along with a strong volunteer group, the island, once farmland, has been mostly replanted with many thousand native trees, and rare birds have been released and protected. It is now quite popular as a day trip, with thousands of visitors annually. Its location near Auckland makes visiting easy, but the chance to spend a whole week as a volunteer seemed like a great opportunity.

I arrived on the ferry on a Sunday morning with about 30 other visitors and tried to take notes connected with two other new volunteers, Jay, a young Israeli guy, traveling after finishing his military service, and Viv, a young woman from Auckland studying conservation.

We met Ian, the ranger, and Richard, a fellow DoC ranger, there to help out for a few days, and were quickly shown around. The island is small enough to take in at a glance, only 550 acres of green in the deep blue sea of the Hauraki Gulf. Set on a grassy hill is its gleaming white lighthouse, assembled in 1864 from cast iron parts shipped over from London, which now runs automatically on solar energy. The last lighthouse keeper, Ray, and his wife Barbara, have become rangers and are the island’s most well-known champions. We settled into the bunkhouse that we’d call home for a few days. Built in 1918 as a lighthouse keeper’s residence, it has stunning views across the water to the Auckland skyline and Rangitoto, a spectacular conical volcanic island with a distinctive profile.

A volunteer showed us the daily task of cleaning and filling 16 bird baths and 3 sugar-water feeders located at strategic spots along winding paths in the to help me find them again, as we were lead through the routine, which involves scrubbing the feathers, dirt, bird poop, etc. out of each container before refilling it, but it was hard to concentrate with birds zipping by your head, to say nothing of the continual raucous chorus. This is my kind of bird watching indeed, binoculars are definitely superfluous when you can stand right next to the baths, with a front row seat on all the splashing and preening.

My prior knowledge of New Zealand’s birds was slight, as all the native species are unfamiliar to me and many are rarely seen or heard, to say nothing of the fact that there are both English and Maori names to learn. The tui is my favorite, perhaps because they’re still fairly common, as well as loud and big enough to see. He’s a stunning fellow, mostly black and about the size of a crow, with two slightly ridiculous white puffs of feathers at his throat, set off handsomely against his shimmering green-black head, chest and wings. His song is a combination of lovely melodious notes, alternating with sudden harsh coughs, crackles and squeaks. Now that I was at last able to see many other birds up close and personal, I quickly learned the delightful clear song of the bellbird, and the brilliant chartreuse green of the red-crowned parakeet. Stitchbirds and saddlebacks, with their fleshy red appendages on either side of his beak, both extinct on the main islands, also became familiar acquaintances.

We were free for the afternoon, so I wandered alone along the coast, following a trail that rose and fell along the rocky cliffs, offering stunning views of the surrounding sparkling blue seas. Watch-free and utterly relaxed, I could feel island time creeping over me. But I was not entirely without responsibilities; the baths and feeders need to get done between before 9am so clearly there would need to be an early bed. I watched the ferry depart in the distance, taking the day visitors back to Auckland’s hustle and bustle. Now I was one of the five lucky residents on the island.

Back at the bunkhouse as afternoon turned to evening we each prepared our meals and enjoyed quiet conversation. I greatly enjoyed a beer and leftover soup, while Jay had a frozen dinner, and Viv, a vegan, made a mass of rice and veggies. A game of Scrabble rounded out the evening’s entertainment, and then we all went out into the starry night looking for kiwis. After wandering for a while with not a sound, I turned back, my sleeping bag beckoning.

So the days went, now all merged into a pleasant jumble in my memories. We shared the morning water chores and then were given different assignments for the rest of the day. I painted (two coats) the floor of the room housing the solar batteries, washed and filled the 19 special stitchbird feeders, pruned a vine, and fed a pair of rare brown teal ducks. One day all three of us were given large trash bags, and taken by quad bike to a spot on the northwest coast of the island. We clambered down to the beach and picked up garbage as we worked our way back to the wharf. It was low tide as we poked around amid the rocks and tidal pools collecting all the debris of civilization: Styrofoam and plastic pieces, bottles and clothespins, lighters and balloons, etc. etc. We took our time, resting for lunch, and lingering when we found a swing hanging from a tree on the cliff. Eventually it was late afternoon and we found our way blocked by the rising tide. We each had two full bags of garbage by this time, and climbing a rocky cliff over the water was not an option. Reluctant to abandon all our carefully collected treasures and not wanting to retrace our steps, we ended up clambering up on the tree roots to the cliff top above, hurling our bags of garbage up ahead of us.

I spent most of the last two days in brilliant sunshine, digging holes and planting lots of little trees on the incredibly steep hillsides overlooking the rocky shore. The shovel bit easily into the dark moist soil, and I quickly overcame my objection to dirty hands, reaching in barehanded to stuff dirt around the tender roots. Stunning views in all directions did not contribute to this volunteer’s productivity. I confess to lots of daydreaming and gazing into the distance while leaning on a shovel or sitting beside my freshly dug holes.

Our evenings were quiet with scattered conversation, reading and a few night walks in search of kiwi. No kiwis were actually seen, at least by me, but we might have heard one call. Little blue penguins come ashore at dusk and I was delighted to see them scuttling around the rocks, looking for a burrow. The world’s smallest penguin, they seemed to converse with each other, mewing and growling as they waddle around the rocks. One evening after dark, Richard led us to a bench on a bluff overlooking the beach, and asked if we wanted to see the gray-faced petrels. Of course, we said, and he instructed us to whoop "like Indians." Bewildered but willing, we complied, covering out mouths with our hands and issuing long warbling yells. Almost immediately birds were wheeling and circling overhead, some diving directly at us, some landing in the grass beside us. Richard picked one up gently and held it still in his lap, its strong hooked beak and bright eyes full of alarm, before hurling it into the air. They are not good at take-offs, he explained, needing an updraft to lift them off the cliffs, but are inexplicably drawn to the whooping calls. It was a wonderful, eerie encounter.

Moonlight streamed through my window at night, removing the need for a flashlight. The Milky Way was downright creamy, with many stars thickly scattered in a huge arc above me. These southern hemisphere constellations still look askew to me; an upside down Orion is just plain weird. One morning I went out just before dawn and walked up to the meadow beside the lighthouse where I could see the moon setting over Auckland on one side, and the sun rising over the water on the other. The dawn chorus of birds greeting the sun was palpably cheerful, and like a dog’s delighted greeting, exuberant and unrestrained, as if this joyous event had never happened before.

In midweek, Jay and Viv both left to return to the world of obligations and deadlines, and then there were two new residents of the bunkhouse, Michael, a slender young Dutch traveler hardly out of his teens, and John, a middle-aged dairy farmer from an area five hours’ drive south of Auckland. Michael was at the end of a solo five-month trip including Thailand and Australia, and John has been coming to Tiri annually to plant and help out for twenty years. Both were extremely knowledgeable about New Zealand birds, and a great resource for all my questions, and again an easy atmosphere prevailed. Michael joined in planting trees, unable to resist John’s gentle invitation.

Together we became an efficient crew, setting out over 200 seedlings along the edge of the cliffs. In the evenings, Michael cooked noodles or spaghetti, and John had two steaks and a huge mound of mashed potatoes, followed by ice cream with his wife’s bottled peaches. They each ate the same thing three nights in a row, while by then I was enjoying my last frozen Indian dinners. At the end of the week my food supplies were dwindling; all my beer was gone and I was rationing the muesli. I felt lean, mean, and relaxed after days of steady physical exertion.

One afternoon John and I joined Ian the ranger on a hike to try to find the shy and elusive fernbirds; about a dozen had been released some months before but not seen much since. He carried a small tape recorder as he led us through the underbrush, stopping every few minutes to lift it over his head and play a tape of a fernbird call. I was dubious about this method, as the tape player seemed very small and the bird could be anywhere. After several unsuccessful attempts, he took us to a spot where dense spiny fern forms a thick tangle, head high, and tried again. By now I had learned the tape recorded call pretty well, and recognized right away the new sound of a real bird, responding on cue. He came close to us but stayed well hidden in the fern, obviously suspicious of this new intruder.

On Saturday, my island sojourn ended, and I filled the water baths for the last time in a reverential mood, relishing the sights and sounds of my now familiar feathered friends. As I waited for the ferry with Michael I asked what he’d seen the night before. He told me that he’d watched the penguins come ashore for a while and then had fallen asleep on a stretch of boardwalk. When he awoke it was 4am, and there was a kiwi beside him, which he watched as it snuffled along until disappearing into the bush. Better him than me, sleeping on boardwalks, I thought, and resolved to seek kiwi sightings more aggressively on another visit to Tiri. Anyway, I’ll have to come back in a few years to check on those trees I planted.