On the Edge of the World

It is the afternoon of December 23 when we arrive on Stewart Island, a remote, heavily-timbered block of land off the coast of New Zealand. This is the most extreme southerly latitude I have ever been; the next stop south of here is Antarctica. To arrive at this far-flung destination, we took a half hour flight from the mainland, landing the eight-person plane on a narrow airstrip close to the only town. Little did I know that I would spend the night of Christmas Eve on this same airstrip, watching the antics of Southern Brown Kiwis and listening to the melancholy hooting of Moreporks nearby.

As we flew in, this place appeared remarkably vast and wild from the air. The only significant settlement was the small coastal town of Oban, situated in a crescent bay on the eastern edge of the island. Beyond that lie many miles of rugged coastline, thick rainforest, and formidable mountains draped in clouds.

Stewart Island sunset as seen from a lookout near Oban.

When we arrived at our quaint cottage outside of town, the place exuded an unexpected tropical feel. The water was a beautiful cobalt blue, complemented by pristine white-sand beaches and eroding rock outcrops. Was this New Zealand, or had we landed in the Caribbean? For the entirety of our three day visit, we were fortunate enough to have relatively clear skies, which I have been told is not the norm (the average annual rainfall on the island is between 60-70 inches, often accompanied by tempestuous weather). We were very glad for the calm weather, which made outdoor activities much more enjoyable.

The coast had a surprisingly tropical feel with radiant sunsets, deep blue waters, and lush rainforest.

The first full day, we hiked approximately seven miles out and back from Lee Bay to slightly beyond Maori Beach. Almost immediately after getting out of the car, I caught a glimpse of movement in the sky above. A Swamp Harrier drifted lazily over a distant ridgeline, but there was something else as well. I hurriedly put my binoculars on the bird and noted a long, cigar-shaped body with slender wings. But this was not the ubiquitous Welcome Swallow; rather, it was a species of swift, given away by its rapid wingbeats. Swifts were certainly not supposed to be here. I quickly lost sight of the bird in the glare and began scanning the ridgeline in hope that it would reappear. Sure enough, it did, along with two or three others. At this point they were impressively distant, but nevertheless I managed to snap a few shots of the birds, which were now merely small black flecks against the sky. Later review of the images revealed that these birds were either Pacific Swifts or Asian Palm-Swifts; the latter hadn’t gotten anywhere close to New Zealand and didn’t appear to have any real vagrant tendencies, whereas the Pacific had been recorded a few times before in the country. Regardless, it was a thrilling find!

A fallen leaves rests on fern frondsin the lush rainforests of Stewart Island.

Invigorated by this discovery, we skirted the coastline through verdant beech forests, the thick foliage casting a blanket of dappled light across the trail. The whole place had a primordial feel, as though we had slipped into a bygone century. Down at the beach, relics of an old timber mill confirmed this impression; the place had once been a thriving industry a century ago, but was now almost entirely reclaimed by the forest. It seemed there had been more people here a hundred years ago than there were at present.

A cove on the hike to Maori Beach.

Maori Beach proved to be a beautiful and relatively secluded spot (as most places in Stewart Island are). A few small hiking groups passed us, but otherwise we were able to enjoy the solitude.

The trail to Maori Beach, which wound through thick beech forest through most of the way, was remarkably beautiful.

Hiking opportunities abound on Stewart Island, so we spent a large portion of our time exploring the gravel paths around Oban. We were always on the lookout for the South Island Kokako, a species whose last officially accepted sighting occurred in 1967. Despite this, reports have abounded in recent years, so much so that their classification has been changed from “Extinct” to “Data Deficient.” Stewart Island, with its vast tracts of relatively pristine forests, has been a hotbed for Kokako sightings. Although we did not glimpse this enigmatic species, the possibility that one (or several) were in the vicinity added an element of mysticism to every outing.

Trail to Maori Beach.

Non-extinct birds were also prevalent on Stewart Island, and I spent a good deal of time photographing a few of the more obliging ones. The Paradise Shelduck was one such bird. The female, with its vibrant rufous body contrasting against an ivory head, provided an ideal photographic subject. Fortunately, the females and their darker-colored mates could be found throughout the island. Habitat generalists, we found them everywhere except for the dense rainforests.

The Weka, a ubiquitous, chicken-like bird of New Zealand coasts and forests, was prevalent on Ulva Island (a five minute boat ride from Stewart). Along with the Wekas, other native species such as robins, fantails, and yellowheads abounded here because of an exhaustive program to make the island predator-free.

I decided to spend the last evening of our stay on Stewart Island along the coast. It is well after eight o’clock in New Zealand’s austral summer, and the setting sun casts amber rays across the ocean. As I step outside, I am greeted by a cacophony of bird calls - tui, bellbirds, fantails - each attempting to out-vocalize the other. Captain Cook, when he sailed to the islands in the late 1700’s, commented on the deafening din of bird noise that made sleeping nearly impossible. Although avian life has plummeted here, I felt that I was reliving a part of history.

A Tui pauses on a utility wire while foraging on the coast of Stewart Island. In the mornings and evenings, these birds' vocalizations produced a tremendous racket.

A pair of Kaka, one of the most intelligent bird species in the world, soon arrive at our cottage. One of them lacks a limb - Onefoot, we affectionately call him. The pair lands on the roof only a few feet above us and stares down inquisitively. It is as though they are attempting to communicate with us through their penetrating gaze. Soon they move on to investigate the clothes line, and then a cylindrical container nearby. Like a dog on a walk, they seem to find everything worth a closer look. During the day, these are wild creatures, their grating calls resounding over the coastal beech forests. But come evening, they are more accommodating; the local pair and their comrades roam through the coastal community as if it were their backyard.

A Kaka stares inquisitively down at us from the roof of the house.

As the Kaka depart, I head down to the shore to photograph a pair of shelducks and a Variable Oystercatcher. Both are photogenic, allowing relatively close approach as they foraged in the backwash of the waves. As I kneel down with my camera, I spy something equally marvelous; etched in the sand are dark, sinuous lines like the delta of some great river, a microcosm of larger natural processes. These bewitching marks are everywhere, soon to be washed away by the rising tide.

This Variable Oystercatcher, reminscent of the U.S.'s Black Oystercatcher, was widespread in coastal areas throughout the island. This bird paused briefly from foraging on the algae-covered rocks, allowing me to capture a shot.

This female Paradise Shelduck, highlight by evening light, beautiful shows off its colors.

The following morning we departed from Stewart Island to the mainland from the same airstrip with the kiwis and moreporks several nights before. A tight schedule beckoned us to continue, but I couldn’t help but miss the dazzling beaches and rugged forests of this remote southerly island.

Sinuous lines are etched in the sand on the beaches of Stewart Island, like an aerial view of some large river system.