Environment – Peach Cove and the kākā

While it seems that many New Zealanders are heading to tropical beaches or a summery Europe this winter, I decided to walk in the wet Te Whara forest.

When you come over the Brynderwyn Hills and lay your eyes on the emerald greens of Waipu, the golden curve of Ruakaka and the blue of Bream Bay, Te Whara/Bream Head is an anchor stone at the top of the view. The andesite plug rock form, the silhouette of Manaia, completes the prettiest picture, a rough and rugged profile with a demanding and marvellous track along its ridge.

The road to Whangarei Heads hugs the coast; as we approached, the water was still, the port quiet. Signs reminded us we were in kiwi country. We got to the track and headed into the rain that worsened as soon as we started climbing. But it’s only 1.5 hours of steep up and down through big old trees and weather is part of the fun.

Peach Cove hut sleeps eight, but that night it slept just us three. It’s a little black hut with a bright yellow door and was cosy as could be – like a gingerbread cottage. Peach Cove itself, further down the track, glowed with phosphorescence. The rain, mist and sea were one. We came for the kiwi, but the kākā stole the show. Wheeling through the forest, they chortled, whistled and squawked all night and day. It was a long night, dark by 5pm, buried in the trees, but those kiwi and kākā made it worthwhile.

The Te Whara/Bream Head Conservation Trust works with others to expand the predator-free zone working back from Whangarei Heads. They protect existing species like the kiwi, oi – grey petrel – and kākā, and reintroduce new species, like whiteheads – the little mohoua that can sometimes be seen flitting in flocks through this, Northland’s largest and highest quality coastal broadleaf forest.

Old timers report that back in the 1970s, the sound of kākā and korimako – bellbirds – were deafening in Te Whara reserve. But as rats and stoats spread, kākā numbers declined. Kākā roost in tree cavities, so they’re sitting targets for climbing predators. But the Te Whara Trust shows, with other ecological restoration efforts, that biodiversity loss isn’t a one-way street; as forests were, they might be again.

Kākā are an indicator species. Raucous kākā are a cause for celebration. Indeed, in the old pine trees up the hill from my house, it sometimes sounds like they’re having a party. When I see them fly overhead, I want to dance. Northland is a narrow isthmus to a bird like the kākā, and across the island’s flyways there are many reported sightings, including sometimes injuries or deaths from car and window strike.
In Wellington, their successful recovery has impacts on local trees and people’s roofs.

The kākā in my valley forage on a neighbour’s home-grown mandarins. They’re welcome to come and dine on mine.