The Kea: A New Zealand Problem

Front matter

The Kea: A New Zealand Problem

By G•R•Marriner

THE KEA:

Chapter 1

THE KEA:

A NEW ZEALAND PROBLEM

CHAPTER I.

THE KEA COUNTRY.

Ranges on ranges, far crest on crest, The long Alp-barriers closed the West, Like the walls of the Median city old, A guardian girdle sevenfold.

There grimmest ridges looked softer through The clinging film of their gentle blue, Where high in the haze of the summits show The cool, faint streaks of belated snow.

—William Pember Reeves.

Have you ever seen “the Kea Country?” The writer has; and the way in which the vision came to him seems worth the telling, especially as an introduction to an attempt to describe and discuss one of the most interesting creatures in a land where the interesting abounds.

For years I had longed to see the haunts of the Kea; and when at length a convenient winter vacation came, bringing no call to roam more pressing than this. I left the laboratory for the mountains. It is not an expedition to be enjoyed alone. But at the last minute my chosen companion failed me, and, rather than lose a rare chance, I went without him.

By train and bicycle I gradually wormed my way from Canterbury’s city of the plain into the foot-hill country of the range that stretches along not far from the western edge of our South (or Middle) Island of New Zealand. Back of the lesser heights appeared the glistening peaks of the alpine country, where river beds of shingle and terraces of browning tussock and lakes of deep calm occupied the spaces between the sky-piercing points. As I struck in

Kea country: Up the Wilberforce River; showing the darkness of the mountains east of the dividing range.

from Glentunnel, Mt. Hutt towered in front: a gaunt, mute sentinel seven thousand feet in height, with epaulettes and trappings of tussock and helmet of snow. Nothing daunted, I cycled by him deeper and deeper into the ranges by the way the Rakaia River has made for itself in its descent from the heights to the plain.

Here and there great shingle slides come down the mountain slopes, long streams of broken boulders that creep into the gorge and spread fan-like for a mile or so across its broken expanse. In places the river has shorn them off clean; and their massive walls, often a hundred feet in height, bound the river’s torrent.

A night was spent at Lake Coleridge Homestead; and then, with my outfit transferred from cycle to horse, I skirted the lake, its wild water-fowl rising in clouds at my approach. About midday I reached the top of the pass.

At last! There before me it lay, the lonely, solemn, weird but fascinating country the Kea chooses for a home. Not a sound broke the great silence as I reined up and gazed across the apparently endless succession of snow-clad peaks. My coming seemed an intrusion. Save for the dray-track that wound easily down for a mile or so to the river-bed, passing an empty galvanised-iron hut as it went, there was no sign of man’s presence in this vast wild. Over this scene, looking then much as it does now, the giant moas, whose remains have been found in the gorge, must have strutted in search of food.

Hundreds of feet below lie the Rakaia Forks, where the Wilberforce, Mathias and Rakaia Rivers unite their forces before they charge down the gorge on to the plains. Their reinforcements are called from all the surrounding peaks. They rush from the terminal faces of the glaciers; they trickle from the snow-line; they ripple and bubble through the cushion-like vegetation of the higher slopes. Down amid the dense bush they tumble, forming numerous cascades and waterfalls. Here they rattle under a fallen monarch of the forest. There they slip and slide over the great boulders that in vain stand to stem their progress. Down they scramble, seething over the shingle of the river-bed, sweeping round the hill slopes, hurrying to join the roaring river.

Where the gorge widens out the streams of the Rakaia anastomose like silver network, with the tussocky flats filling up the intervals. Farther away lie great swamps, where paradise duck and swamp hen thrive, but horse and rider may be hopelessly bogged in awful quagmire.

Westward the three great river-beds spread, first for ten or twelve miles as broad U-shaped valleys and then as deep precipitous verges leading away to the supplying glaciers. There the streams are lost to view.

Kea country (Boundary Creek): A small tributary of the Wilberforce River.

Their flood height can be gauged by the broad reaches of naked shingle flanking the water’s edge. Everywhere else below the hardy tussock is supreme. Above, peaks, jagged and white, stretch away to the great heights of the Southern Alps themselves. It is all so appallingly gigantic that man seems helplessly insignificant.

Behind, running away to the east, the Rakaia cuts its way, first for fourteen miles over a shingle-bed about a mile wide, and then, for another eight, rushing through a narrow defile amid some of the grandest gorge scenery of the Dominion.

Away to the left the Mt. Hutt Range continues, until it meets the Arrowsmith Range, capped with snow and girdled with glaciers, standing across the valley. To the right is Peak Hill’s lower range, ending in a sharp point, — Mt. Oakden, cut off from the Rolleston Range by the Wilberforce stream, which has been strengthened above by the lesser Harper and Avoca.

All around, the mountain sides are weathered into great shingle slips, marching down to take possession of the plain, debouching here, uniting forces there, now in file, then in column, but always met by the indomitable tussock. The fight goes on, but the tussock is here unbeaten; life tells; “a living dog is better than a dead lion.”

But these shingle slides—which for size and abundance are said to be seen nowhere else in the world, and accounted for by brittle strata and very sudden changes in temperature are an annoyance to the traveller. Travelling is frightfully heavy and slow; and any attempt to ascend their shifting stretches is heart-breaking.

As night be expected, over this vast wilderness sparse settlement only is possible. A few lonely homesteads, each with its shearing sheds and shepherds’ huts, are all that can be found in the way of dwellings. The attendant sheds and huts are often separated from each other, and from the central dwelling, by miles of mountain range and stony river-bed. Each homestead is the centre of a sheep-station, which often includes many mountain chains. Life in the central dwelling is as a rule rigorous and lonely enough for the most austere hermit. News from the outer world filters in uncertainly, and usually with intervals of many weeks. For the lonely musterer, or shepherd, in his detached hut, the life is even worse. Little wonder that now and again one becomes mad or misanthropic.

The region is an extremely stormy one. In July of 1907 I stayed some days at the Mt. Algidus Station, a fair sample of those described. It stands about forty miles back from the plains, and includes the Rakaia Forks, shut in among the ranges. On my return journey I had experience of the fury of the winter tempests that sweep over the area. My attempt to

Kea country: Glenthorne Homestead (3000 ft. alt.), and the Birdwood Range (7000 ft. alt.).

make a dash on horseback for the Lake Coleridge Station was made painful and perilous by a snowstorm. It took six hours to do the intervening twenty miles. The drift was blinding, and the snow so caked upon the horse's hoofs that the ride became a stumble through the gale. Soon riding was impossible. The falling snow shut off all but a few yards ahead. Compelled to lead my horse, I fought my way until the pass was crossed and the homestead safely reached.

I was fortunate. Such winter travelling in that wild waste is full of dangers. A false step, and death may be met. Some years before, on the opposite side of this same gorge, a surveyor was injured by a fall. He lay for days in that land of awful distances, starving, freezing, until his mind wandered and death came to rescue him. His note-book, found beside his body, told a pathetic tale. He had heard the men shouting to their horses as they dragged supplies

Kea country.

up to the Mt. Algidus Station; but the help for which he looked never came.

Such storms as I experienced come in close succession in the winter months, burying everything under many feet of snow. The night frosts clutch everything with a grip of iron. Cascades become threads of shining icicles. Nothing but the main body of the streams resist the binding cold.

When spring comes there is a change, but only doubtfully for the better. The biting blasts give place to the warmer winds from the north west. These come over the Tasman Sea, getting charged with moisture on the way, until they strike the rampart of alpine peaks and pour their burden on the snow. At night the scene is weirdly grand. The lightning plays among the rocky crests, darting fiery fingers again and again down into the valleys. A veritable cannonade of thunder shakes the mountain slopes, while sleet and hail sweep ruthlessly everywhere. Soon every crevice in the mountain side sends forth a torrent; the creeks become rushing rivers; and the river itself awakes to fury, losing its winter gentleness for a violence indescribable. Swollen from bank to bank, it becomes a seething, whirling, irresistible flood. It gouges out the bases of the cliffs and sweeps away the fords, while the roar of its water and the growl of its crunching boulders can be heard miles away. Heavily laden with yellow silt, it rushes out over the plains and discolours the sea for seventy miles out from the coast. The coming of these spring winds effects a devastating transformation, well described in the following stanzas from “The Nor’-Wester,” by the late Mrs. F. M. Renner, née Craig:–

Then I spring up the slopes of the Alps, but recoil at the touch of their snow, And wrap myself round in cloud; and my angry eyes, aglow, Shoot forth the zig-zag lightning; my thunder shakes the air, And I scatter the great drops thick and fast from off my sea-wet hair. But never a whit can the Alps stop me, I leave them soon behind, And revel and dance in maddest glee, A riotous Nor’-West wind!

My warm breath frees the waters, and makes the snow flowers die, And the sides of the Alps are torn as the torrents hurry by; There’s a fresh in the Waimakariri, a flood in the turbid Grey; Each swollen river is rushing, o’erwhelming all in its way. And this is my work that none can withstand, Nor any power can bind; And I dance and revel throughout the land, A riotous Nor’-West wind!

During midsummer and autumn only are these vast alpine tracts at all comfortably accessible.

This band of alpine country forms the back-bone of the South Island of New Zealand, and stretches for about 480 miles, from one end of the island to the other, lying somewhat to the west. It is composed of long parallel ranges of mountains many thousands of feet in height, crossed all along their length by shorter transverse ranges, which taper out to the plains. In between these cross ranges the rivers run, fed all the year round by the alpine snows, and cutting out deep gorges between the mountains, which form picturesque defiles opening to the plains.

These river-beds form the easiest way of access to the alpine country, and usually a road or track stretches along their high banks, cutting across miles of shingly river-bed, over low hills and flat tussocky terraces, until it runs towards the central range, often getting rougher and more hard to follow as it approaches the passes that lead to the West Coast.

On the east side of the dividing range the mountains are clothed with tussock grass, which grows up towards the snow-line, where it gives place to the sub-alpine vegetation. Where the rainfall is sufficient fairly large patches of forest stretch for miles.

On the western slopes, owing to the large amount of moisture deposited by the north-west winds, the barren tussocky scenery changes almost immediately into beautiful snow-clad peaks, covered on their lower slopes by evergreen forest, where ratas, veronicas, olearias, tree ferns and mosses form scenes of exquisite beauty.

From the sides of the steep forest-clad mountains foaming cascades and rearing torrents tumble down into the valleys; and, when the upper snows melt, waterfalls of all sizes pour from every depression and gully, forming, with the dark evergreen of the bush, scenes of unsurpassed loveliness. Here one leaps from the cliff a hundred feet or so above you, and, arching over the roadway, tumbles with a roar into the valley, drenching the traveller with spray as he passes under its watery arch. There one darts out from some bush-clad precipice, and, when caught by the wind, spreads itself out for some hundreds of feet along the sides of a dark cliff, like a gigantic silken bridal veil, throwing out iridescent colours as the sunbeams play among its folds.

Northward the alpine country gradually diminishes in height and grandeur, and spreads out almost from coast to coast, forming the hills of Nelson and Marlborough.

Southward the ranges rise higher until the chain is

Kea country:Showing the bush-clad mountains west of dividing range.

crowned by Mt. Cook, which well deserves its Maori name of Aorangi, or “the heaven piercer.” Snow-clad and grand, it rears up its sharp precipitons peaks some 13,000 feet into the air, surrounded by a large number of minor peaks, second only to itself in height and splendour. Here on all sides the valleys are filled with huge glaciers, stretching out to eighteen miles in length. The glacier streams which flow from their terminal faces fill large glacier lakes; these in turn feed the rivers, which hurry down their gorges to the sea.

Southward beyond this the mountains spread out and cover Otago and Southland; while to the west the scenery along the main chain increases in imposing loveliness. The rugged, barren peaks give place to bush-clad mountains; peak after peak, range after range, they seem to vie with one another in presenting to the traveller scenes most varied and striking. Here a peak mightier than his comrades shoots up his hoary crest into the blue, his lower slopes clothed in evergreen forest of rata, lancewood, ferns and mosses, often so dense as to be impenetrable. As the height increases the growth dwindles, until near the snow-line it gives place to the celmisia and mountain lily, which in turn give place to the cushiony vegetation of the sub-alpine flora. Above this, plant life ceases to fight against the terrible odds, and the rugged, rocky summits are clad in eternal ice and snow. Alongside this symbol of massive strength and grandeur, a deep, peaceful lake will be found quietly nestled, which, but for the bush-clad precipices and the snow-clad peaks reflecting themselves on its surface and the heavy bush fringing its sides, would fit well in some English country landscape

The whole country about this region is an endless series of craggy peaks, dark mountain gorges, sylvan lakes, picturesque fiords, which for grandeur and beauty are unsurpassed, and draw travellers from all parts of the world to gaze upon them.

This long stretch of alpine country is the home of the Kea. Here he reigns supreme. At times he may be seen flying about the snow-clad peaks and the glaciers, or hopping from rock to rock in search of food. Again, he may be found in the dense bush, seeking berries or prying curiously into the ways of the homesteads. Here, in a region of mountain, forest and flood, the bird bas lived and flourished for centuries, until man came unbidden. With man came sheep, and with sheep the great temptation, and soon also the fall that has for ever blackened the character of these interesting mountain parrots. Even yet, with the brand of Cain upon them and every man’s hand against them, they find a refuge and a home in the mountain fastnesses.

Chapter 2

CHAPTER II.

DESCRIPTION.

In the midst, iridescent ward glowing, Full-breasted, bead-eyed, Bright as the Argus showing, Not knowing its pride.

—Johannes C. Andersen.

There is nothing very graceful about the Kea, neither in appearance nor in movement. He is a clumsy, awkward-looking, olive-green bird, somewhat larger than a domestic pigeon, with a flat head and a long, sharp, curved beak. His legs are short, so that his tail is often dragging on the ground; and, when not hopping, at which he is an adept, he moves with an ungraceful waddle. There are four toes on each foot, slate-coloured, as is the tarsus, and not only are they placed two each “fore and aft,” but they are long and seem unfit for much walking. To add to his clumsiness, when walking the bird often places the tarsus as well as the foot on the ground, so that feathers on the legs touch the ground.

When the bird settles after flying he appears somewhat graceful, but he very soon ruffles his feathers and hides his symmetry.

The intensity in the colouring of the plumage varies largely according to the season of the year or the age of the bird. Often some appear to be of a dirty, washed-out, brownish green, while others have a beautiful olive-green plumage, tinted with red and brown.

Dull olive-green feathers, edged with black, cover the whole body, except for a band of brick-red feathers (upper tail coverts) over the base of the tail, and a large patch of similarly coloured feathers under each wing.

The green colouration is most vivid on the back and on the sides of the wings, but it gets duller on the ventral surface of the body and towards the head.

The outer webs of the large wing feathers (primaries) have a bright metallic-blue tint, while the inner webs are brownish-black, banded by pale yellow teeth.

The Kea: Showing the usual ruffled condition of the plumage.

The under surfaces of these feathers are similar to the upper, except that the metallic blue colour on the outer webs is absent, being replaced by the general blackish-brown hue.

The tail feathers are nearly equal in length, and the upper surfaces are olive-green, getting paler towards the tips. They are crossed at their extremity by a black band.

The upper mandible, or beak, is smooth, and much curved. It is of a brownish-black colour, with a lighter yellow tint at its crown.

The lower mandible is much shorter, and is nearly straight, It is of lighter colour, being in the young bird mostly yellow, but darkening to a brownish-black as the bird ages.

The eyes are dark brown or black, with a yellow ring of wattle encircling each. There is also some similarly coloured wattle (cere) around the nostrils, which in shade varies from a bright to a dull yellow.

Keas’ heads: Showing the external differences between the sexes.

From a number of specimens kindly lent me by Dr. B. Moorhouse, of Christchurch, I obtained the following average measurements:

Length of the bird from the tip of the beak to the end of the tail—20¼ inches: maximum, 23 inches; minimum, 18½ inches.

Length of the upper mandible from tip to gape—2⅝ inches; maximum, 2¾ inches; minimum, 1⅞ inches.

Length of wing from flexure (carpel), 12 3-5 inches; maximum 13 inches; minimum 12 inches.

The female is very similar to the male, but can often be recognised by the duller plumage. If one is at all familiar with the birds, the beak and general form are good indications; the female is a more slightly built bird, and the beak is neither so stout nor powerful. There may be some confusion when young birds are encountered, but these can always be identified by the quantity of yellow colouring in the mandibles.

Even the young male bird usually has a more heavily built beak than the adult female.

Like other members of the genus Nestor, individuals vary much in the brilliancy of their tints, and sometimes the variation is so marked as to give them an albino or a yellow appearance. Professor F. W. Haslam, of Christchurch, informed me that he saw in one of the Otago homesteads a stuffed Kea that was more or less an albino.

Sir W. Buller gives the following instance of variation in a specimen procured for him from the interior of Otago:—“Bright canary yellow, with a few red feathers interspersed throughout the plumage; vivid red on the rump and upper tail coverts, as well as under the wings. Such a gorgeous bird has never been seen in the district before.”

In the supplement of his “New Zealand Birds” he says:—“About seventeen years ago a beautiful yellow Kea was obtained in the Wanaka Country in the far south. At the time there was a Government bonus of two shillings per head for Keas, as the bird had been proving very destructive to the sheep. Every man on the station, as a rule, carried with him a fowling piece on his rounds and came home at night with a bagful of beaks, thus adding not inconsiderably to his weekly wages. Thousands of pounds were paid in the course of the year by way of bonus in the Wanaka district alone. The last payment made by my informant was £500 in one lump sum. It can be gathered by this what the destruction of Keas was at that time. In consequence of this persistent slaughter they rapidly grew scarcer, till at length there were so few to be seen that the men at work on the round would not encumber themselves with a gun. When the killing fever was at its height, one of the men on delivering his tale of beaks said: ‘I shot to-day the queerest Kea I ever saw—all yellow.’ He added that there was another similar bird which he could not catch. Finding that the man, after cutting off the beak, had thrown the body aside, the manager sent out to search for the bird, but was unsuccessful, some vagrant dog or hawk having carried it away. In a

Keas: Showing the general shape and appearance of the birds.

short time, however, the other was shot and carefully preserved by the manager, who sent is to Mr C. Turnbull, of Dunedin. The bird has since come into my son’s possession, and the whole of the body plumage is vivid canary yellow, deepening on the neck and sides of the body and rump into a rich orange yellow; most of the scapulars and the quills are of the normal colour, except the first primary in each wing, which is yellowish white; tail feathers, canary yellow, excepting two of the outer lateral ones, which are partly normal; lining of wing, delicate orange, Here and there, especially on the head, there is a feather or two of the normal colour. To be exact, this abnormal example was obtained at the head of the Shotover River, on the western side of the Motutapu.”

There have come under my notice two malformations of the Kea’s beak.

The Kea (Museum Specimen): Showing general appearance.

In 1899 a man photographed a Kea that had the upper mandible shot away down to a stump. In spite of this disadvantage the bird was very strong when seen.

I have in my case the head of a Kea shot by Mr. R. Urquhart, near the homestead of Mt. Algidus. The upper mandible by same means had been shot wholly or partly away just at the nostrils, leaving nothing but a stump. Since then, apparently, a new beak has grown out above the old stump, and has curled round over the lower mandible, until it has formed a half circle. The new beak is much narrower at the base than the old one, and does not taper to a point, but ends bluntly. Owing to the long curve on the upper mandible the two beaks would not come close together, and the bird must have found some difficulty in procuring food. However, in spite of this, it was fairly plump when shot and seemed to have got a good deal of enjoyment out of life.

Kea’s head: Showing the abnormal growth of the upper mandible due to a bullet wound.

Chapter 3

CHAPTER III.

HAUNTS AND HABITS.

Mountain lilies shine Far up against the snow, And ratas twine On the wooded slopes below. Rata and clematis Sweet as bush may hold; While honey-loving wild birds kiss The kowhai’s cup of gold.

—Mary Colborne-Veel.

It is a well established fact that the Kea is found in the mountainous regions of the South Island of New Zealand; but whether it lives among the snow-capped peaks and glaciers, or lower down near the forest line, is a question that has not so far been satisfactorily answered.

So much romance has surrounded the bird since its discovery that it is difficult to get people to come down to the sober facts of the case. So popular has it become to describe the Kea as the solitary denizen of the lonely snow-bound alpine peaks, that even some of our present-day scientists, without taking the trouble to ascertain its real habits, prolong the popular erroneous belief that the Kea dwells only amid ice and snow.

A recent book states that it lives “up in the mighty mountains where the snow never melts and men seldom go: sometimes it is driven from its stronghold and is compelled to seek food at lower elevations.”

Another writer describes the bird as living “far above the dwarf vegetation . . . . in a region often shrouded with mists and driving sleet.”

The Kea may often be seen soaring among the silent snow-capped heights; yet it by no means spends most of its me there, but is more frequently found at lower levels.

Though the mountains in the South Island are high, ranging from five to thirteen thousand feet, and though in winter they are covered with a thick coating of snow, yet in summer, owing to the warm winds and rain from the north west, much of their snow is melted. It is, therefore, only

The Kea: On the look out.

on the main dividing range and several other more or less isolated peaks that much snow can be found; and this is often confined to the greater heights. Again, if the Kea lives far up above the dwarf vegetation, how is it to subsist? And again, is it likely that a bird would make its home in a wilderness of snow and ice when there are better places for nesting, lower down the mountain, among the very vegetation from which it obtains its natural food?

From what I have personally seen of the Kea’s home, it is not a place of eternal ice and snow, but a spot that, in fine weather at all events, is unsurpassed for beauty and situation.

Below is the ever vernal forest, with all its beautiful tints of green, covering the mountain slopes down to the bottom of the valley, where an entrancing panorama of lake, river and flat spreads out before the eye.

Above, the craggy peaks pierce a sky of exquisite blue; while under foot the sub-alpine flora, in all its quaint beauty, forms a carpet of cushion-like plants, dotted over with small white flowers, like so many stars shining in an emerald sky. Away from the heat of the valley, with a wide, grand outlook and a life-giving atmosphere, the bird has surroundings to be coveted. Sometimes it rises and circles the snowy peaks, but more often it swoops down to where the forest and river-bed meet, and revels among the foliage.

A good deal of support has been given to the Kea’s alleged preference for snow and ice by the fact that travellers, when climbing the Alps, often see the parrot soaring round, and they too readily conclude that this must be its natural environment.

It seems to me that nothing could be more natural than that a bird of such known inquisitiveness and keen sight should fly up and investigate the dark figure of the climber as he makes his way over the snow and ice.

Sir W. Buller, as early as 1888, made very clear the Kea’s true habitat. He says, “I have seen it soaring or flying, often in parties of three or more, from peak to peak, high above the wooded valley; but it is more generally to be met with on the open mountain side, flying from rock to rock, or hopping along the ground amongst the stunted alpine vegetation, in quest of its natural food.”

Subsequent writers, however, seem entirely to have passed over this clear statement, and in all the popular articles on the subject that I have seen a wrong habitat is given.

Sir Julius von Haast saw two Keas flying over the Godley Glacier; but, though he saw Keas several times while

The Kea: Hunting for insect larvae.

exploring the alpine country of Canterbury, once only did he meet them in perpetually snow-clad regions and amongst glaciers.

Another significant fact is that many accounts of sheep killing have come from districts which are situated many miles from the region erroneously described as the Kea’s home,.

Dr. L. Cockayne, in a communication to me, gives what I take to be the Kea’s correct habitat. He says “I have observed the Kea in various parts of the Southern Alps, from the Humboldt Mountains in the south to Kelly’s Hill in Westland. Although frequently met with on the open alpine and sub-alpine hillside, I consider the bird essentially one of the forest limit, where it may be seen in numbers at the junction of the forest and sub-alpine meadows and in the Nothofagus forest where such are pierced by river-beds.”