Dawn Over A Long Absence
When the wooden crate opened in the dawn chill of late August 2023, eighteen takahē spilled into alpine grass and tussock on slopes that had not felt their footprints for over a century. For Tā Tipene O’Regan, aged 87, blind in one eye, every flash of blue-green feathers and red beaks was both new and familiar—a memory long held until now. “I am now largely blind,” he said, “but I still saw them.”
These were birds once declared extinct—thought lost forever in the early years of colonial expansion and predator introductions. The species had in fact been rediscovered in 1948 in Fiordland, but this release into Lake Whakatipu Waimāori valley marks a turning point: a hope restored, a species returning not merely to existence, but to being wild where it once belonged.
The Takahē’s Story: Loss, Rediscovery, Restoration
The takahē (Porphyrio hochstetteri) is a flightless bird, about 50 cm tall, with bold red legs and beak, and a robust blue-green body. It evolved in New Zealand without mammalian predators, thriving in alpine grasslands and tussock lands.
European settlement brought stoats, ferrets, cats, and rats—introductions that devastated many native birds, takahē among them. Declared extinct in 1898, the bird was rediscovered in 1948 in the remote Murchison Mountains.
Over decades, conservationists have built captive breeding programmes, predator-free sanctuaries, and incremental increases in wild populations. Eggs are hand-reared where necessary; chicks may be raised with puppet beaks to prevent imprinting; territories are protected; predator control is intensive. By 2023, the total population was about 500, growing at roughly 8% per year.
Last Century, A Long Void
For over 100 years the valley of Upper Whakatipu Waimāori lay silent of takahē. Elders remember stories: their ancestors gathering feathers for cloaks, observing the birds as part of the land’s tapestry. Then came land loss, legal battles, ecological change—takahē vanished from those slopes.
For Ngāi Tahu, the birds’ absence has been felt not only in ecology but in culture. Releasing them here isn’t restoration simply of species—it is of remembered voices, of law, of land reclaimed.
What Makes This Release Especially Important
This event is more than conservation or science: it is a model of partnership and indigenous empowerment. Lands where the birds are released are owned or governed by Ngāi Tahu, an iwi whose ancestors lived alongside takahē.
These same lands were once alienated, sold or taken, leading to cultural dislocation. The current process respects their authority and stewardship. Tā Tipene O’Regan spoke of “closing a very long circle” as the takahē return.
This co-management approach aligns the knowledge of indigenous people with modern ecological science. The ecological restoration is inseparable from cultural and legal restoration.
Takahē feathers were culturally significant; ancestral stories relate to them. The release is a literal and metaphoric return. It demonstrates that conservation isn’t just about species, but about people, memory, land rights, and intergenerational healing.
Challenges Ahead: Resilience And Risk
Even as the birds step into wild ground again, challenges loom. Predator control must be maintained at high levels—stoats, ferrets, and rats can decimate chicks and undermine population growth. Habitat must sustain them: tussock feeding grounds, alpine grass, and safe nesting areas. Climate change, grazing pressures, and invasive plants can alter those landscapes.
Genetic diversity is strained. With a relatively small base population, risks of inbreeding and infertility, or loss of adaptability, are real. Some nests yield non-viable eggs, prompting urgent work in matching breeding pairs and possibly genetic rescue.
Wider Context: Nation-Scale Vision And Sanctuary Work
New Zealand has made bold national commitments to protect its native wildlife. One of the keystone efforts is the Predator Free 2050 programme—striving to eliminate invasive mammalian predators by mid-century. The takahē’s return is part of that broader vision.
Recent projects show how collaboration between government, non-profits, local communities, landowners, and iwi can create new wild spaces. In the Rees Valley, for instance, a sanctuary partnership released 51 takahē, installing hundreds of traps and removing almost 2,000 predators, with expectation that habitat could support up to 500 birds in the valley long term.
Breeding centres such as Burwood Takahe Centre continue crucial work—raising chicks, monitoring nests, checking egg viability, and keeping genetic lines strong. Rangers “candle” eggs with a flashlight to see if embryos are developing, and they destroy non-viable nests to encourage re-nesting.
Stories Of Real People
Tūmai Cassidy of Ngāi Tahu, present at the release, described the takahē as “very broad and bold.” Front-on their bodies appear almost perfectly spherical, she said, “like a model planet Earth perched atop two long, bright red legs.”
Deidre Vercoe, Operations Manager for Takahē Recovery, emphasises cautious optimism: after decades of effort, the conservation community is now able to “focus on establishing more wild populations,” though success is not guaranteed.
And on the ground, in sanctuaries like Burwood, people like James Bohan lead teams feeding chicks, monitoring habitat, and planning safe release sites. Their work is a blend of science, patience, and devotion to bringing a species back from the edge.
Hope, But Not Escapism
The return of takahē is cause for celebration, but not complacency. It shows what is possible when science, indigenous rights, land stewardship, and long-term investment combine. Yet every newly released bird depends on unseen labour: traps reset, predator monitoring, habitat maintenance, legal frameworks, and funding.
It is in that sustained care that hope finds traction. The fact that these birds now roam again across lands that once knew them is evidence. But the work ahead will test not only conservation biology, but social commitment—how much does a society value its natural heritage?
Conclusion
The reintroduction of takahē into lands governed by Ngāi Tahu is more than wildlife restoration. It is cultural revival, ecological repair, social justice, and legal recognition all intertwined.
Eighteen birds released in 2023 bear more weight than their feathers: they carry the hopes of a people, the knowledge of scientists, the legacy of ancestors, and the promise that what was once thought gone might be brought home.
As these birds stalk through tussock, call across valleys, and nest in alpine grasses, they offer a reminder: extinction is not always final. Restoration—when rooted in partnership and respect—can be real. Even long silences may give way to new song.
Sources:
The Guardian
