Meet Rakiura: The Star of the Nest Cam

 Actually, before we talk more about why she’s raising the kids alone, it’s probably time to properly introduce the bird at the centre of the story.

If you’ve been watching the Whenua Hou nest cam for any length of time, you’ll already know her. She’s the large mottled presence who creeps quietly and slowly in and out of the nest cavity, rearranges the chicks with gentle determination, and occasionally peers directly into the camera as if to remind us to talk more quietly as the chicks are sleeping.

She is generally almost silent … except when she suddenly is NOT and at that moment, if you are the foolish thing that stepped near her nest, you get to hear a noise that sounds like something that might come out of a T. rex.

Her name is Rakiura.

You can’t tell from the live cam (except for a scant few magical minutes later in the afternoon on a rare day when the sun is so bright it manages to beam through the dense forest and shine enough on the leaf litter at her entrance that it tricks the infrared into switching off and we are all instantly mesmerised by the glory of the nest in colour – hardly daring to take a breath lest we blow it all away…) but she is a glorious array of verdant mottled greens. 

 

Moss, fern, and forest floor all blended into one remarkable bird.

Rakiura is a female kākāpō (Strigops habroptilus), one of the most endangered birds in the world. Kākāpō are large parrots.

She is named after the Māori name for the island all but one of the ‘founder birds’ came from (we’ll talk about founder birds later in the series).

 The species is named after owls.

In typical European colonist fashion, they took a quick look, saw something vaguely reminiscent of something they knew from the ‘home country’ and quickly named it after that…then killed it and sent its skin to whatever museum in Europe would pay them some money.

I know. That got dark quick – it really did and we’ll get to that part of the story in another blog post too.

A Bird Like No Other

There are currently 236 unique kākāpō officially recorded in the living population. Every living kākāpō today descends from a tiny remnant population that conservationists managed to save from extinction in the late twentieth century.

I say unique because practically everything about them is unique.

• Only flightless parrot
• Only nocturnal parrot
• Only parrot to use a lek and bowl breeding system
• Only species where all members are tracked with live transmitters
• Only entire species where every member has a personal name
• Only parrot to use a “freezing” strategy for defence
• The heaviest parrot 
• The strongest smelling parrot
• Ground nesting parrots
• Unpredictable breeding triggered by infrequent (and often unreliable) mass fruiting of podocarp trees.
• Slow breeders
• Thought to be the longest living bird
• Unusually reliant on their sense of smell   

They are also famously friendly — and unfortunately very bad at recognising (and getting out of) danger.

Why Being Unique Became a Problem

Unfortunately, most of these unique traits have led the kākāpō to become one of the rarest birds in the world. The very features that supported it being the most common bird across a pre-human New Zealand, very quickly led to its downfall.

They nest on the ground, freeze when there is danger and have a strong distinct odour – this is great when the only land mammal is a tiny bat. When humans arrive and bring weasels, stoats, cats, possums, dogs, ferrets, rats, mice, possums and hedgehogs…it’s only great for them. What had been an effective survival strategy suddenly become a fatal one.

The Slowest Breeders in the Forest

Kākāpō reproduce very slowly. They only breed during the mast years – the seasons that podocarp trees, like rimu, produce enormous quantities of fruit.

These mast seasons happen irregularly – perhaps every 2 to 4 years.  When they happen food becomes abundant across the forest, and the number of native insects and birds can rise quickly.

However, that same food boom for our precious native creatures translates into a food boom for the introduced pests as well. Pest numbers skyrocket as they feast on, not only all the extra food but also the extra insects and birds.

Those introduced pests do not breed slowly. Rats and weasels now present in New Zealand can produce 6 - 10 offspring every 8 -12 weeks…

It is a brutal ecological chain reaction.

 

Rakiura’s Home.

After that….let’s go to our safe place!

Rakiura lives on Whenua Hou / Codfish Island (her hatch island), it is near the Southern end of New Zealand. One of the main strongholds of the recovery programme. Now days humans work hard to keep it predator-free and a safe haven for her and her relatives to live their best life under the close watch (and yearly health and transmitter check) of the Kākāpō Recovery team.

The forest here is largely undisturbed, lush, damp and abundant with all the things that make New Zealand forest a taonga (treasure!). There are a number of podocarps (evergreen conifers) with rimu as the dominant fruiting tree – perfect kākāpō food. There are other podocarps here too such as miro, totara and southern rātā (the tree Rakiura lives under!).

An Experienced Mother

At 24 years old (she hatched during the 2002 season on the 19^th February) Rakiura is an experienced and successful mother. She currently has nine living offspring, three females and six males, across six breeding seasons.

Toitiiti (2008), Te Atapo and Tamahou (2009), Tutoko and Tia (2011), Te Awa and Taeatanga (2014), Tautahi and Mati-Mā (2019).

Deceased offspring: Mokopuna (hatched and died 2008), Tiaho (hatched 2009, died Mar 2016), Taonga (hatched 2011, died April 2014)

 She also has many grandchicks.

Acheron - son of Tamahou. Hatched in 2019.

Alison - daughter of Tutoko. Hatched 2019.

Bravo - son of Te Atapo. Hatched 2019.

Deans - son of Tamahou. Hatched 2019

Gale - daughter of Tutoko. Hatched 2019.

Hau - son of Tamahou. Hatched 2019

Kōraki - son of Tutoko. Hatched 2019.

Koru – father is Tutoko. Hatched 2019.

Mackenzie - son of Tamahou. Hatched 2019.

Marangai - son of Tamahou. Hatched 2019

Olive  - daughter of Tamahou. Hatched 20 Feb 2022

Quill - son of Tamahou. Hatched 2019

Scotty - son of Tutoko. Hatched 2019.

Tutū - son of Te Atapo. Hatched 2019.

Uri - son of Te Atapo. Hatched 2019.

In the 2026 season she may even contribute a great grandchick to the official population as we know that Gale produced 3 fertile eggs and at least one male grandchick (Deans) has mated for the first time as a 7 year old this season – so the others may have too.

 Rakiura is still young by the way. She produced 3 fertile eggs this year, one of which has hatched and was fostered as Rakiura’s experience was needed to hatch and raise high value chicks.  

Kākāpō females can produce fertile eggs from 4 years of age until well into their 50s and maybe longer.

We haven’t actually known a female kākāpō longer than 45 years and the first female we met was already an adult at that point so knowing her exact age is unfathomable. We can only know she was an adult at that point as she had a nest! This was a huge relief and turning point for what was to become the Kākāpō Recovery Team (up until that point they had been searching for decades and only found males on the mainland of New Zealand and believed the population was functionally extinct – more on that another time).

The oldest kākāpō we can be sure of the hatch year of is Zephyr – she was one of the chicks in that “first” nest found by the team on Rakiura/ Stewart Island in 1981.

The Nest

Records show Rakiura has used this particular nesting site during every breeding season since 2008, returning to the same hollow in the forest whenever the conditions are right for raising chicks. This behaviour is not common in kākāpō and has proved a marvellous opportunity for the recovery team to observer her nesting behaviours over many seasons providing valuable data on nesting and chick raising.

Over the years there have been modifications to keep her nest safe and dry. It also has a well-placed hatch for monitoring eggs … and transferring eggs and chicks in and out.  This has also made Kākāpō Cam possible – making all the kākāpō nerds deliriously happy!

And, like every female kākāpō who successfully breeds, she is doing it on her own.

Which brings us back to the questions that many new viewers ask when the nest suddenly becomes empty.

Where did she go?

What does she eat?

How long will she be gone?

Where is the baby daddy?

 

Post Script: Next time!

The Night the Internet Fell in Love With a Flightless Parrot

Somewhere on a remote predator-free island in southern New Zealand, inside a hollow at the base of a big rātā tree, a large green parrot is asleep.

 

The date is 23 Jan 2026.

Around the world many people immediately start to watch.

If that sounds slightly absurd, it is. But that is also exactly what has been happening during the current kākāpō breeding season, where a live nest camera has opened a tiny virtual hatch into the private life of one of the rarest birds on Earth.

I started watching at 6:30pm (a.k.a, 18:30, as we quickly learn to always refer to the 24-hour timestamp in New Zealand time in the top left corner of the live nest cam — a fundamental reference point for all viewers).

The camera is trained on the nesting cavity that belongs to a female kākāpō named Rakiura. She lives on one of the offshore islands where the species is carefully protected. The nest is deep in a tree cavity, the sort of place you would never normally see unless you were a Department of Conservation ranger checking on the bird.

Now anyone with an internet connection can peek inside.

At first glance, not much appears to be happening. Rakiura spends a lot of time asleep.

 

Yet the chat alongside the video rarely stops moving.

People call out timestamps (ts!) when something interesting happens.

“11:16 – she’s doing that yoga stretch again.”

“12:09 – I think I saw the egg!”

“14:40 – egg rolling”

Someone notices a feather flicking out when Rakiura lifts her head.

It turns out that when you are watching one of the rarest parrots in the world raise chicks in real time, very small things become very exciting.

And then there are the questions.

The chat fills with them.

What is she doing to the egg?

(She’s keeping the egg correctly oriented and ensuring even temperature and moisture exposure.)

When will the chick hatch?

(From lay to hatch is about 30 days.)
How long ‘til she has another egg?

(For kākāpō, the usual gap between eggs is about 2–4 days, with ~3 days being very typical.)

How many eggs will she have?

(Clutch size is usually 2–3 eggs, occasionally 4, rarely 5. If they’re all fertile… well, that’s a story for another post.)

Hasn’t she been away too long? The egg will get cold and die.

That last one was a biggy at the start – the first egg can be left for an almost unfathomable amount of time before it loses viability 12 – 24 hours.

I know. Inconceivable.

The longest Rakiura left her first egg during the early stage was around seven hours.

This is because before the second egg is laid the first egg enters a kind of pre-incubation pause. Development does not properly begin until the clutch is complete, so the egg can safely be left for extended periods.

Some viewers are just discovering kākāpō for the first time. Others have been following the recovery programme for years. A few have developed the kind of detailed knowledge that only comes from long hours reading research papers, searching social media posts and falling very far down the rabbit hole of conservation biology.

But the remarkable thing is not just the bird in the nest.

It is the growing and diverse community forming around it.

People are watching from places like Nelson, Rakiura/Stewart Island, Christchurch, North Island, Germany, Vienna, Ohio in North America, and Australia. One person might be checking in before breakfast. Another is awake at 1 a.m. halfway across the world. Someone else is quietly screen-capturing moments so they can rewatch them later.

All of them are waiting for the same thing.

The moment the mother bird wakes up, stretches her wings, and disappears out into the night (21:03:57 she is leaving, 21:03 and she’s gone, 21:03 She is going out for a feed, 21:03 Rakiura has left the building…).

Because this is the part that surprises many new viewers.

Kākāpō fathers do not help raise chicks.

There is no shared parenting. No partner returning with food. No relief shift at the nest.

The chicks you see on that camera, and every other nest that is currently monitored where kākāpō currently breed, are all being raised by a single mother.

And when Rakiura slooooowly (with the slowness of someone who thinks they can't be seen) creeps out of the nest and vanishes into the darkness of the forest, she leaves her babies alone.

For hours.

If it’s your first time seeing it, it makes you worry,

Hasn’t she been gone too long?
Will the chicks get cold?
What if something finds them?

Yet these strange strategies are the reasons kākāpō survived for millions of years.

And also the reasons they almost disappeared from the face of our current Earth completely…

To understand that, we have to step away from the nest camera for a moment and look at the extraordinary life of the bird itself…

 

Postscript: If by some madness you have found my blog but haven’t been tuning in to Kākāpō Cam: Rakiura the kākāpō – 2026 Nest live on YouTube… please do so now!

That will give me time to write the next post!

Photo of Rakiura's nest tree is from the Department of Conservation's website here. Photo of Rakiura sleeping in cavity is a screen shot of the live cam footage.

Weeding with compassion

 I was going through the archives of this blog today.

Over the last wee while, I have been distant from my creative side - work, life, the world - there are many excuses but are they worth not living my life? Not giving my brain the chance to  explore, express and enjoy itself.

The further I go back in my blog the  more I laugh and enjoy the enigma I was in those times - times when I had so few worries and cares, compared to now.

But these are my choices. Reconnecting is my choice too!

We now have AI in our lives and I am dedicated to utilizing this to free up my brain for more me time. So I took AI back with me in my blog draft archive to see if we could revive and publish some old, half-finsihed (and sometimes not even half-finished) posts.

It's working! And it's been fun!

We found many posts that we've polished and published. 

We also found this one from 25 January 2009 (!); just a title.

Weeding with Compassion. 

When we stumbled upon this one, the AI already had a pretty good sense of my writing style, patterns, directions and choice - so I thought, let's see what it thinks I would have written in a post with this title even though we have ZERO notes to go with it.

This is what happened... 

Presented with the mysterious title Weeding with Compassion, AI offered up three possible interpretations. And honestly, each of them felt like something I could have meant back in 2009. Possibly even all at once. Because that’s the kind of thematic multitasker I apparently was (according to AI!) —and maybe still am.

Here are the contenders:

 

1. Gardening. Literally.

Weeding your actual garden with compassion. Not for the weeds, mind you—although we’ll get to that—but for yourself. The gentle art of kneeling in the dirt, pulling up roots while simultaneously untangling your own. It’s hard to be a perfectionist with dirt under your nails. And maybe that’s the point.

Could I have been talking about sustainable gardening practices? About resisting the urge to nuke your dandelions into oblivion with chemicals? Maybe. Or perhaps it was simply about turning weeding into a mindful, meditative act. Something I chose to do with presence instead of treating it like punishment from the gods of domestic order.

2. The Social Metaphor.

Here’s where it gets spikier. What if “weeding” was about people? Habits? Social groups? Emotional entanglements? You know—the “friends” you’ve kept around because you’ve always kept them around, even though every encounter leaves you feeling like a trampled daisy.

In that case, with compassion becomes the key. Not ghosting. Not rage-quitting. Just... gently recognising that something isn’t nourishing you anymore, and that it’s okay to let go without blame. That’s a harder kind of pruning, and one I wasn’t always brave enough to do. But maybe I was writing my way toward it.

3. Internal Thought Management.

Weeding the inner landscape. The beliefs, the self-talk, the assumptions. The overgrowth of “not good enough,” “too much,” or “never going to.” Removing those invasive species from the garden of your brain—with compassion—rather than yanking them out while berating yourself for ever letting them grow in the first place.

Honestly, this one hits a bit close to home. Especially when paired with the other unfinished draft from the same day, “Negative Thoughts Directed at Ourselves.” It seems 2009 Me had some themes going. And bless her for that. She was really trying.

---

So, which one did I originally mean?

I truly have no idea. But in the spirit of compassionate weeding, I’m choosing not to worry about it. Instead, I’m embracing all three—because they each speak to something true.

Maybe Weeding with Compassion is just what it says on the tin: the reminder that growth sometimes requires letting go—but that even in the letting go, we can be kind.

To the weeds.
To each other.
To ourselves.

 

Now I’m curious—
What are you weeding right now?

Is it your inbox? Your garden? Your inner critic?
Are you doing it with compassion, or are you still in that rip-it-out-and-salt-the-earth phase (no judgment, we’ve all been there)?

Maybe today’s the day to pause and ask:
What’s worth keeping, what’s safe to release, and how can I be gentler about the whole messy, miraculous process?

Feel free to leave a comment. Or just let the question sit with you while you drink your tea and stare thoughtfully at your metaphorical (or actual) compost heap.

We’re all tending to something.
Let’s try to do it kindly.

 

Ngā Mata o te Ariki Tāwhirimātea

 

Today is the public holiday associated with Matariki (Te Mātahi o te Tau/Māori New Year).

I feel very connected to our special NZ holiday and all its components. 

Matariki is an abbreviation of Ngā Mata o te Ariki Tāwhirimātea — ‘The eyes of the god Tāwhirimātea’ — my favourite Māori God as he is the God of the Wind and Weather.

All people in NZ are descended from those in their own past who used the stars for navigation, time telling, and food gathering — it is a holiday for us all to celebrate, appropriate for our place and our seasons.

I am deeply proud of Matariki as a uniquely Aotearoa celebration. It is rare (I think, unprecedented) for an indigenous tradition to be formally recognised with public holiday status — a testament to the progress and manaakitanga at the heart of our government and society at the time of its creation.

This recognition honours the cultural heritage and knowledge of Māori and invites all New Zealanders to come together to reflect, celebrate, and plan for the future in a way that respects our land, ancestors, and the stars above.

Matariki is also a star in the cluster — the mother star — and how bright she is - foretells the happenings and conditions in the coming year. The other main stars celebrated in Matariki are the seven sisters, each with their own stories and meanings. Some iwi count seven stars, others nine. Some iwi can’t see Matariki from their location in NZ due to mountains, and instead use Puanga (Rigel in Orion’s Belt - the pot cluster) as the marker.

When these stars rise together is when we celebrate Matariki — a time for:

• Reflection — remembering those before us and the lessons of the year. The first sightings of Matariki are met with expressions of grief for those who have passed since its last appearance. A ceremony called whāngai i te hautapu may be held, involving ‘feeding the stars’ with specially prepared foods.
• Celebration — feasting, coming together, and honouring who we are as the grieving time ends. Traditionally this marks the end of the harvest — a time for eating, singing, and dancing.
• Planning — looking forward to the year ahead, supporting each other and the environment. A bright, clear Matariki signals a favourable, productive season; hazy, closely grouped stars mean a cold winter and delayed planting.

Here are the words I gathered from various places to put together as a karakia (prayer) for my whānau to be spoken aloud during our gathering at Matariki. It includes my translation of the meanings (that part is intended for silent reading at the end of the spoken Reo statement)

 Matariki te tipua (Matariki is sacred)

Matariki te tawhito (Matariki is ancient)

Tau mai te wairua, mai ngā ira atua, ki te ira tangata (Welcome the spirit, welcome the life force of the universe into the people)

 

Mānawa maiea te putanga o Matariki! (Celebrate/Hail the rise of Matariki - the appearance of Matariki cluster)

Mānawa maiea te ariki o te rangi! (Celebrate/Hail the God/Lord/Chief of the Sky)

Mānawa maiea te Mātahi o te tau! (Celebrate/Hail the New Year)

 

Tuku anga mate o te tau ki a Pōhutakawa whao whetūrangi hea koutou (We release the dead of the year to Pōhutukawa - star associated with people who have passed on - Our loved ones have now become the stars)

 

E tū Tūpu-ā-nuku (Behold Tupu ā - nuku - star associated with everything that grows in the soil to be harvested or gathered for food)

E tū Tupu-ā-rangi (Behold Tupu ā rangi - star connected with everything that grows up in the trees - fruits, berries, birds)

E tū Waitī (Behold Waitī - associated with all fresh water and the food sources that are sustained in those waters)

E tū Waitā (Behold Waitā - associated with the ocean and food sources within)

E tū Waipuna - ā - rāngi (star for the rain - "water that pools in the sky")

E tū Ururangi (star for the winds - Māori has many names for different winds, where they come from and how strong they are)

E tū Hiwa-i-te-rangi (star associated with granting our wishes and realising our aspirations for the coming year - "to grow lush in the sky")

 

Matariki atua ka eke ki runga (Great Matariki rising above us)

Nau mai ngā hua (Bring forth the bounty)

Nau mai ngā taonga (Bring forth the treasures)

Nau mai te Mātahi o te tau (Bring forth the New year)

 

Hau mi e, hui e, Taiki e (Together in union, we are one)

Tihei Mauriora! (Let there be life)

 This year, the ritual of Tuku anga mate o te tau ki a Pōhutukawa whao whetūrangi hea koutou — the ceremonial release of the spirits of those who have passed to the pōhutukawa star — carries deep significance for our whānau. The pōhutukawa, often referred to as the “tree of the dead,” represents the sacred journey of our loved ones’ spirits returning to the stars. In te ao Māori, it is believed that the spirits travel to Te Rerenga Wairua (Cape Reinga - the place of leaping), descend the roots of the ancient pōhutukawa tree, and begin their journey to the ancestral homeland of Hawaiki.

Matariki marks this passage with reverence. The ritual of whāngai i te hautapu — “feeding the stars” — involves preparing food as an offering to the stars, especially Pōhutukawa and those connected to loved ones we've lost. It is a symbolic act of remembrance, honour, and connection — one that reinforces the enduring bond between the living and those who have passed.

This year, I feel the weight and comfort of this tradition more than ever. Since last Matariki we lost a beloved member of our whānau — my brother-in-law, Perry — after his drawn-out and heart wrenching transition from this world to the next.

As we gather to mark Matariki this year, we carry his spirit with us, releasing him to the stars with aroha and grief in equal measure.

This ancient practice reminds us that death is not an end but a transition — a return to the cosmos and the ancestral world.

The ritual helps us to let go with aroha and respect, while also opening our hearts to healing and renewal.

In this way, Matariki connects us deeply — not only to the cycles of the natural world and the stars above but to each other, and to those who came before us.

We are reminded that our ancestors live in the sky, watching over us through the shimmer of Matariki.
Their stories, like stars, help us navigate what’s to come.
Even in darkness, there is guidance.
Even in farewell, there is light.

I am quite besotted with how Matariki holds space for all these phases — grief, gratitude, and growth.

It doesn’t rush us past the hard parts or demand that we have everything figured out.
Instead, Matariki gently reminds us to lift our gaze, breathe in the cold morning air, and keep going.

The stars have risen — and with them, so do we… 

References and further reading:

• Te Papa Tongarewa – Matariki: The Māori New Year: https://www.tepapa.govt.nz/discover-collections/read-watch-play/maori/matariki

• Matariki – New Zealand History: https://nzhistory.govt.nz/culture/matariki

• “The Matariki Star Cluster and the Renewal of Life,” by Ngāti Awa (video and articles on Māori cosmology and Matariki rituals)

• Scholarly works on Māori cosmology and pōhutukawa: e.g., Ranginui Walker’s Ka Whawhai Tonu Matou or Te Ahukaramū Charles Royal’s writings on Māori worldviews.

•  Matariki mā Puanga - how will you celebrate the public holiday?

•  Why Puanga is the star of this Matariki

 

For Perry.