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Secrets, seabirds and science: a slice of Ihumoana
It’s day 3 of lockdown. The Sky Tower is hiding behind a curtain of drizzle, and for the last three hours, I’ve been hunched over a steaming cuppa trying to start an essay. Despite Covid-19 feeling uncomfortably close to home, life is good. However, I can’t help longing for those holidays immortalized in photos that peak from computer folders and bedroom walls. Lockdown can amplify your thirst for freedom, and I’ve certainly been reminiscing about my past adventures. The most recent was an incredible trip to Ihumoana Island on the wild West Coast.
Where on earth is Ihumoana?
It started with an invite. Not the sort of invite which lands in your inbox with pleading undertones and question marks. No, it was the sort of invite that, once mentioned, almost requires no response, for you’d have to be crazy not to accept it. Would you like to come to Ihumoana with us? At the time, I had no idea where exactly Ihumoana was or what we’d be doing, but those were minor details. ‘Yes please!’
I’d been invited on a field trip to help two university friends sample grey-faced petrels, a native New Zealand seabird, on Ihumoana Island. Ihumoana is a tiny, privately owned island off Te Henga/Bethells Beach on the West Coast, about a 40-minute drive from Auckland CBD. As a round-eyed honours student, the field trip was an excellent opportunity to gain experience. The other folks attending were a great bunch which made it a guaranteed good time!
Finally, the afternoon arrived. Me and my two uni friends, slightly older wāhine who I admire tremendously, launched into the car and dropped into the supermarket. It was my birthday the following day, and an iced carrot cake mysteriously found its way into our trolley. The drive to Te Henga took longer than expected. There’s nothing quite like crawling at 20km/hr in school traffic to teach patience. It wasn’t all bad – all the more time for cracking jokes and sharing the goss.
We arrived at the beach in the nick of time. The carpark bustled with families shaking sandy towels and hurriedly squeezing into 7-seaters that disappeared into the fading daylight. We shouldered our bags of stuff and set across the sand. Strangers ogled with confusion. Where on earth are you crazy girls going? Camping out on the beach are ya? But nobody said anything. We waded across the estuary and stumbled like little lambs toward the friendly headtorch of Graeme, an experienced Seabird expert, and our guide. We began the treacherous march up the cliff. A narrow track zig-zagged to the flat-topped peak of the island. Ugh. The climb would have been alright if you weren’t burdened by luggage. It would have been fine if you were accustomed to 20-minute stints on that revolving-stair machine at the gym. But I was used to neither. There was, however, one splendid consolation. Seabirds were everywhere! Petrels squatted in the middle of the track like ducks. They were around the size of a black-backed gull, with feathers the colour of ashes, and innocent, doe-like eyes.
Long nights and a day in paradise
After pitching the tent and catching our breath, it was all hands to the wheel. Petrel sampling was on. We each had different roles: the petrel catcher, the notetaker, measurer, the phlebotomist. I was the notetaker that evening, although I’d learn how to take blood samples and handle the petrels over the following days. Our project supervisor, the legendary Brendon, arrived. Soon our team was like a well-oiled machine.
It was challenging to get my bearings in the dark. Each splotch of torchlight provided a piece of the jigsaw puzzle, a bit of bush here, a section of track there. Anything beyond 8m was indistinguishable in the blackness. After sampling about 20 petrels, we retired for a cuppa in the hut. It was very basic, but I loved the place immediately. There was a rainwater tank, bed, shelves, lounge area, small kitchen, and separate composting loo. Graeme would be sleeping in the hut that night- not as lucky as it sounds, for a pair of petrels nested under the floor. Their antics were infamously noisy after dark, hence why we girls opted for a tent pitched outside. Even so, I didn’t get more than 3 hours of sleep the first night. I could blame the seabirds whose calls boomed through my silicone earplugs, but I’d be lying. It, somewhat ironically, was the relaxing pitter-patter of rain. Every few hours I’d touch the tent wall pressing on my side and silently curse. It’s wet, dammit! Gee, I hope it doesn’t get to my phone. What about my camera? Ever since my Middlemarch experience where I got soaked in a small tent, I’d developed a paranoia of sorts.
But nothing came of it. At 7am, I struggled outside into the rosy sunlight, smiling contentedly. How lucky am I? The ocean thundered close by, and a fresh, warm breeze imbued the air. My heart soared with gratitude. Talk about the best birthday ever! Here I was with great chums, tasty food in one of the most stunning places of the North Island.
We spent the day sampling petrels, slowly making our way around the island. During the day, petrels nest in underground burrows, necessitating extreme caution if you’re clomping around in the bush. Afternoon tea was a mixture of birthday cake and delicious pastries. I grabbed my camera and went to explore outside with the girls, captivated by the awesome chasms of swirling white water beyond the cliffs. They roared with the ferocity of a wild animal. Hours later, the air around the island turned copper as the sun sunk. As the sky deepened to lilac, black specs appeared alongside the stars, cartwheeling in the heavens like falling leaves. More petrels were returning home to the island.
An island mystery: who was the uninvited visitor?
Being away from screens is a breath of fresh air. Your mind becomes clearer, and your perspective widens. I believe that despite all the technological advancements of modern times, our societies are becoming more detached and distracted from the basic things we all need: healthy living environments, meaningful social connections, and time to pursue our inspirations.
Graeme had some hilarious stories. When the weather packed in, we’d retreat to the hut and converse as the kettle steam spiralled lazily to the roof. On one such occasion, Graeme mentioned he’d seen something very disturbing. A mystery? We all leant closer.
“I was looking over the trail camera footage the other day. We keep cameras on the island for pest monitoring for rabbits and what-not. I was watching the recording when all of a sudden, these bare legs come walking across the screen at 1am!” He shook his head and shuddered. “It was pretty creepy. Nobody was meant to be here that time of year. The guy was at the back of the island and nowhere near the trails. The gate would’ve been locked. Got no idea how he got here- would’ve risked his neck climbing the cliffs.”
Our bodies tensed like coiled springs. Suddenly, sleeping in the tent looked a whole lot less appealing. A picture flashed in my mind’s eye of a man, perhaps a cousin of the Moehau monster, crouching like Gollum in the bushes.
As terrifying as it was, we were intrigued. Graeme opened the footage on his computer. We were stunned. Sure enough, after 1am a pair of hairy legs, apparently belonging to a Pākehā male wearing stubbies, stroll across the screen. A barefoot, scrawny specimen. We could only see up to his upper-thigh; the rest was up to your imagination.
Theories floated around the table. A curious random person? A dare? Or a potential criminal? Indeed, Graeme mentioned some other disturbing happenings around Te Henga. Once, they found an axe lodged in the old wooden gate at the bottom of the inland. The hut had been burgled a few times, although there was nothing much to steal aside from old dictionaries, possum droppings, and if you were lucky, some tinned tomatoes. Alarmingly, there had been a spat of burglaries on baches around the coast. Apparently, one bach its door broken down with an axe. I began to sense a recurring MO.
The dark side of the West Coast
It’s no secret that the wild West Coast is a dangerous beauty, in more ways than one. The sheer cliffs, unforgiving surf, and criminal activities all combine as a reminder that you must keep your wits about you. Piha, a renowned coastal hotspot just south of Te Henga, is infamous for several disappearances. Stuff runs a comprehensive article on several people who have vanished in this area between 1992-2021.
Some of these cases include:
- Cherie Vousden: disappeared from the Mercer Bay Loop Path at Piha Hill on Saturday, 22nd December, 2012. She was last seen by a couple at 7:15pm walking down the track, never to be seen again.
- Kim Bambus: like Cherie, Kim vanished from the Mercer Bay Loop area on Friday, 24th March, 2017. Creepily, her car was parked in the same spot as Cherie’s vehicle. Kim’s keys were in the ignition, while Cherie’s car was left with the windows down.
- Irena Asher: last seen on the 10th October 2004, walking toward the beach on a road in Piha township.
- Eloi Rolland: a French teenager who went missing on the 7th of March, 2020. His cellphone placed him at Piha Road and Scenic Drive at 9:18am, but his actions after then are unknown.
Lingering thoughts…
Ihumoana will always have a special place in my heart. It’s a place of beguiling beauty, offering a glimpse into what mainland New Zealand once was, and what it could be once again: a wildlife haven. In the end, we sampled over 80 petrels- a record! Many of our native seabirds are threatened with extinction, whether by introduced mammalian predators or commercial fishing. It’s seabird strongholds like Ihumoana that need our support, protection, and investment.
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