Voting for New Zealand Bird Of The Year 2025 had closed. So many birds groups had been furiously lobbying and seeking support for their native bird to be winner this year. Of course it had been an ugly competition, fiercely fought. It always was. Allegation of vote rigging and interference from some of the bigger, bully type birds. The tui as usual tried outlandish tactics to gain favour. The tiny birds like the titipounamu appealed to those that liked to support the underdog/bird. Being New Zealand’s smallest bird, they made a noisy entry by landing en mass on our the famous tree, Tāne Mahuta. It was a master stroke of media genius and it catapulted them to number 1 for a few hours.
But as the votes were being counted the birds in the forest carried on their bird business, oblivious to what was happening in the human world.
A few days later, the 2025 winner was announced. It was the New Zealand Native Falcon, the kārearea. This proud and beautiful bird that featured on the New Zealand $20 bill was bird of the year. A win well deserved.
It reminded me of my experience with a young kārearea as a child. My thoughts wandered then to the Jack Rabbit Bird. Was he still alive? Deep in a Northland forest, leading his solitary life without human interference?
Few knew of his existence. I had always watched for media stories reporting unusual bird sightings, none ever surfaced from that distant part of the country. That old bird too vigilant, too wily and too smart to be discovered.
Or at least I hoped. A combination of bird and dinosaur, he was a survivor from our primeval past. If he had died, I believed in my heart I would have known.
Three of us knew of his existence. One now long dead, the 2nd aging and I was the 3rd. As a child my Dad said, “Never, ever tell anyone about the Jack Rabbit Bird”.
Dad had met him as a kid. He called him Jack Rabbit Bird, on account of his huge, taloned hairy feet. His real name was Manu O Te Kohu. Bird of the mist.
Family talk at gatherings would often turn to the tales of Jack Rabbit Bird. Like so many family folklores it was humoured, then dismissed with a refill of the wine glass. I always smiled secretively to myself, I knew this bird was real, he was my special friend. My Dad had known he was real, this bird my last link to him.
Jack Rabbit Bird or Manu O Te Kohu had changed my life. This bird became my friend when I was so sad. Now many years down the track, it was time to see if my old friend still bounded the boughs of the kauri.
After reliving my childhood memories, I decided to see if I could find him.
Two days later and with trepidation I made the journey north from Auckland city. Driving in the dark. Keen that no-one saw me pass. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I revisited the raw memories of my childhood. Saving baby birds from precarious nests, catching kōura, my Dad dying suddenly.
After many hours’ drive through the night, I arrived. Parking the car at the farm boundary as dawn was breaking. A mist hung over the creek, tuis called early morning greetings. Leaving the car well hidden, I threw my pack on my back and I wondered if my mission would be successful? I crossed the old wooden bridge, wondering if the Troll family still lived underneath? The tōtaras were taller but the rolling green hills looked smaller. This farm, the place I had lived the first part of my life.
I knew every inch of this farm as a kid. It was my playground as well as my home. The last of six children, I had freedom and company if I chose. If I wasn’t playing with puppies in the dog kennels, then I was off exploring the farm. The hidden gullies full of ferns and bubbling springs, creeks that were home to fat eels and fresh water mussels. I was always watchful on my adventures, looking for nests to raid or for Jack Rabbit Bird to call out to me for a chat.
Now all those years later, I was back. Leaving the city 12 hours earlier I told friends I was heading away for a few days. Nothing unusual in that as I was often known to go ‘walkabout’. I hoped a misplaced step in a steep gully wouldn’t be my undoing, there was no-one to rescue me if it went bad.
The car hidden off the farm track, I headed towards the ridgeline. Herds of shiny black Angus roamed the hills, quietly grazing. I had a hard day’s trek ahead of me to reach the secluded Kauri valley. Thousands of hectares all fenced off, protected from the outside world.
I passed through paddocks, all named in my childhood: Bonny’s Paddock, Rabbit Paddock, The Gully. I could hear Dad’s whistle in my mind as I walked. A powerful whistle that sent a tremble down your spine as a kid. Upon hearing it, you sprinted to open the gate or turn off the pump before you were on the receiving end of a blasting from him.
My fitness was not great and as I headed up the hills sweat trickled down the inside of my merino. It felt good, heading back to a place I loved, back to my green friends. I smelt the forest long before I saw it, these trees had stood sentry for hundreds, some for thousands of years.
Fenced off, only one point of entry, this was now overgrown with ancient blackberry. Vines thick like sausages, no-one had entered for a long time. No kauri dieback here. A parcel of primeval forest surrounded by a predator fence, protected by a QEII covenant, pests eradicated and then the bush and its inhabitants left alone to thrive.
Climbing the gate, avoiding the vicious blackberry thorns, I hit the ground with a thump. A pīwakawaka with a tiny baby beside her flitted in front of me. She twittered as I scrapped back leaves for her to find insects for them both. I continued onward. Three hours of hard tramp still ahead of me to reach the limestone rock outcrop.
As I walked, birdsong unfurled around me, echoing off the giant trunks. Lifting my spirit and making me wish I had been here for the dawn chorus. My hand caressed the kauri bark, mottled and smooth. A cold wind swept through the trees, the single call of a koromako silencing all other birdsong. I reminded myself of my mission. Finding Manu O Te Kohu.
My ego not such that I expected to just find him. I was being watched, assessed, hopefully welcomed back by the bush and its inhabitants.
The limestone outcrop appeared before I expected it. Deep in thought I had traversed the steep climb quickly. Arriving, I dumped my pack and found a comfortable mossy spot. I slumped against the warm limestone rock. My heart rate dropped, I closed my eyes to rest and fell asleep.
The hairs on the back of my neck bristled, instinctively I knew Manu O Te Kohu was there. Suddenly I was fully awake with goosebumps all over my body. It was always the same when he appeared.
“About time, young one. What brings you back? Looking for babies to steal?” He cackled at me. His voice croaky. As a child I often ‘rescued’ baby birds. Carrying them home carefully, feeding, caring for them until they were fully feathered and able to survive. Then releasing them back to Mother Nature.
Manu O Te Kohu sat on a mossy rock. Looking as glorious as ever. He eyeballed me. Yellow eyes and horned feathery ears. I felt 12 again, in awe of this creature. Thick plumage, shiny gold and green, like our precious pounamu. Around his lethal hooked beak were whiskered feathers. He was such a beauty with enormous, reptilian, hairy talons. He smelt faintly of honey.
The only difference was when he spoke, his head slightly to one side. One of his eyes was rheumy, a cataract? Was he finally aging?
“Wondering about my eye, young one? Well, I’ve got you to thank for that.” I sat bolt upright. “You and your do-gooding. Remember that pesky falcon you decided to feed? Well, he got too big for his boots, tried to knock me off my perch. Some of your ego had rubbed off on him. You looked after him too well.” I hadn’t thought of the young kārearea for years. His mum shot by a hunter just as he was about to fledge. Every day for weeks, I would make the long walk in, climb the limestone outcrop and leave strips of rabbit meat. But he was one baby bird not to be taken home in my pocket to be hand reared. I felt sick that he had turned on Manu O Te Kohu.
A feisty young kārearea, he did not want me as a friend. But hunger overcame his fierce distrust, and he accepted the meat I offered, rather than starve to death.
“Not to be concerned, young one. That bird and I are good friends now. Although I’ve not seen him for a while. The Grey Range was a better place for him after we came to blows. But as you can see, my eye paid the price.” We sat in silence. I thought about how much I had enjoyed this place, my friendship with him, my sadness when Dad died. The enormity of losing a parent and then being so dropped into a world of grieving family, a funeral, massive life changes.
My friendship with this bird had helped build a resilience in me that set me up for life. He was always the wise one, wisdom gathered over hundreds of years which he shared with a broken-hearted girl. He taught me that grief and loss were part of life, that everything passes. He’s right, everything does pass with time.
Jack Rabbit Bird spoke, “So, why are you here, Girl?”
“Well, I thought you might like a visitor?” He roared, a tiny feather flew off one of his ears, caught the gentle breeze and floated up into the air, looking like a jewelled insect as it floated away. No bullshitting this old bird.
“I came because it’s been too long, I came because I’m moving. To a beautiful place many, many days’ travel from here, lots of bush, lots of birds. But no Jack Rabbit Bird.” I smiled, momentarily a little sad.
He considered my words, looked long and hard at me and then turned to go. His green feathered back a glorious coat.
“Take care,” he said. “Remember, we are always here.” Then he was gone.
I sat for ages not moving, enjoying the peace of the bush. Making plans for my future. Then I threw my pack on to walk back out. At the last point where I could glimpse the limestone outcrop, I turned for a final goodbye. I stood, stunned, I saw hundreds of Jack Rabbit Birds.
On top of the largest rock sat Manu O Te Kohu. Surrounding him a whole family of Jack Rabbit Birds. All smaller than him, different shades of green, but all with those feathered ears and enormous taloned feet. His family. All those years they were watching me every time I was visited. My heart was glad, he was never solitary, just very smart.
I waved to them all and I turned for home.
Author: Linda Farrelly
Linda lives on a small farm in Tasman with her partner, two dogs, a flock of spoilt sheep and a free-ranging garden. After a career in media, she now works in the aged care sector helping people navigate significant life changes. The inspiration for this story came from her childhood and from her brother’s imaginary bird friend.
