We leave the cold, storm-lashed subantarctic behind us and turn north-east, sailing across the open ocean. Days pass with nothing but horizon—until low land begins to rise from the sea. The Chatham Islands. As we draw closer, the air softens, carrying salt and earth rather than ice and spray. Seabirds circle above quieter shores of dunes, lagoons, and low forest. These islands—Rēkohu to Moriori, Wharekauri to Māori—sit over 800 kilometres east of mainland Aotearoa, perched on

Campbell Island by L. Mead & T. Nicklin We leave the mainland far behind us, the last outline of Aotearoa long swallowed by sea and sky. Days into the voyage, the world feels almost entirely ocean—until at last, dark land rises ahead of us through the mist. The Antipodes Islands. As our sailboat cuts closer through the cold southern water, the silence begins to break. First come the seabirds, their calls wheeling over the wind, circling above the cliffs and the swells. Then,

We leave the shelter of the forest behind us and begin to climb, the dark tangle of trunks and fern giving way with every step. The air feels broader up here, lighter, and the ground underfoot changes too—less leaf litter, more wind-worn soil, tussock, and open space. When we reach the rise and look out, the world opens all at once. This is the open country of Aotearoa: grasslands, shrublands, and herbfields stretching across hills, plains, and basins, shaped by climate, fire