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

We’ve spent our time with our eyes on the forest floor, but the bush doesn’t end there. Above us, another world is waiting. A flutter catches our attention—a Pīwakawaka / Fantail (Rhipidura fuliginosa ) darts past, weaving effortlessly between branches, never once touching the ground. It’s a reminder that much of Aotearoa’s life exists up there, not down here. We look up. The canopy stretches high above us, tangled and alive. We pull out a rope and bow, sending a line arcing