A Choice Between Penguins, Wool, and Wine

Korora, also known as Fairy Penguins, are the smallest penguins in the world.

Back in November, when most folks were spewing expletives as they navigated miles of Thanksgiving traffic and other challenges that come with gathering around a 20-pound dead bird, a group of Wild Fibers adventurers was enjoying a leisurely cruise around the coast of New Zealand.

In addition to the ship’s regular itinerary featuring multiple wineries and lushly forested islands, several wooly excursions— exclusive to Wild Fibers—had also been arranged. I assured everyone in the group that if they so desired, they could always go on an excursion with the rest of the ship instead of a fiber-y visit. What I didn’t anticipate was the reverse. Specifically, when it came to visiting a sheep farm that just happened to include a colony of Korora, also known as the Fairy Penguin or Blue Penguin.

Measuring just 15 inches high and weighing less than three pounds, the Fairy Penguin is the smallest penguin in the world. At Pohatu Penguins, they have 2000! Some are Blue Penguins, and some are a subspecies found only in the Canterbury Plains known as White-flippered Penguins. (They are about an inch taller than the Blues.) Although Pohatu is internationally acclaimed for its conservation efforts in protecting the Little Penguin, it had been selected as a Wild Fibers destination because of the unlikely relationship between penguins and sheep.

When Heritage Expeditions (the ship’s owner) contacted Shireen Helps (co-founder of Pohatu Penguins) to arrange for our visit, she was thrilled to learn of our interest in visiting her sheep, and not the wee penguins. [Full disclosure, I had never heard of Pohatu Penguins. I was told we would have a unique a farm tour when we tied-up in Akaroa. I had no idea what was in store.]

Now, to put things in context, when I am onboard a ship leading a Wild Fibers Tour, there is a modified agenda that typically includes farm visits, mill tours, etc. I work closely with the ship’s Expedition’s Leader (EL), who is responsible for making sure the ship can reach the intended landing site. If bad weather makes an excursion impossible, the EL needs a long list of alternatives up their sleeve. Not surprisingly, this list rarely includes a back-up sheep stop.

Therefore, if plans change, I am not only ready with a big apology to my group, but frantically looking for an alternative. Thankfully, this doesn’t happen very often. And, in truth, everyone typically understands. Still, no one likes to be the bearer of bad news, especially to those on holiday.

The night before our visit to Pohatu, Nate (our EL) called me into the office. He had just hung up the phone with Shireen and the news wasn’t good. It had been raining steadily for the past two days and there was a good chance the stream that ran past the house—which is next to the barn —which is where the sheep are kept, might be impassable.

“Well, can’t we just walk across?” I asked, knowing that we were all given a pair of knee-high rubber boots to use for our Zodiac landings. Surely there would be a place we could cross on foot.

Nate, who has a high threshold for adventure, looked at me quizzically.

“Linda, do you really think your group can walk across a stream?”

I paused. Come to think of it, several of them weren’t terribly sure-footed on dry land.

“Okay . . . Let’s cross our fingers and see what tomorrow looks like.” I replied. “Just in case we can’t go, what’s the rest of the ship doing?”

“They’re going to a winery. You can join them. But you also can’t tell the other passengers where your group is supposed to be going.”

“Why?”

“Because some of them will be jealous that you were scheduled to see the penguins. They will feel excluded”

It’s not often that I get to gloat about being a sheepy person, but in this case, I was glad we had the enviable alternative. Provided, of course, we could make it.

By the next morning the rain had stopped although it was still overcast. I forewarned everyone that there was a chance we might drive for 30 minutes and then have to turn back if the water was too high. Alternatively, If they would prefer to go look at grapevines and enjoy a tipple or two, they could go with the rest of the ship.

Everyone but Bob was willing to take a chance. And to be fair, Bob’s wife came on the trip for the wool, Bob had come for the wine.

Shortly after 9:00 a.m., Joey Cataliotti fetches us from the pier in Akaroa, a former whaling hub located on the South Island’s east coast. Joey is the daughter of Shireen and Francis Helps and spends most of her days (and nights) leading tours to the penguin colony. Like her mother, she was also delighted to learn we had come to see the sheep. And as luck would have it, Joey is also a member of the ‘wild herd’ and raises Babydoll Sheep.

On the road to Flea Bay.

As we begin our drive to Flea Bay (an unfortunate name for a spectacularly beautiful place on Banks Peninsula) the conversation flip flops from penguins and sheep, to rats and cats, and the ongoing battle against climate change—a perfect microcosm of our fragile ecosystem where non-native species have run things amuck.

It is a steep ascent as we leave the small town and before we can even reach the mountaintop, a steady drizzle begins, bringing a cloud cover that envelops the van. I estimate visibility is less than 20 feet. Joey is not the least bit phased. She has been traveling this road for more than 40 years and could, no doubt, get us to Pohatu with zero visibility.

Occasionally, there is a break in the clouds, and we can see small clusters of sheep grazing by the road. But the stunning views of Banks Peninsula are completely obscured, prompting Joey to announce we will have to return when it was sunny—a nice idea, but I suspect I would rely on the brochure pictures instead. (And I have.)

In the course of my work, I have met plenty of adults whose childhood was spent on a sheep farm, but Joey is the first who also grew up among hundreds of penguins as well. Her version of normal was shaped by a mother who was just as apt to be in the kitchen tending a sick lamb or a weak penguin chick as she was to be making a pot of soup. The aroma alternated between pungent dead fish and simmering broth from morning to night.

The story of Pohatu Penguins begins in the 1980s when Francis Helps and his brother purchased the property. They were two ambitious, hardworking farm boys anxious to claim a plot of land for their own. The place was overgrown and riddled with gorse. There was plenty of work to be done and they managed to secure a 100% mortgage on their dream. But the land was also home to hundreds of Fairy Penguins who spend their days at sea, and then come home at night to their nest—directly under the floorboards of Francis’ kitchen.

They squawked and brayed as penguins are want to do and continued doing so . . . all . . . night . . . long.

Despite the nocturnal nuisance, Francis forged ahead not only in reforesting the land with native species, but he and Shireen soon realized the penguins were at risk. Poor land management meant the 512-hectare farm was an ideal homestead for stoats, rats, and weasels, the very animals adept at stealing penguin eggs. Feral cats and dogs off-lead also had eyes (and lips) on the little penguins. And then there were the fishermen whose large gill nets were killing the pinnipeds too.

Plus, the traffic. After spending their day at sea, the penguins commute home every evening at dusk, crossing over a road that borders the bay. It wasn’t unusual for Francis to find up to 20 dead penguins in a single night.

Roadkill of any description is upsetting, but penguin roadkill evokes a whole new level of heartache.

While Joey continues driving and chatting-on about penguin perils, I have my nose pressed to the window, trying to determine how hard it's still raining. Everyone in the van, myself included, is now even more excited about seeing the penguins, but I’m silently worried about crossing the stream.

Foxglove is ubiquitous on the farmstead.

We continue down the road that switchbacks down the other side of the mountain until we arrive at the edge of Flea Bay, and the entrance to Pohatu. The visibility has improved . . . slightly. We can at least see the water and the small farmstead off to the left. Joey hops out to open the gate and I can see the stream is another 100 feet in front of us. The water doesn’t look terribly high, but I have no frame of reference.

She walks down for a closer look and returns to the van. “I think we can make it,” she says. “Hold on!”

The van creeps down the steep embankment and as we enter the stream, I can feel it shimmy. Joey pushes firmly on the gas and soon we are climbing out the other side.

Instinctively, I exhale in relief. It was probably louder than I intended.

The homestead consists of the main farmhouse—a charming old building where Joey was raised with her siblings, and where her parents (and the penguins) still live. There are several freshly painted outbuildings, including the barn, plus a few cottages that Pohatu rents to tourists. They are adamant that prospective guests understand that they will have an intimate penguin experience—possibly one that little last well into the night. But the income from the cottages along with trekkers who pay a daily fee to access the property, all help with Pohatu’s conservation efforts.

Trekking along the coast of Banks Peninsula.

We drive up next to the barn where a small overhand made of corrugated metal offers a bit of shelter. More than a dozen sheep are huddled underneath. They are soaking wet.

They seem just as displeased about the rain as the rest of us.

What I have not mentioned to the group until this very moment is that we have not really come to see Shireen’s flock of market sheep, we have come to see her prize flock of rare breeds, including the Arawapa: a rare breed of sheep native to New Zealand’s Arawapa Island in Marlborough Sounds, where it has been isolated since its introduction in 1867. Some believe the Arawapa possibly escaped from a herd of Spanish Merinos that originated in Australia. Other theories suggest the Arawapa came from the Middle East and were introduced by whalers back in the 1500s. Today, they are classified as rare, which is part of why Shireen is attracted to them. But they also have a beautiful, fine fleece—similar to the Merino. Shireen is an accomplished fiber artist. So much so that she used the prize money she won in a fiber contest years ago to help purchase a station wagon for her then growing family.

Mind you, it's not easy to find Arawapa sheep, especially outside of New Zealand, and I’m thrilled we have the chance to see a few—albeit soaking wet.

Joey phones her mother, who she suspects might be in the house having a nap. I tell her not to disturb her, I know Joey is more than capable of answering our questions.

“But I know she wants to come and meet you. She loves talking about her sheep.”

And why not? In addition to the Arawapa, Shireen has been bitten (hard) by the "cutest sheep in the world” craze, the Valais Blacknose. When I had my first encounter with the breed, just a few months before Covid, I was smitten harder than a teenage crush. I thought I wouldn’t be swept into this raging phenomenon over sheep that have the reverse markings of a Panda Bear and the personality of a Golden Retriever. I thought I knew better. And furthermore, I'm a goat girl at heart.

Not that I am spineless, but I challenge anyone who has spent even a moment or two with a Valais Blacknose to pass-up the opportunity for a second chance. They are adorable—and addictive. When Heritage Expeditions told me this excursion included seeing them, I didn’t need to know another thing. Which is also why I probably suggested we could wade across the stream. They are worth the risk.

Suddenly, the rain begins pounding furiously on the roof of the van. In one collective step, the sheep squeeze closer together. Joey opens the van’s sliding door, but no one moves—except me. I am three muddy steps away from ovine ecstasy and I quickly clamber over my fellow passengers, encouraging them to follow. Oddly, they prefer to stay dry.

As I gently make my way into the sheep huddle, not wishing to startle them by a stranger's presence, Shireen emerges from the house in her Wellies and a flannel shirt. By the time she reaches us, she’s as wet as the sheep.

None of us seem to care.

Joey happily holding the umbrella for her mother, and Bob.

I am armed and ready to begin with my questions, but the moment isn’t right. Shireen has grain in her pockets, and I quickly offer my hands so I can enjoy feeding the mob. They are used to being hand fed, and the larger ones are pushing out the smaller ones. And then there’s Bob—the sheep, not the human.

Bob has some of the markings of a Valais Blacknose, but not perfect. Ideally, he should have black patches on his knees and black socks as well. But none of this diminishes his appeal. I'm certain if Bob could figure out how to scramble into my arms and be carried around like an 60-pound baby, he would. I am also certain Bob is a bottle baby, and knowing a little about how Shireen treats animals, I’m not surprised he’s spoiled beyond recognition.

Bob’s canine proclivities prove to be so irresistible, he entices most of the group out of the van, braving the downpour for a chance to snuggle.

For the next five minutes, no one thinks about penguins. We are enveloped by Shireen and her sheep, and we can’t imagine why anyone would rather be looking at grapes instead. Bob (the sheep) manages to rub his (pungent) wet wool against everyone, while inhaling every last bit of grain he can find.

With the feeding frenzy slowing down, I am finally ready to query Shireen about the curious relationship between sheep and penguins. But before she can answer, the rain turns biblical. Shireen looks at the stream and quickly urges us to get back in the van.

“You need to leave now!” she shouts. “The water’s starting to rise.”

Sure enough, the height of the stream had nearly doubled in the short time we had been there. It was easy to see how rapidly we could get trapped.

“Wait,” said Joey. “They haven’t seen the penguins!”

Joey was right. We had come to see the sheep, but we still wanted to see the famous Fairy Penguins.

A White-flippered penguin in her well-protected nesting box.

Fortunately, not far from the barn, two nesting boxes were tucked under the eve of a building. As part of their conservation efforts, hundreds of these small, wooden boxes have been built for the penguins. (Ordinarily, they would burrow into the ground.) The boxes not only provide better protection from predators, but it is easier for the staff to check and see how the chicks are doing.

It is still early in the season for the chicks to be hatching, but Joey carefully opens the top of the box so we can have a quick peak at the smallest penguin in the world. Curled up in a corner, the wee penguin slowly lifts her head to look at us. She is no bigger than a fuzzy house slipper. Even under inclement conditions, I can see the blue in her feathers and the white blaze along her flipper. Never in my life did I think I would get to see a Fairy Penguin. The magnitude of the moment is not in the least bit diminished by its brevity.

“Quickly!” Shireen calls out again as Joey ushers us back into the van, barely waiting for the door to shut before hitting the gas. Without any warning of “Hold on,” Joey blasts down the embankment and we all feel the current pulling us toward the bay. There is a moment when I wonder if Mother Nature will win, and our wild fibers adventure will turn into wild waters—but we make it. Reflexively we erupt with applause when we reach the other side. And then turn back to wave good-bye to Shireen. She has kept an eye on us the whole time.

Shireen waves back with relief. She is a fierce some protector of man and animal and alike. Of this, I have no doubt.

By the law averages, the number of times the weather has foiled my Wild Fibers agenda, either for an interview, a tour excursion, or both, is relatively few. I can’t be upset. At least we were able to see both the penguins (and Bob), if only for a few fleeting moments. And, of course, the chance to meet Shireen. The work she and her husband have down to conserve the Fairy Penguin and re-wild the land is a lesson to us all. Not just in action, but in heart as well.

But what about the sheep? I still want to know how they are instrumental in protecting the penguins? Of the hundreds of stories I have done about uncommon roles sheep can play, this one has me befuddled.

Naturally, Joey has the answer.

When Shireen and Francis began restoring the property, they were focused on protecting the penguins, raising sheep, and converting the land into productive (native) pasture. Each project had its own timeline based on individual growth cycles. And the Helps’ had their own timeline based on finances. Initially, everyone was clustered around Flea Bay, but as the sheep flock grew, and so did the penguin colony (FYI: a group of penguins on land is called a waddle; a group of penguins in the water is called a raft) the distance between the two began to grow as well. And then something strange began to happen.

As the sheep moved out, the survival rate of the penguin chicks began to fall. The Helps were puzzled and so were the scientists, who had protested the two species cohabitating from the start. It was only after thoughtful investigation that they realized how much the sheep had inadvertently been helping the penguins by tromping down the grass that lead to their nests.

Without the sheep, the grasses began to grow, making it increasingly difficult for the penguins to access their highways. Little penguin feet (and big ones, too) aren’t made for walking. Yes, they do waddle, but it’s not their most efficient mode of transportation. Hence, anytime you see a penguin colony—typically in the snow— there is a network of (poo-riddled) highways that make it easier for the penguins to come and go. Unwittingly, the sheep were keeping the highways well-trimmed. Without them, the Little Penguins would often expend too much energy trying to get home and, in some cases, not make it at all.

But there was a secondary benefit. The shorter grasses meant there was less fertile ground to host a range of insects—yet another morsel for the rats and stoats to feast on. (Rats are opportunistic feeders and will devour most anything, at least once.) With the decline in predators came the decline in predation.

The choice was clear. If the Helps were going to be successful in their conservation efforts, the sheep needed be on the “payroll” as well.

There are so many things I love about this story. I love learning how things are not always as they seem. And I love meeting people who are dedicated to changing the world . . . one little penguin at a time. But most of all, I love the fact that Wild Fibers continues to be an extraordinary way to map the planet, forging new friendships in fleece, and flippers in some of the most spectacular. . . and soggy settings.