Last Chance to See

relaxed when you’ve got them in the hand. I don’t want to hold it for too long since it’s wet and will get chilled through if the water penetrates to the skin. I think I’d better let it go now.”
    We stood back. Carefully, Arab leaned forward with the bird, whose big powerful claws stretched out and scrabbled for the ground even before it got there. At last it let go of Arab’s finger, steadied its weight on the ground, put its head down, and scuttled off.
    That night in the wardens’ hut we jubilantly polished off the remaining beers, and pored over the records of all the kakaposthat had been transferred to Codfish. Arab had made a note of the identity number of the bird, which had been fastened to its leg: 8-44263. Its name was Ralph. It had been transferred to Codfish Island from Pegasus Harbour, Stewart Island, almost exactly a year ago.
    “This is excellent news,” exclaimed Ron. “This is really very, very good news indeed. If this kakapo is coming up to booming condition just a year after being relocated, it’s the best indication we’ve had yet that the transfer program is working. You know that we didn’t want you to come here, and that we didn’t want to track kakapos and risk disturbing them, but as it happens … Well, this is very useful information, and very encouraging indeed.”
    A few days later, when we are standing on top of Kakapo Castle in Fiordland in the shadow of Bill Black’s helicopter, we tell Don Merton that we think we’ve been forgiven.
    “Oh yes, I think so,” he says. “You may have bumbled around a bit and trodden on a few toes, but you’ve actually stirred things up a bit as well. The press conference was very effective, and from what I hear, there’s an imminent decision coming from quite high up to move the kakapo conservation program to the top of the Department’s priority list, which should mean that we get allocated more resources. I just hope it’s not all too late.
    “There are now twenty-five kakapos on Codfish, but only five of those are females, and that’s the crucial point. There’s only one kakapo that we know of left on Stewart Island, and that’s a male. We keep searching for more females, but we doubt if there are any more. Add those to the fourteen birds on Little Barrier and we have a total of only forty kakapos left altogether.
    “And it’s so difficult getting the blighters to breed. In the past they bred very slowly because there was nothing else to keep their population stable. If an animal population rises so fast that it outgrows the capacity of its habitat to feed andsustain it, then it plunges right back down again, then back up, back down, and so on. If a population fluctuates too wildly, it doesn’t take much of a disaster to tip the species over the edge into extinction. So all the kakapo’s peculiar mating habits are just a survival technique as much as anything else. But only because there was no outside competition. Now that they are surrounded by predators, there’s very little to keep them alive, other than our direct intervention. As long as we can sustain it.”
    This reminds me of my motorbike industry analogy, which I have tactfully kept to myself. There are remedies available to motorbike engineers that zoologists do not have. As we tread our way carefully back along the ridge to the helicopter, I ask Don what he feels the long-term prospects for the kakapos really are, and his answer is surprisingly apposite.
    “Well,” he says in his quiet, polite voice, “anything’s possible, and with genetic engineering, who knows. If we can keep them going during our lifespan, it’s over to the next generation with their new range of tools and techniques and science to take it from there. All we can do is perpetuate them during our lifetime and try to hand them on in as good a condition as possible to the next generation and hope like heck that they feel the same way about them as we do.”
    A few minutes later our helicopter rises up above Kakapo Castle, puts its nose down, and heads back up the valleys to Milford Sound, leaving behind a small, scratched depression in the earth and a single, elderly, untouched sweet potato.

B LIND P ANIC
    ASSUMPTIONS ARE THE things you don’t know you’re making, which is why it is so disorienting the first time you take the plug out of a washbasin in Australia and see the water spiraling down the hole the other way around. The very laws of physics are telling you how far you