Richard Henry is referred to as the "grandfather of conservation in New Zealand", but many don't know of the sacrifices he made and struggles he faced to help save an iconic, defenceless bird species. This week is the 90th anniversary of his death. Brittney Deguara reports.

In a small rowing boat with his dog, Lassie, at his side, Richard Henry was on a mission.

Between 1896 and 1900, Henry single-handedly ferried more than 500 kākāpō to safety, away from destructive predators on the mainland. In doing so, he pioneered wildlife translocation, a practice still used today.

He isn't a household name, nor is his work widely celebrated or his face on a banknote. But he was one of New Zealand's greatest and original conservationists.

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He should be as revered as suffragette Kate Sheppard and adventurer Sir Edmund Hillary, according to the Department of Conservation's threatened species ambassador, Nicola Toki.

"For a country that prides ourselves on our world-leading conservation efforts, who now lend ourselves out to island eradication projects all over the world, we should revere him for his foresight and his love of these species," Toki says.

Henry led a troubled life consumed by depression, suicide attempts, and loneliness, but he never stopped helping the threatened species. This is Henry's story.

Riccardo Scott Richard Henry is known as the "grandfather of conservation in New Zealand" for his efforts to save the flightless birds.

A ROWBOAT AND A MISSION

Henry's fascination with native wildlife began in Australia, after he and his family migrated there from Ireland in 1851, when he was just 6.

At the age of 29, after working odd jobs and marrying a woman in Victoria, he moved to New Zealand on his own, calling Golden Bay, Taranaki and the Banks Peninsula home before settling at Lake Te Anau.

The local kākāpō population was thriving at the time. European explorer Charlie Douglas once wrote, "they could be caught ... by simply shaking the tree or bush till they tumbled on the ground, something like shaking down apples. I have seen as many as a half a dozen kakapos knocked off one tutu bush this way".

Henry meticulously studied the birds and their eating habits, and once observed a kākāpō that was "so fat from eating tender broadleaf shoots that it could barely toddle to safety" when attacked by a weka.

He said they were "the easiest things in the world to exterminate. A few wild dogs would clear the country in a decade". With the introduction of weasels, stoats and ferrets, Henry witnessed the eradication of entire populations near his home.

He feared that "the chapter of their history is in all likelihood coming to a close".

DEPRESSION AND A NEW PURPOSE

Henry was plagued by depression for many years and once tried to take his own life. But just a few days after his suicide attempt, he received a new job offer: the curator of Resolution Island, a position he would go on to hold for 14 years.

Resolution was gazetted as New Zealand's first reserve, because of concerns that introduced mustelids (weasels, stoats and ferrets) were having a devastating effect on mainland birdlife.

Over the next few years, Henry, assistant Andrew Burt and Lassie worked together to save the declining species. A muzzled Lassie sniffed out the birds on the mainland, and Henry rowed them to safety on Resolution Island in Dusky Sound, Fiordland, and its surrounding smaller islands.

DOC/SUPPLIED Lassie would sniff out the birds on the mainland, and Henry would then row them to safety.

Lassie also wore a bell so Henry could follow her when she was tracking a bird. The captured birds were held for short periods in a pen made of upright punga trunks with their bases buried.

In their 1987 book Richard Henry of Resolution Island, authors John and Susanne Hill quote a letter Henry wrote to the government about the difficulty tracking kākāpō:

"By the time we have all we need stowed in the Putangi she is laden to the gunwales. As well as food and camping gear there is also the sailing and birding gear.

"... We start up hill among the ferns, always up hill, for the steeper it is and the denser the undergrowth the better the kakapos like it. It is like all the time running through a hedge.

"Sometimes a single kakapo will represent a hard day's work, and if half-a-dozen are secured (with a kiwi and a roa), it is considered something of a feat. Once the birds are in portable knapsack cages, we then have to deliver the birds to their new home in the best possible condition. .."

Henry built kākāpō pens on both Resolution Island and Pigeon Island, some of which are still intact, and took a hands-on approach to caring for and relocating the birds..

Unfortunately, the success of the translocation was shortlived, as predators managed to swim to Resolution Island in 1900, killing all of the kākāpō inhabiting it.

SUPPLIED Department of Conservation threatened species ambassador, Nicola Toki with the remains of one of Henry's pens on Pigeon Island.

BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT

Toki visited Pigeon Island and walked in Henry's footsteps in 2013. "To sit inside the remains of one of his kākāpō pens was pretty amazing," she says.

"He was a visionary and a practical bushman compared with an academic (and sometimes he had very robust arguments with academics of the day), but it seemed he truly had the benefit of NZ's unique birds as his driving motivation – which was unusual at the time."

Henry was bitterly disappointed by the failure of his Resolution Island efforts, and later left to become ranger at Kāpiti Island until 1911, before retiring and moving to Auckland.

He died alone in 1929 from senile decay and heart failure. The Department of Conservation (DOC) said the only person to attend his funeral was the postmaster.

JOSEPH JOHNSON/STUFF Department of Conservation threatened species ambassador, Nicola Toki, says Richard Henry should be revered.

SHAPING THE FUTURE OF RECOVERY

Toki is one of many inspired by Henry's passion.

"Richard Henry inspired me because he was determined, dedicated and took initiative to protect our native wildlife in the face of lack of understanding and apathy about our natural world ... [His] story of rowing hundreds of kākāpō and kiwi to offshore islands .... reminds me that as long as we are taking action, there's always hope."

Although his efforts weren't long-lasting – by the early 1990s there were just 51 kākāpō remaining – his original practices have helped the species recover in recent years.

"I only wish he could see today how much his work mattered, because he died a very lonely man."

DOC recovery teams have since successfully removed predators from one-third of New Zealand's offshore islands and have – slowly – helped the kākāpō population thrive.

"It has taken us 30 years, millions of dollars and blood, sweat and tears, to get them to just over 200 individuals in 2019."