Conifers - New Zealand's 21st Century Rabbit?
- 12 hours ago
- 3 min read
In 50 years’ time, I suspect, New Zealanders will look back on exotic forestry through the same lens we now view the introduction of rabbits.
Rabbits were introduced in the 1830s for commercial gain, with hopes of building a fur and meat trade. Without predators, their population exploded, particularly in the dry country of Otago, where the rabbit plague led farmers to abandon stations altogether. By 1890, just 50 years after their introduction, rabbits had driven farmers off more than half a million hectares of Otago farmland.
Unsurprisingly, introducing an exotic species with a prolific capacity for reproduction and no natural predators creates an imbalance. Environmental and financial consequences quickly outweigh any intended economic gain – and the burden falls, as it so often does, on those whose livelihoods rely on the land.
As our forefathers made light work of felling native forests, Pinus radiata offered a fast, simple solution for timber. The structural qualities of Douglas fir saw forest blocks established in their thousands, while farmers welcomed the shelter Pinus contorta provided across the nutrient-stripped plains of central Otago.
Like rabbits, each introduction was purposeful. Like rabbits, each was justified. Like rabbits, the consequences failed to account for intention.
The key difference lies not in the reasoning behind their introduction, but in our response once the imbalance becomes clear. With rabbits, New Zealanders, from Parliament to the public, quickly and unanimously recognised the problem. In a space where we now tread carefully, there was once zero tolerance for the loss of farmland, hollowed rural communities, depleted biodiversity, and damaged waterways.
Yet concern is often downplayed for the capacity exotic forestry, particularly permanent blocks, holds for the same, if not greater consequences.
At its worst, conifers are framed not as the problem, but as the solution that we’re told to trust.
We’re all familiar with the phrase “breed like rabbits” – a reflection of their explosive reproductive capacity in the absence of natural predators.
“Spread like wilding conifers” might not pack the same punch, but perhaps it should.
Douglas fir begins producing cones at around 12 years of age. From that point, a single tree can produce more than 20,000 seeds annually. Even with a conservative survival rate of just 0.5%, one tree has the potential to generate over a million descendants within decades.
Landscape change from rabbit invasion took years. Wilding conifers take decades. But in the end, we’ve landed ourselves with the same problem.
From a conservation perspective, perhaps it’s fortunate that rabbit farming never truly scaled. Because, like conifers, rabbits seldom respected fencelines.
New Zealanders once had the common sense to recognise that the loss of land – and the rural identity it supports – far outweighed any return from rabbit meat or fur. Even then, despite early recognition, we have been fighting rabbits for more than a century.
That fight would have been far harder to win against a well-funded and well-resourced rabbit owners’ association.
Rural campaigns rely on backing from urban centres to drive real change. Yet while folks in the city may not live the problem, they’re influenced by how it is presented.
After all, it’s not a plague of rabbits when it’s framed as fluffy bunnies. It’s not an invasion of conifers when it’s sold as a climate-change solution.
Pause for a moment and consider the alternative: a parallel New Zealand where, despite knowing the damage rabbits caused, the government continued to subsidise their spread, investors profiting while taxpayers funded control.
Imagine wealthy rabbit investors buying out farms, displacing sheep and beef, the backbone of rural communities, and transforming landscapes into a moving blanket of grey.
Wrap it in polished campaigns. Publish advertorials dressed as journalism. Reassure the public there’s nothing to worry about.
Sound familiar? This time, we’re not just living it. We’re funding it.
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