New Zealand: Otago – Chook Tree

🐔 The Curious Case of the Chook Tree at Hector

There are many reasons to stop a car in rural Otago. Mechanical failure. Sheep. A scenic view that demands a photograph. But rarely does one screech to a halt because of poultry lodged several metres up a tree. And yet, that was precisely why we found ourselves parked on the roadside near Hector, staring upward in mild disbelief at what can only be described as a small arboreal chicken convention.

The Chook Tree, as it has become known, sat just outside the tiny settlement of Hector on the West Coast of New Zealand’s South Island. Hector itself is not large enough to have what one might call a “centre”. It has a few houses, a hall, and an air of stoic persistence. Like many West Coast settlements, it owes its existence to coal. In the late nineteenth century, the Buller district was thick with mining activity. Men came in their hundreds to hack coal from the hillsides, and small communities sprang up wherever a seam looked promising. Hector was one of them. It was named after Sir James Hector, a prominent geologist in the nineteenth century who did much to survey and document New Zealand’s natural resources. He would, I suspect, have raised an eyebrow at the tree.

🌳 A Tree With an Unexpected Crop

The tree itself was unremarkable at first glance. A fairly ordinary specimen, standing beside the road as if it had been minding its own business for decades. But as one’s eyes adjusted, the details became apparent. Dozens of toy chickens – plastic, rubber, ceramic – had been wedged into the branches. Some were bright yellow in the traditional storybook style. Others were realistic brown hens with painted eyes that seemed to question our life choices. A few had faded badly in the West Coast weather, bleached by rain and wind into something faintly spectral.

The origins of the Chook Tree went back only a few years. As with many rural curiosities, it began as a private joke. A local resident had apparently placed a single toy chicken in the branches. Why? Accounts varied. Some said it was to amuse passing children. Others claimed it was a light-hearted response to the monotony of State Highway 67. In small communities, entertainment can be homemade. Whatever the precise reason, the lone chicken did not remain alone for long.

Soon, others added their own contributions. A second chicken appeared. Then a third. Before long, the tree had become a sort of informal installation. Travellers began stopping to inspect it. Some added their own birds. The collection grew in the haphazard manner of all good eccentric traditions. There was no committee. No signage. No official blessing. Just a tree and an increasingly ambitious poultry population.

🚗 Roadside Culture in Rural New Zealand

New Zealand has a long and slightly baffling tradition of roadside oddities. There is the famous bra fence in Central Otago, which began in the late 1990s when a handful of bras appeared on a fence line near Cardrona. That too began as a joke and became a minor landmark. There are gumboot sculptures in Taihape, corrugated iron artworks in various towns, and the odd piano balanced improbably in a paddock.

These things tell you something about rural culture. They suggest a dry humour and a willingness to make do with what is at hand. They also suggest that when one lives a long way from metropolitan distraction, one makes one’s own amusement. The Chook Tree fitted squarely within this tradition. It was not grand. It was not curated. It simply existed, growing organically as each passer-by felt moved to contribute a chicken.

Hector and the surrounding Buller district have always had to be self-reliant. Coal mining shaped the area from the late nineteenth century through much of the twentieth. Towns rose and fell with the fortunes of the mines. When seams were exhausted or demand dropped, populations dwindled. Through it all, communities held together with a mixture of practicality and understated humour. The Chook Tree felt like a modern echo of that resilience – a small act of collective whimsy in a region more commonly associated with hard hats and pit ponies.

🐣 The Rise and Fall

As with all good stories, there was a twist. The tree’s fame spread quietly through social media. Visitors posted photographs. More chickens appeared. For a time, it became something of a minor pilgrimage site for those travelling the West Coast. You would see cars pulled over, people craning their necks and laughing. It was absurd, of course. That was the point.

But roadside attractions are vulnerable. Weather takes its toll. So do people with less benign intentions. At various points, chickens were removed or damaged. There were reports of the tree being stripped back, then restocked. It became a small cycle of loss and renewal. In this, too, it reflected the history of the district – boom and bust, disappearance and return.

Standing there, looking up at the birds lodged improbably among the branches, I was struck by how such a simple thing could generate such disproportionate delight. It was not art in any formal sense. It was not heritage in the official register. Yet it had become part of the local narrative. It gave travellers a reason to pause in a place they might otherwise have driven straight through.

📍 Finding It

The Chook Tree lay just off State Highway 67, near Hector, north of Westport. You would not miss it once you knew what to look for. There was usually a car or two parked nearby, their occupants gazing upward with expressions that hovered between amusement and faint confusion.

The landscape around it was classic West Coast: lush, slightly brooding hills; a sky that looked as though it might rain at any moment, even when it wasn’t; and the sense of being a long way from anywhere hurried. The sea was not far off. Nor were the remnants of mining infrastructure that once powered the district’s economy.

🤔 Reflections Under the Branches

I have always had a soft spot for the peculiar and the unnecessary. Grand monuments are impressive, but they can feel remote. A tree full of toy chickens, on the other hand, feels approachable. It asks nothing of you except a moment’s attention and perhaps a small chuckle.

In a country famed for its dramatic landscapes – the Southern Alps, fjords, glaciers – it is oddly comforting that a modest roadside tree can hold its own in the memory. We drove on afterwards, of course. There were miles to cover and other stops to make. But the image lingered.

It seemed to me that the Chook Tree captured something essential about rural New Zealand: a refusal to take oneself too seriously, a willingness to create meaning from the ordinary, and a quiet invitation to slow down. You can keep your grand attractions and interpretive centres. Sometimes, a tree full of plastic hens does the job rather nicely.