Millie Kerr - Wilder: How Rewilding is Transforming Conservation and Changing the World

Some other titles in the Bloomsbury Sigma series:

Sex on Earth by Jules Howard

Spirals in Time by Helen Scales

A is for Arsenic by Kathryn Harkup

Suspicious Minds by Rob Brotherton

Herding Hemingways Cats by Kat Arney

The Tyrannosaur Chronicles by David Hone

Soccermatics by David Sumpter

Wonders Beyond Numbers by Johnny Ball

The Planet Factory by Elizabeth Tasker

Seeds of Science by Mark Lynas

The Science of Sin by Jack Lewis

Turned On by Kate Devlin

We Need to Talk About Love by Laura Mucha

Borrowed Time by Sue Armstrong

The Vinyl Frontier by Jonathan Scott

Clearing the Air by Tim Smedley

The Contact Paradox by Keith Cooper

Life Changing by Helen Pilcher

Sway by Pragya Agarwal

Kindred by Rebecca Wragg Sykes

Our Only Home by His Holiness The Dalai Lama

First Light by Emma Chapman

Models of the Mind by Grace Lindsay

The Brilliant Abyss by Helen Scales

Overloaded by Ginny Smith

Handmade by Anna Ploszajski

Beasts Before Us by Elsa Panciroli

Our Biggest Experiment by Alice Bell

Worlds in Shadow by Patrick Nunn

Aesops Animals by Jo Wimpenny

Fire and Ice by Natalie Starkey

Sticky by Laurie Winkless

Racing Green by Kit Chapman

For Richard Henry and the countless unsung heroes of conservation

When I developed the idea for Wilder, I intended to visit every project appearing in its pages. Doing so would have allowed me to describe the innovative work of global rewilders using first-person anecdotes and rich sensory details, and on-the-ground reporting would have brought me into contact with the people responsible for making rewilding a reality. Moreover, Im accustomed to reporting on initiatives that I have witnessed with my own eyes. Its how I work, how I write.

Covid-19 had other plans.

The pandemic began disrupting life in the UK a week after I submitted my book proposal, and Bloomsbury commissioned Wilder several months later. Although lockdowns and travel restrictions were in place by the time I put pen to paper, I continued to believe, optimistically, that restrictions would lift before my deadline arrived: I would be able to travel, not to every destination, perhaps, but to a number of project sites.

Instead, the pandemic lingered, so I changed gears. I homed in on places I had visited in the past and spent countless hours twisting my brain in knots as I considered how to write compelling narratives about places I havent seen and people I havent met. Writers of fiction are used to going on journeys of the mind, but writing fiction isnt my strong suit. Besides, journalists dont invent stories they build them. Like physical structures, stories require robust construction materials, from identifiable characters to narrative arcs.

For me, sketching chapters about unfamiliar places proved a colossal challenge, but something shifted when I started work on Chapter Three, which examines invasive species eradication in New Zealand. I read about a forgotten conservation pioneer named Richard Henry who died nearly 100 years ago (in 1929). As far as I was concerned, Henry was the storys clear protagonist, but had I been able to visit New Zealand while writing Wilder I would have paid greater attention to modern-day rewilders. Henry would have become a bit character, not a star, and I am certain that would have been a mistake.

Writing about Henrys quest to save New Zealands flightless birds gave me the chance to experience a new kind of travel, one that doesnt require aeroplanes or interviews. I realised that even topical stories like those shared in the coming pages can and perhaps should incorporate historic characters and events. While I refined the art of reporting from afar, we all learned to live in a smaller, less mobile world, if only for a time.

Perhaps you are asking yourself why I charged ahead. Why not postpone Wilder until I had the chance to travel as intended? There are several answers to that question, but the simplest goes something like this: as a concept and practice, rewilding is experiencing growth so exponential, journalists like me can barely keep up. I knew from the outset that I wanted to focus my attention on current rewilding initiatives, so postponing this book would have meant setting certain projects aside, instead identifying new ones if and when life returned to normal (will it ever?). Besides, international travel comes with a hefty environmental price tag. If I could reduce my carbon footprint while honouring my vision for this book, I was in.

The rewilding efforts detailed in the coming chapters are all current, but that doesnt mean they are complete. On the contrary, they are ongoing and, in some cases, embryonic. As a result, some projects will have changed or expanded between the time Wilder was completed and published a period of approximately 10 months. Of course, all authors writing about contemporary events face a similar dilemma: how does one finish telling a story when its actual ending has not been reached?

Although I relish neatly ending stories, wrapping them up in silky red bows, I am forced to acknowledge that narratives about rewilding never come to a hard stop. Like nature itself, they and the projects they describe are constantly evolving.

We must not go quietly into this impoverished future.

Ripple, W. et al. (2016)

I slipped into Sudans enclosure at Kenyas Ol Pejeta Conservancy and cautiously approached the gentle giant. Then aged 43, the planets last male northern white rhino was sleeping on his side. I hesitated, frozen in the background, until one of his round-the-clock keepers motioned for me to approach. Standing beside Sudan, I placed my hand on his ribcage and watched as it floated up and down in seeming slow motion.

Feeling self-conscious but compelled, I quietly apologised to Sudan for what our species did to his. My words, of course, werent for him: they were for me. Being in his presence felt like visiting a loved ones deathbed something Ive only done once and not very well but with Sudan, guilt overlaid sadness. I knew that his passing (which occurred two years later) could spell the end for northern white rhinos and people were to blame.

Meeting Sudan was a privilege and so much more. I am rarely at a loss for words, but there is no way to adequately describe how I felt that afternoon. Words in this case, are not enough. One sentiment, however, is easily conveyed: seeing Sudan was like staring extinction in the face. I doubt I will have this privilege or punishment, depending on your perspective again, so I resisted the urge to push discomfort away.

It never left me, but discomfort was soon joined by a wisp of hope. Beside Sudans enclosure was a larger one containing a number of endangered animals including the last-surviving female northern white rhinos, who were contentedly lounging in the sun like a pair of house cats. Like Sudan, they seemed completely unfazed by their celebrity status and the immense pressure that rests on their humped shoulders.