In Hong Kong's thriving metropolis, hundreds of skyscrapers compete for their place in the crowded skyline. But step only slightly beyond this concrete jungle, and a different scene awaits: rolling hillsides and mountains, shrublands and forests, where the only sound is the gentle lilt of birdsong. Despite only spanning 423 square miles (1,095 sq km), Hong Kong houses more types of bird, mammal, insect and plant than the whole of the British Isles. But this vibrancy is only a fraction of the wildlife that existed thousands of years ago, when lush green forests covered much of the land, and bears, elephants and rhinoceroses roamed freely. Over the last few hundred years, Hong Kong lost almost all its forests, and with it much of its animal life. But in the 1970s, the Hong Kong government began a reforestation program. Four decades later, conservationists and scientists are still hard at work recreating the lost forests – and with them, Hong Kong's lost wildlife.
Chinese immigration first disturbed Hong Kong's halcyon landscape in the 11th and 12th Centuries, when settlers started to clear the forests. The population kept growing and, when Hong Kong became a centre for lime production, locals felled huge amounts of trees to fire the kilns.
"Already, the forest was probably in not-so-good shape," says Gunter Fischer, head of the flora conservation department atKadoorie Farm & Botanic Garden in Hong Kong. "Deforestation and fragmentation of habitats actually goes back many centuries." On the high ground, such as Hong Kong's highest peak Tai Mo Shan, farmers levelled patches of indigenous and pioneer tree species to make way for tea plantations. Then World War Two came. The occupying Japanese cleared large swathes of forests for cooking fuel, leaving much of Hong Kong little more than "barren rock." By the end of the war, small patchy forests covered less than 4% of the land. The loss of the trees had widespread consequences.
View from the summit of Tai Mo Shan
Forested slopes prevent soil erosion and landslides, and the rich woodland tapestry provides habitats for animals. "But most of the megafauna disappeared alongside the forest, because once the big trees are gone, canopy-dwelling animals can't survive," Fischer says. What's more, the dense vegetation of a healthy forest soaks up water like a sponge, filters it and then releases it all year round. This ensures a reliable water supply. After the war, with the forests gone, Hong Kong faced a severe water shortage and had to resort to rationing. So over the next two decades, the government began to build reservoirs for potable water. "For these reservoirs to function properly, the government had to improve the catchment area," says Derrick Yuk Fo Lai of the Chinese University of Hong Kong. "This is one of the reasons why the government started planting trees around Hong Kong."
A leopard cat (Prionailurus bengalensis) (Credit: Shibai Xiao/naturplace.com)
The work began in earnest in 1976. The government designated about 41% of the land area of Hong Kong, which consists of more than 230 outlying islands and a section of the Chinese mainland, as country parks and restricted areas. About two-thirds of the forests in Hong Kong are inside these areas, under the statutory protection of the Agriculture, Fisheries, and Conservation Department (AFCD).
"As far as setting aside land for conservation and country parks, there's just nowhere in the world that's done it as well as Hong Kong," says Richard Corlett of the Chinese Academy of Sciences in Mengla. These protected areas are now home to a vast array of flora and fauna: some 3,300 species of vascular plants, 57 terrestrial mammals, 546 birds and hundreds of butterflies and dragonflies. Malayan porcupines, leopard cats, and black-faced spoonbills also enjoy refuge in these parks. However, deforestation has still taken its toll. Only nine of the mammals that currently live in the forests appear to be survivors of Hong Kong's primeval mammal fauna: they include leopard cats, small Indian civets, Chinese ferret badgers and Chinese pangolins. Yet before records began, bears, elephants and rhinoceroses also lived in Hong Kong. All are now extinct in the region. To get a glimpse of Hong Kong's past richness, scientists need look no further than "feng shui forests".
Credit: EyeEm Mobile GmbH/Alamy
These are small forest plots, mostly less than 4 hectares each, that sit next to over 110 villages throughout China. Their name comes from the Chinese theory for determining the most favourable location of settlements in order to bring good fortune.
"It's kind of a Chinese myth," says Lai. "The idea [is] that, if you keep the trees at the back of the village, it brings good fortune and health to the villagers." Early villagers chose to settle in wooded areas. Because of the traditional and spiritual value of these forests, the locals take great care to protect them, only harvesting wood for fuel in a sustainable way. "These were the only forests that could actually remain during the war times," says Lai. Oral tradition and scientific analysis of the flora suggest that these forests are several hundred years old. It is possible that some began as preserved fragments of the region's original forest cover.
Malayan pocupine (hystrix brachyura)
Inside the forests it is dark because towering trees, typicallyEndospermum and Schima, block the sunlight. No space is wasted: mosses and climbers attach themselves to the tree trunks, wild coffee and Asiatic Ardisia shrubs cluster underneath, and ferns and herbaceous plants carpet the ground. As well as being cultural icons of traditional Chinese villages, these woods are now ecological treasure-houses. They contrast sharply with the adjacent regions, where a meagre layer of grass and shrubs covers the topsoil. "They are like primary forests that have been well-developed for a long period of time," says Lai. "It gives us a sense of what the ideal stage of a forest would be." These feng shui forests are probably not perfect representations of the original Hong Kong forests, as villagers have cultivated specific species for their needs. Nevertheless, they serve as inspiration for conservationists who are looking to reforest the land. The conservationists need all the help they can get, because the first attempts at reforestation did not go entirely to plan.
Indian civet (viverricula indica) (Credit: Roland Seitre /naturpl.com)
After World War Two, the first priority was simply to rehabilitate the barren areas. The aim was to prevent soil erosion and stop reservoirs silting up, so the water supply could be maintained. To quickly re-establish forest land cover, conservationists planted hardy and fast-growing species that had special features to cope with the poor soil quality. As tiny worms had all but wiped out the nativeMasson's pine, conservationists turned instead to exotic non-native species like Brisbane box, Taiwan Acacia and slash pine. These trees quickly re-established vegetation cover on barren hillsides, improving the landscape and preventing further soil erosion. However, many are now aging and withering, and the dense canopies they create hinder the natural propagation and growth of native trees. These monocultures also create poor diversity in the understory and produce dry fruit. Both factors impact the bird and rodent populations. "We've seen that birds don't like to fly into Brisbane box plantations," Lai says. Consequently, scientists have employed various tactics to increase the diversity of these "green deserts". In 1997, researchers at Kadoorie Farm established a native tree nursery that is now home to 400 native species. It produces 25,000 seedlings every year, which can be used for forest restoration.
"The trees are rare, so once you plant them out and nurture them, it's kind of like bringing back species to the wild," Fischer says. The hope is that these little pockets of diversity will act as seed sources for the surrounding areas. The Kadoorie Farm scientists also investigate how these species perform, so they can advise tree planting groups about which species would be suitable for a given plot. "Which species grow along a stream? Which like a slope? Which like a ridge top?" Fischer says. "That knowledge can significantly improve the success rate of a restoration project." But even with this knowledge, reforestation can still run into problems.
When the first trees are planted, the grasslands are often dry, exposed and open to wind and strong sunshine. But once the canopy closes, conditions can be moist and humid. "A species which liked the dry conditions in the first place might not like it any more once you get the forest canopy closed," Fischer says.
To avoid this, the researchers are finding ways to get moisture-loving trees to grow on dry slopes, for instance by using props like tree guards, protective shelters and shading nets. In this way, they have been able to establish a forest with more than 100 different tree species. "This is very unique in Hong Kong, because the natural succession only favours a few species, not the vast majority," Fischer says. At Kadoorie Farm, researchers have also set up a 20-hectare forest plot, which contains the most extensive old-growth secondary broadleaf forest in Hong Kong. They use it to figure out the dynamics of the forest systems. By identifying and tagging the trees, and checking variables like species composition and growth rates, the scientists get to see how different species behave in the ecosystem. "This allows us now to investigate natural forest succession and we would like to use that information, to actually apply it in the restoration work," Fischer says. "We are learning from nature."
Pangolins are endangered (Credit: Roland Seitre/naturpl.com)
In 2009, to speed up the transformation of exotic pioneer plantations into more diverse woodlands, the AFCD launched a project to progressively thin out exotic pioneer trees to give way to the in-planting of native trees. Then in 2015, the AFCD planted 400,000 tree seedlings in Hong Kong's country parks. 80% of them were native species. Thanks to tricks like these, the scientists are starting to see much greater species diversity in the secondary forests in Hong Kong. Overall forest coverage has also been steadily increasing since the post-war period. By 2013, the forests covered about 26,400 hectares, about 23.8% of Hong Kong's total land area – and about 20% more than they did just after World War Two. The next step is to make the forests self-sustaining. But there are barriers to that.
"If nature can't overcome these barriers naturally, it needs human interference," Fischer says.
Perhaps the most essential ingredients in a fully sustainable forest are "seed dispersal agents": animals such as birds that carry the trees' seeds around. Many of these critters are long gone from Hong Kong. "To make the forest work, eventually one has to reintroduce certain species of animals," Fischer says. At the moment, the forests have not recovered enough for this problem to be tackled. Seed dispersal agents are normally things like birds and rodents: small creatures that cannot survive in an open, degraded landscape. But as the forests expand, it will be possible to bring them back.
An even more distant goal is to reintroduce some of the other creatures that have been lost from Hong Kong, such as gibbons and forest pheasants.
"I kind of dream of an elephant-proof fence across a narrow path of the Sai Kung Peninsula and then reintroducing elephants in Sai Kung," says Corlett. "But they swim well, so I think they'd get around the fence. There certainly would have been elephants in the past, but it's probably not practical to have elephants in Hong Kong again." Corlett says the key to successful reforestation is not to try to recreate the past, but rather to keep moving forwards. "Conservation is mostly about nostalgia, putting things back the way that they were," Corlett says. "In Hong Kong that is simply not possible." But that does not mean Hong Kong, and places like it, cannot have rich and beautiful ecosystems. "Hong Kong is just a wonderful model system of what can be done," says Corlett.
Views from East Kowloon
Looking NW from Reservoir Hill in Kwun Tong towards Lion Rock shortly after sunset on 15 July 2020
Lion Rock, with Tai Mo Shan in the background, seen from the Wilson Trail above Lam Tin Park at about 6.00 p.m.on 25 July 2020.
Looking east on 12 January 2021 along the Wilson Trail above Lam Tin. with Devil's Peak (炮台山 or 魔鬼山) in the centre and the eastern end of Hong Kong Island in the background
Looking in roughly the same direction from further NW on the same ridge, just below the summit of Black Hill (五桂山) on 12 October 2022.
Looking down from the ridge on Tseung Kwan O at dusk on 3 December 2022
Lantau (12 February 2021 - first Day of the Year of the Ox)
Entering Mui Wo harbour
Path from Luk Tei Tong village to Nam Shan
Kowloon and Hong Kong Island from the helicopter pad on the path up from Luk Tei Tong. The International Commerce Centre in West Kowloon and the IFC on the Island are the two tallest buildings.
Goats at a junction on the Lantau Treail near Nam Shan. The start of the low-level path which reaches Pak Kung Au without going over Sunset Peak is out of sight to the left.
Shatin before reclamation
Th photo above is from a 1960s (?) postcard showing Amah Rock (望夫石) and the Shatin Valley and was uploaded by Ardie Archer to the `Hong Kong in the 1960s' group on Facebook in June 2021. Another picture of the Shatin Valley from the same upload is shown below:
Repulse Bay, Middle Island and Deep Water Bay
The view above is of Middle Island and Deep Water Bay, taken from the Repulse Bay side in June 1965 and posted by Tish Wells to the `Hong Kong in the 1960s' Facebook group in July 2o21. Below is a picture taken from the opposite direction shortly before sunrise in 2007 by `Zeiss Octopus'
Ngong Ping to Mui Wo - Lantau hike on 3 October 2021
For a satellite view of Lantau see here. There was an overcast sky and some drizzle during the ascent from Ngong Ping (the monastery and the Big Buddha) to Lantau Peak (鳳凰山, Fung Wong Shan, `Phoenix Hill') but the weather cleared once the summit was reached.
On the Lantau Trail down from Lantau Peak towards the Tung Chung gap road, with the Chi Ma Wan peninsula in the distance
Tung Chung and Hong Kong International airport withe Castle Peak in the background
The path up Sunset Peak (大東山, Dai Dung Shan, `Big East Hill') viewed from the descent from Lantau Peak.
Castle Peak seen through the Tung Chung Gap
Looking back towards Lantau Peak from the ascent up Sunset Peak.
Lantau Peak from higher up
Pui O and the Chi Ma Wan peninsula from just below the summit of Sunset Peak
Stormy weather
Storm clouds over the northern arm of Peng Chau. a small island just off the coast of Lantau, reflecting the lights of the Penny's Bay construction site in the background. Photographed from Peng Chau Tung Wan on 7 June 2022 by Daisann McLane.
Under Lion Rock
`Encounter at the Lion Rock' (Cheung Sung Lok, merit award in the 2022 National Geographic Hong Kong Photo Contest
`Corner at the Mountain', a view over the Shatin Valley with Lion Rock in the centre and Hong Kong Island in the backgound (So Long Yin, winner of Landscape Category in the 2022 National Geographic Hong Kong Photo Contest)
Bamboo vipers and many-banded kraits: Experiencing Hong Kong's snake safari
Photo: William Sargent handles a snake. Image by Adam Francis.
Hong Kong (CNN) — A fraction of a second after William Sargent's torch light catches the unmistakable glint of snake skin he roars into action, sliding on a protective glove and launching himself into the dense green jungle of northern Hong Kong.
The 46-year-old re-emerges on the paved trail moments later with a many-banded krait, also known as Bungarus multicinctus, a species covered in zebra-like black and white stripes that is one of most venomous snakes in the world. "This one is a real beauty, it's stunning," says Sargent, sweat gathering on his brow as he strains to keep the lively reptile from slithering out of his grasp. "If there was an elite model for snakes, this would be right up there. But this is the one you really don't want to get bitten by. If not treated, you could have respiratory failure and die."
Since 2017, Sargent, a police-approved snake expert, has been running nocturnal so-called "Snake Safaris" through the verdant, biodiverse terrains of Hong Kong such as Tai Mo Shan Country Park -- home to the city's highest peak in the northern New Territories region -- taking hundreds of daring visitors along every year.
The Brit moved to the city at the age of two, honing a passion for herpetology -- the study of amphibians and reptiles -- while exploring Hong Kong's lush subtropical landscapes as a teen. Besides fulfilling his own interest, the guided tours are a way for Sargent to combat stigma, improve awareness and build appreciation of snakes. "The vast majority of snakes that show up in your house don't want to live there. It's just by circumstance, like a fish jumping in your boat," he says. "If you're sensible, there's nothing to be afraid of. But sadly, many snakes are killed because of fear."
While Hong Kong is a global metropolis nearly as large as Los Angeles, containing some of the most densely populated districts in the world, about 40% of its landmass is protected country parks, meaning its 7.3 million residents often come into contact with wildlife, including more than 50 snake species in the city -- from the potentially deadly King Cobra to the Burmese Python, which can grow to over 26 feet.
One of the non-snakes you might meet on a safari is a brown tree frog. Dale de la Rey/South China Morning Post/Getty Images
"Given its size, Hong Kong has a disproportionately high number of snakes," says Dr. Sung Yik-hei, a professor at Lingnan University and one of the city's foremost reptile experts. "That's because of the city's great variety of habitats: mountains, coastal areas, lowlands, wetlands, and freshwater streams."
Despite these reptilian riches, there are little more than 100 snake bites in Hong Kong each year -- the equivalent odds of about one in 50,000 -- and the last death was of a shopkeeper defanging a non-native snake for which there was no antivenom in 1988.
"The likelihood of encountering a snake is not low," adds Sung. "But the chance of getting bitten is very low. Even if you are, Hong Kong is one of the safest places in the world for snakebites because of the quality and proximity of hospitals."
For his part, Sargent receives callouts every week to capture snakes everywhere from schools to prisons to homes, and once, a beach on Lantau Island to ensnare a 15-foot python. As of August, he's the first expert to participate in a "Rapid Release Program" -- meaning that rather than have to go through a days-long, bureaucratic procedure of sending a captured snake to a police station and further facilities, he can release it in the nearest country park, reducing workload and keeping the snakes far healthier.
That policy change has proven an uphill struggle amid a complex cultural context.
In Hong Kong, snakes are eaten in a soup, used in traditional Chinese medicine, or are otherwise simply viewed as a menace. The result is that across China nearly all of the larger snake species are classified as vulnerable, threatened or endangered on the International Union for Conservation of Nature's (IUCN) Red List, which tracks the conservation status of the world's plant and animal species.
But thanks to Sargent -- who has given talks at local schools and set up a Facebook group, Hong Kong Snakes (whose 15,000 members exchange photos, information and advice about snake encounters) -- snakes are shedding that fearful reputation.
One tour attendee and member of the Facebook group, Michelle Yu, who moved to Hong Kong from Washington DC nine years ago, says that her perception of snakes has completely transformed thanks to the community. "You go from being repulsed to actively looking out for these beautiful creatures," she explains.
For others, the experience underlines the unique contrasts available in Hong Kong: towering skyscrapers beside exotic nature. "You get this great feeling that you can escape from the city," says Loïc Sorgho, a 42-year-old French banker. "Where else can you go from a 50-floor building to a tropical jungle so quickly?"
Over the course of a couple hours, the group encounters nine different snakes: three bamboo pit vipers; two diamondback water snakes; one bicolored stream snake; a mock viper; a greater green; and the many-banded krait, whose diaphanously soft midriff Sargent holds out for attendees to stroke. "Please don't touch any further than half way up its body please," he quips. "It won't do my insurance any good."
And there's plenty of other wildlife to be spotted on the tour: barking deer, leopard cats, porcupines, swamp eels, birds of prey, all manner of frogs, and fire-bellied newts, whose dark undersides are peppered with bright orange and red blotches.
Towards the end of the serpentine route along rocky, bamboo-lined paths and across babbling brooks, Sargent glimpses a baby diamondback water snake coiled on a plant and picks it up. "It's trying to get its rear fangs into me," he says, moments before being bitten on one fingertip. "Ouch! It's pretty toxic to geckos, but I'll be fine."
Once released, the snake, which has whitish yellow diamond markings running the length of its scaly body, glides away atop the moonlit surface of the water amid a chorus of cicadas and into the perfectly still Hong Kong night. Hong Kong Snake Safari, from $550 HKD ($70 US) per person
In Hong Kong, abandoned villages have been reclaimed by nature
A crumbling facade in Yung Shue Au, a remote village in Hong Kong's New Territories. Stefan Irvine/Stefan Irvine Hong KongCNN — Thick roots tumble across a dilapidated house, the snake-like trunks of a banyan tree framing where the front door once stood. Its walls have been hollowed by decades of typhoons, monsoons and summer humidity, now little more than loose, moss-covered stones and mortar dust. Vines tease through cracks in the foundations and fallen leaves litter the rotten floorboards.
This scene wouldn’t look out of place deep in the Malaysian rainforest or the verdant foothills of India. But photographer Stefan Irvine snapped these pictures just a stone’s throw from the center of one of the most densely populated cities in the world, a global metropolis of steely skyscrapers and gridlocked traffic.
Irvine, who has lived in Hong Kong since 2002, first stumbled across the city’s abandoned villages in 2012 while visiting a friend in the New Territories, a vast area to the city’s north. Accounting for over 85% of Hong Kong’s territory, the district is characterized by steep mountains, long stretches of rugged coastline and tree-covered country parks. “It made me question, ‘Why (were) so many of these places vacant in a place like Hong Kong, where the property prices are the highest in the world?’” Irvine recalled. Over the next 12 years, the London-born photographer explored more of these abandoned villages, documenting what would become the subject of his new book, “Abandoned Villages of Hong Kong.” “It’s opened my eyes to a different aspect of Hong Kong,” said Irvine. “That’s what I’m hoping the project will do for other people as well.”
An overgrown toilet in an abandoned home in Tai Peng village on Lamma Island. Courtesy Stefan Irvine/Blue Lotus Gallery Hong Kong Trading farming for factoriesAlthough Irvine took the first image for the project — an abandoned home with plants spilling out onto the road through a yellow door frame — in 2012, it wasn’t until 2019 that he began actively hunting down locations to photograph. “These villages have existed in Hong Kong for hundreds of years, way before the colonial period,” explained Irvine. In the 1950s and ‘60s, as Hong Kong grew as an industrial hub, many people migrated to the rapidly expanding urban centers for better working opportunities. “It’s hard farming and fishing out there in these remote areas, so a lot of people moved to the city to work in the factories,” he added.
Through library research, the 48-year-old photographer found people who grew up in the villages or had relatives who lived there. In the book, he included essays from two women connected to the village: one whose father grew up in Wong Chuk Shan village, now completely overgrown, and another who spent several years of her childhood in Lai Chi Wo village, on the northeast coast of Hong Kong in the 1970s. “Now she lives in the UK with her own family, but she comes back to visit HK every few years, and still feels a deep sense of connection with Lai Chi Wo,” Irvine said of the latter woman, adding: “You can tell they feel an intense bond with their ancestors and with the village itself.” While many of the villages emptied out slowly over decades, Irvine found some homes that appeared to have been “abandoned pretty rapidly,” with personal items and furniture left behind.
A long-abandoned Hindu temple in Queen's Hill, Fanling, near where Gurkha soldiers were stationed in the 1960s. Stefan Irvine / Courtesy Blue Lotus Gallery, Hong Kong “There were calendars on the wall, school certificates in drawers — it’s quite poignant,” said Irvine. “I think a lot of people left with the intention of coming back one day, or maybe retiring back in the village. But if you don’t maintain these properties, eventually they’ll succumb to nature. Termites will start to burrow their way into the wooden beams. If one of those collapses, then the seeds can fall in from trees and plants, and then they really take over.” Rotting floorboards and unstable masonry made some of the building dangerous to explore. For Irvine, the biggest risk was posed by territorial village dogs that often became aggressive as he walked through remote areas. “I started the habit of carrying dog biscuits in my camera bag when I went out to these places,” he said.
The project took Irvine to the furthest reaches of the city, using minibuses and ferries to access isolated towns and islands. One adventure saw him embark on a six-hour round trip to Tung Ping Chau, a far-flung island closer to the Chinese mainland than to Hong Kong. Once a thriving fishing and farming community, most residents left the island in the 1960s to make a living in the city. Irvine ended up using just one image from the trip in his book — but the trip was “totally worth it,” he said.
An abandoned home in Yim Tin Tsai, a now-deserted island that now hosts an annual arts festival. Stefan Irvine / Courtesy Blue Lotus Gallery, Hong Kong
Heritage value
While most of the villages Irvine photographed are abandoned, he was surprised to discover not all were. “I would hike for about an hour into the wilderness to find a beautiful old village and I assumed there would be nobody there — and then around the corner would be someone with a wheelbarrow on their way to plant vegetables or something. So that was a bit of a shock,” he said. Two of his favorite locations to shoot — Luk Keng, a coastal area near the border with Shenzhen in mainland China, and Lai Chi Wo, a remote 400-year-old Hakka village accessible only by boat or a two-hour hike through the forest — are both still home to small communities.
“Lai Chi Wo is quite interesting because (Hong Kong’s) government has realized the heritage value in this village and they’ve invested a substantial amount of money to revitalize some of the old buildings,” said Irvine. “They want to encourage young people to go out there and stay overnight and to experience a different side of Hong Kong.” Irvine found other deserted villages that were also being revitalized for tourism. Yim Tin Tsai, a former catholic missionary outpost and salt farming community, is completely abandoned — but every summer, it hosts an art installation and festival.
The facade of a derelict house in Mau Ping Shan Uk, a village located deep in one of the territory's country parks. Stefan Irvine / Courtesy Blue Lotus Gallery, Hong Kong “People take a little sampan (a flat-bottomed boat) across the water, it’s 15 minutes away from (the coast), and they can interact with these art installations that use some of the abandoned sites to great effect,” Irvine said. Irvine believes there is a growing sentimentality and nostalgia among Hong Kong’s people “to save and relish their built heritage.” These rural sites are a key part of that, he said, adding: “I think it’s of great value to people and their sense of identity.” The photographer’s book, published this month alongside an accompanying exhibition in Hong Kong, aims to “preserve for posterity” this built heritage. And while Irvine’s pictures speak to a loss of community, he views them as a “celebration” of nature, too. Hong Kong is one of the most biodiverse cities in the world, and its villages, which were often built around natural features and relied on the land, are a microcosm of that. Tucked between the mountains and the sea, the Hakka village at Lai Chi Wo, for instance, features mature woodlands, freshwater streams, agricultural wetlands, mud flats and mangroves. “At the end of the day, nature will eventually take over,” Irvine said. “It’s a reminder of the impermanence that we all experience: Things come and go, nothing endures really.” “Abandoned Villages of Hong Kong,” published by Blue Lotus Editions, is available now. An accompanying exhibition is on show at Hong Kong’s Blue Lotus Gallery until Feb. 25, 2024.