Direct address to my readers:
As many of you who have been keeping up with my journey will have noticed I have found myself a little behind in my blog keeping. Indeed as I write this entry I am at the terminus of my journey and preparing to return home to the UK.
You may think then, "Well what's the point in reading on if we know the bastard has made it to the end? Where's the drama and the intrigue and the excitement if the ending is just to spoiled in this way?" And you'd be right to have these slightly irrational feelings.
It has not been an easy task for me to keep up whilst simultaneously putting in the miles, making meal stops, finding accommodation and sheltering from the rain (more on the rain part later...). That combined with the fact I am writing these blog posts using a humble Samsung Galaxy S6 phone with an unstable auto-correct feature has slowed me right down. For any of you who know me well, you will also be aware of the chronic laziness that I have forever been afflicted...that doesn't help either.
Finally, I have decided to record several of my journey days into one entry rather than create a unique blog post for each day. This should speed up the writing and hopefully create a quality control process whereby I am not wasting words describing every yard travelled, every calorie consumed and every bead of sweat excreted. Of course those of you who might be interested in such nonsense please feel free to contact me directly and I'll be sure to bore you to death with the intricate details.
So anyway where were we? Oh yes. Last time I chatted with you I had just completed Day 9 on the bike; a hilly journey through Nelson District and had just descending through Nelson Township itself and into a campground in the small settlement of Richmond. Are we all sitting comfortably? Then let us begin.
Bike Day 10: Richmond to Motupiko
Trip Day 19
30.07 miles
I awoke to a hot tent. Gasping for air I pulled open the tent entrance to allow some cooler air to circulate. As I rose to my feet I had a slight pain in my upper back; perhaps from an ill advised sleeping position and/or the hard ground below, although this was enough of a reminder that I must take care of myself if I am to prosper on this trip. I had brought with me on this trip a compact, inflatable mattress on loan from a friend which, much to my displeasure, I had found to be broken and leaking. I discovered this on my first night camping (at Huntly Motor Camp, of course) and since then had either forgotten or deemed it unnecessary to replace. Sleeping on the hard ground was perhaps not one of my smartest ideas on the trip but I'd at least saved a kilogram or two on the back of the bike...
My route for the day would see me making some real headway West through the Tasman district of NZ and closer to the West Coast. Once I had hit the coast I would the continue to follow the same road South before cutting in land once more towards the town of Queenstown. This was a long way away and I had to get the coast first so saddled up and was ready to go. Frustratingly I had two choices for the day: either it would be a simple 30 mile ride to a campsite in the small area known as Motupiko, or a much longer journey inland to the town of Murchison. At this point I was still not brave enough to tackle a long day in saddle, especially considering the peaks I had braved the previous day. Although slightly frustrated with myself, I decided to have another short day and clear it to Motupiko and the campsite known as Quinney's Bush Camp.
After a stop off in town for some more supplies I finally made my way back onto the road and set on my way. The road today was more merciful on my tired legs and I was soon on another fabulous cycle track taking me off of the busy main road and deeper into the Tasman forests. Sadly for me the cycle path ended after only a few miles and I was unceremoniously dumped onto the state highway to continue my journey, dodging the trucks and heavy tourist traffic. It turns out that the Canadian couple that I had met in Wellington were correct about the increased traffic between Nelson and Christchurch. I had another 2 days cycle before I reached the junction where the trucks would eventually turn off and take the road South. For now, I was stuck alongside them and I was briefly reminded of my short stay on SH1 back in Huntly *shudder*.
To this point the Nelson area had seemed quite proud of its cycle paths and I must admit that I was impressed by the lanes I had ridden on and wanted to spend more time away from the main roads. I'll level with you for a moment here, my readers: I hadn't spent much time on the famous NZ cycle trails and on numerous occasions I had made the conscious decision to take the busier, paved roads. There were two mains factors for this decision: Firstly, I was taking this journey on a touring road bike rather than a mountain bike and secondly, I was absolutely paranoid about damaging the bike and being forced to push the bike and gear up and over many miles of gravel or dirt paths. However I was feeling more devil-may-care today and so when I noticed a sign for the "Great Taste Trail" I decided to wheel away from the main road and check it out. After all, what's the worst that could happen, right? Right?
The trail started nicely and was a sealed, surfaced road that dashed alongside the main highway but shortly I noticed it begin to turn off to the left and into the hilly, forested area due South of the main road. I spotted a car parked to the side of this trail; its driver, a middle-aged gent, loading his family's bikes onto the back of the car. I asked him and the family what the trail was like and whether I would be able to tackle it. The gent looked at my road frame, skinny tires, skinnier legs and overburdened rack and gave me a look that suggested he was trying to let me down easy. I must have inadvertently given him the puppy dog eyes when he eventually looked up at me because he informed that, although it would be tough on a road bike, it was perfectly doable. He told me that there was a sharp climb before a trail downhill where the route would follow the old train tracks through a long tunnel. Ooh. I like a good tunnel. I was sold. I started the ascent up the trail, stopping to awkwardly get my bike through the kissing gate up ahead, and waved goodbye to the chap. I was looking forward to this. After all, without this detour I was barely going to cover 30 miles today.
The ascent started nicely and soon leveled out until I was riding alongside a shallow valley, a great view over the surrounding farmland and forest greeting me as I did. Several cyclists, all on mountain bikes, regarded my ride with curious eyes and waved as they passed. After another half an hour, the route became quieter and I soon found myself looking at a steep incline with the road surface becoming more uneven. Where was this great descent and rail tracks I had been promised earlier? This must have been the steep incline the gent had mentioned previously and the track must be over the otherside of the hill. Surely. The paper map I was carrying did not show this section of the track and I was unable to get a signal on my phone to check Google Maps. I was just going to go for it; I was sure that one session of orienteering we were made to do at Junior School would kick in and I would be able to Bear Grylls my way through this situation. Sadly for me the track become more and more unmanageable and I fear that the deeper gravel and steep incline would result in a fall. Something I was not prepared to do so far from the main road. Sadly, and not for not the first time, I dismounted the bike and pushed it up the hill. Slowly but surely, the route became harder to push up. My arms ached, the surrounding foliage became thicker and more vicious with brambles beginning to appear, grabbing at my ankles as I struggled. Sweating and cursing I continued to push uphill past one false summit after another. Eventually I reached the top of the trail and looked down over the summit of the trail to the thick pine forest below. What a view. I still had no idea where I was or where to go next but at least I was at the top. I took on some water, had a bite of cereal bar and breathed, happy that I now only had to make a short descent back to the road. My luck appeared to have changed. Then it started to rain.
I took a few obligatory photos of the surrounding forests and hills and one or two sweaty selfies (see images below for proof of perspiration). I was relieved and happy to be up and over the crest of this unexpected obstacle but I was also keen to remain as dry as possible. I threw on my waterproof jacket, waterproof trousers, waterproof socks and pedalled in the general direction of the main road. The rain was really started to come down heavily and before long I was getting wet. The wonderful thing about waterproofs is no matter how much you spend, you're going to get wet after a certain amount of time. I would find this out later in the trip that, no matter how much waterproofing you do, 6 hours in the saddle in the pouring rain will get you a little damp. Nil Desperandum. I set off down the track. Initially the surface was a horrible hybrid of partial tarmac and light gravel; lulling me into a false sense of security before forcing me to focus on my front wheel. It was a new experience to have to be focussing on the road surface the entire time but at least it was keeping me engaged. Soon the road turned swiftly north-bound and turned into an aggressively-steep descent down, what I can only assume to be, a mountain bike track. Again, super-fun but I had to stop a few times to retrieve some items which had been flung from the back of the rack as I made the bumpy descent. Word of advice for any potential cycle-tourers out there: when in doubt, check a bloody map. Not sure I would recommend tackling a mountain bike track with a fully-laden touring road bike in the rain but, truth be told, it was great fun.
I exited the trail through a car park, much to the amusement of some logging workers who pointed and laughed at me as I soggily wheeled out onto the highway. The remainder of the journey to my campsite was comparatively uneventful, save for one quick rest stop in a roadside cafe in a foolish attempt to wait out the rain. After another hour or so I wheeled into Quinney's Bush Camp, a large motor camp ground and activity park. I had done a bit of research and learnt that the camp ground boasted a host of amenities for all the family: water slides, dirt bike track, swimming, playground etc. I decided I would skip taking a dip in the river once I arrived at a very soggy and grey campground.
The campground was the only site in the immediate area and so I was paying a premium $18 for the privilege of pitching the tent in this quagmire. Frustrated with the day, I grumpily set up my tent and scurried to the camp kitchen to dry my clothing and belongings. As anybody who has camped during the great British summer will tell you, it's next to impossible to dry out your belongings whilst camping in the rain. I did my best to locate anywhere to hang my coat, jersey and socks but it was no use; I was just going to have to man up and accept the fact that adventure would not always provide me with perfect weather conditions. And on the plus side I had managed to stock up on supplies whilst staying in Richmond and had my newly-purchased cooking set to make myself an appetising pasta/tomato soup/tuna meal. I received a mixture of admiration and horror from my fellow diners as I shared my story of the day. Many of the people staying here were older couples seeing the country from the relative luxury of a camper van. One couple in particular had decided to spend a day at the camp ground as they didn't want to drive in the rain. Wimps. Tomorrow, I was informed, would be another day of heavy rain. Gulp.
Tomorrow I would tackle a slightly longer day and attempt to reach the town of Murchison. A small village by British standards but a veritable metropolis containing several campgrounds, shops, launderette and pub. With the rain slamming down against the tent, I fell into a restless sleep considering how much damper I would become on my journey.
Bike Day 11: Motepiku to Murchison
Trip Day 20
44.88 miles
I awoke several times in the night with a horrible realisation. My sleeping bag was wet. Scrambling around in the dark for a light I felt water on the outside of the sleeping bag as well as on the floor of my tent. Feeling around to the roof of the tent I realised that water was somehow coming in from the small ventilation mesh at the top of the inner tent. To my horror I realised that I had forgotten to tie down the outer flap which protected this mesh. Springing to my feet (or as much as one can in a small two person tent) I put on my waterproofs and clumsily exited the tent into the deluge outside. In the dark I was able to tie down the guy ropes, thus sealing the mesh and hopefully ensuring a drier night's sleep. Back into the tent I surveyed the water damage. All electronics had been put into my waterproof handlebar bag and the sleeping bag wasn't as wet as I initially thought. I had been lucky but I still cursed myself at this rookie mistake. Sir Edmund Hillary wouldn't have made that mistake would he, Josh? No he wouldn't. I fell back asleep soon after and prepared myself for the next day.
Looking back to my first rainy day at Tongariro Lodge it now occured to me that although I arrived at the campsite during a downpour, the following morning it was a beautiful day. That morning at Quinney's it was still pouring down with rain when it was time to pack down the tent and my gear. After breakfast I set about packing down my campsite in as hasty a manner as I could muster. I wasn't particularly enthusiastic about soaking my gear, especially my already-moist sleeping bag, and so frantically set about getting myself ready to leave. I wasn't in particularly high spirits that morning. My progress through the South Island was slower than I had hoped, I had taken an ill-advised diversion the day previous and now I was wet and cold. I reminded myself of where I was and what an amazing time I was having and pulled myself onto the bike and out of the camp ground.
The bike was holding up well after its off-road experience the day before and I was beginning to feel more comfortable with the heavy load on the back. It's a strange experience carrying such a heavy burden on the back of a delicate, two-wheeled vehicle and I was astounded at how much I was getting used to the weight and handling. Don't get me wrong, hills were still a pain in the backside and any time I attempted to rest off the bike the front wheel would often spin round on itself and threaten to topple the whole bike. However I was starting to enjoy the feeling of being on the bike, even if the weather was doing everything in its power to dampen my spirits.
I continued west-bound on the main highway out of Motupiko and into forests of the Tasman region. The road ran parallel to the Motupiko River and I noticed a steady climb out of the valley and into the hills ahead. Looking back now I realise that the road was going to dissect the hills of the Hope Range; my ignorance that day due to the lack of WiFi at the campsite. The road began to get steeper and before long I was tackling a short steep climb up and over Hope Saddle itself. I can't lie to you, it was a pretty miserable experience as the increased effort lead to a high body temperature and high perspiration. Combined with the rain and the fact I was wearing a hooded waterproof jacket and before long it felt like I was riding in a wearable-sauna (trademark Yard by Yard Industries 2017). The occasional cars, campers and trucks that passed offered little room as I struggle up the side of the road, attempting to keep within the meagre shoulder.
Luckily the climb was not overly long as I was soon as the lookout point of Hope Saddle. I got myself to the lookout and took shelter underneath a wooden gazebo. I was out of the rain temporarily but still soaking wet. I took most of my layers off, to the amusement of others who had stopped here, and hastily made myself a sandwich in an attempt to stave off my growing hunger. For those of you who have cycled with me before you will know of course that it was a Marmite and cheese sandwich; a concoction that I still attest to be the greatest snack available for a cyclist. I got chatting to one or two travellers who had also taken a break at the lookout, regarding their motorised vehicles with envious eyes. I had dried out as much as I possibly could and so there was nothing more to be done than to tackle the descent. The rain had began to die down and so I was hopeful that I would experience drier weather for the rest of the day. Naive fool.
With the increased standing water on the roads the descent was not quite as fast as I had hoped, my hands tightly gripped onto the brakes as they were. Much to my delight however I noticed that, after the initial descent from the Hope Saddle, the road was continuing to go downhill for many miles. I felt as if my luck was changing and I was really enjoying the new change of pace as the road continued to slope downhill. But fate has an usual way of rewarding me after completing a tough start to the day and once more the heavens opened and dampened my ambitions of riding in a dry afternoon. In comparison to the weather I was about to experience, the morning's downpour was merely a drop in the ocean. I can safely say that I have never experienced rain like that that I experienced on my trip from Hope Saddle to Murchison.
The rain was vicious. Malicious even. It was rain that was born with the single intent of ruining my afternoon. I felt personally targeted by this freak downpour. Somebody somewhere in a distant plane of existence had decided to literally make it rain on my parade. The downpour sent me slightly loopy; soon I was singing along to the music in my ears and greeting every splash from passing cars with an enthusiastic holler. Every pedal stroke filled my shoes with more water until I felt like I was wearing a portable footbath (TM Yard by Yard Industries). The rain somehow dripped down the back of the neck, bypassing the tight seal I had made with the hood of my waterproof. Thanks to the superior craftsmanship of my panniers and handlebar bag, my gear was safe and dry. I on the other hand was damp and starting to go a little crazy.
I stopped briefly on one of the downhills at a small tavern/motel for a cup of Earl Grey and a Devonshire scone (when in NZ, eh...?). The tavern was a gloriously decorated Southern NZ affair declaring a love for all things rural and farming-based. I resisted the urge to partake in a pint of Speights (NZ's most popular lager, brewed in Dunedin) and instead dried out as best I could and enjoyed a nice little sit down. I continued to put together my thoughts in my journal without resorting to scribbling the words: "Bloody hell" "It's wet" and "why did I come here" like some sort of deranged madman.
I continued downhill with the rain lashing at my face before the road levelled out and before long I was cycling through the valley alongside the famous Buller River. As the road levelled out I was hit with a furious side wind that occasionally threatened to push me clean off my bike and into a ditch but I fortunately was able to regain control. I rolled the remaining 10 miles until I saw the signs for the Murchison campground. As I rode towards the turnoff I made a mental note of quite how wet and knackered I was and recollected my damp night in the tent at Quinney's. This was one of the moments on the trip when I decided to take a more luxurious option and cycled into the town in an attempt to find a hostel. Murchison itself was a delightful small town that served as a rest point for travellers coming from Nelson in the east to the coast in the west. I spotted an information site and ditched the bike underneath a small awning as I scanned a notice board for a list of accommodation in the area. I saw advertisement for the Lazy Cow backpackers just 100m down the street and I remounted my bike and pedalled in that direction, praying for a vacancy.
The decision to stay at the Lazy Cow after such a wet day was one of the finest decisions I made the entire trip. After two wet days and with my clothing now mainly consisting of rainwater, the prospect of a warm bed, laundry facilities and pizzeria close by made the Lazy Cow seem like a paradise. Some may scoff at the idea that a shared dorm room in a small hostel in rural NZ is luxury accommodation but for me, this was a perfect place to stay. Lazy Cow turned out to be one of my favourite hostels of the trip due to its small size, relaxed nature and excellent facilities. There was free cake for crying out loud, how can you not be happy with that? After showering and throwing a load into the drier I made my way across the street to the shop to grab some supplies (correction: beer). As I returned I noticed a familiar cycle in the driveway and made my way back to the hostel's common room. There I bumped into my old friend from Tongariro, Julie the French cycle tourer! I hadn't expected to bump into her again as she was going to be taking a route north from Nelson into Abel Tasman National Park. Somehow she had managed to make this diversion and still find me here, completing a 70 mile journey to get to Murchison. I decided not to tell her of the relatively short days I had completed and reminded myself that it was possible to push myself for longer stretches.
I spent the evening dry, warm and happy. I chatted to Julie and a Swiss cycle tourists by the name of Jens about our various trips and the next stages of the journey. We were all heading west to the coast and then south from there. There was a rough agreement that we would take the same road and perhaps ride together for some of the journey. Having already found out how early they were both planning on leaving I thought this a slightly optimistic idea but entertained it nonetheless as I downed my beer and tucked into my pizza.
Tucked into my bed on the bottom bunk in the dorm room, I considered how much damper the next few weeks were likely to get. I was warned of the increased rain on the west coast and so was likely to hit one or two more days like today. I didn't care. I was warm and cosy and I had had a great evening chatting away. I was inspired by Julie and Jens to attempt some longer distances and make the most of my days here. Tomorrow, I decided, I would smash out a 60 mile day and reach the coast and the town of Westport.
Bike Day 12: Murchison to Westport
Trip Day 21
60 miles
As many of you who have been keeping up with my journey will have noticed I have found myself a little behind in my blog keeping. Indeed as I write this entry I am at the terminus of my journey and preparing to return home to the UK.
You may think then, "Well what's the point in reading on if we know the bastard has made it to the end? Where's the drama and the intrigue and the excitement if the ending is just to spoiled in this way?" And you'd be right to have these slightly irrational feelings.
It has not been an easy task for me to keep up whilst simultaneously putting in the miles, making meal stops, finding accommodation and sheltering from the rain (more on the rain part later...). That combined with the fact I am writing these blog posts using a humble Samsung Galaxy S6 phone with an unstable auto-correct feature has slowed me right down. For any of you who know me well, you will also be aware of the chronic laziness that I have forever been afflicted...that doesn't help either.
Finally, I have decided to record several of my journey days into one entry rather than create a unique blog post for each day. This should speed up the writing and hopefully create a quality control process whereby I am not wasting words describing every yard travelled, every calorie consumed and every bead of sweat excreted. Of course those of you who might be interested in such nonsense please feel free to contact me directly and I'll be sure to bore you to death with the intricate details.
So anyway where were we? Oh yes. Last time I chatted with you I had just completed Day 9 on the bike; a hilly journey through Nelson District and had just descending through Nelson Township itself and into a campground in the small settlement of Richmond. Are we all sitting comfortably? Then let us begin.
Bike Day 10: Richmond to Motupiko
I awoke to a hot tent. Gasping for air I pulled open the tent entrance to allow some cooler air to circulate. As I rose to my feet I had a slight pain in my upper back; perhaps from an ill advised sleeping position and/or the hard ground below, although this was enough of a reminder that I must take care of myself if I am to prosper on this trip. I had brought with me on this trip a compact, inflatable mattress on loan from a friend which, much to my displeasure, I had found to be broken and leaking. I discovered this on my first night camping (at Huntly Motor Camp, of course) and since then had either forgotten or deemed it unnecessary to replace. Sleeping on the hard ground was perhaps not one of my smartest ideas on the trip but I'd at least saved a kilogram or two on the back of the bike...
My route for the day would see me making some real headway West through the Tasman district of NZ and closer to the West Coast. Once I had hit the coast I would the continue to follow the same road South before cutting in land once more towards the town of Queenstown. This was a long way away and I had to get the coast first so saddled up and was ready to go. Frustratingly I had two choices for the day: either it would be a simple 30 mile ride to a campsite in the small area known as Motupiko, or a much longer journey inland to the town of Murchison. At this point I was still not brave enough to tackle a long day in saddle, especially considering the peaks I had braved the previous day. Although slightly frustrated with myself, I decided to have another short day and clear it to Motupiko and the campsite known as Quinney's Bush Camp.
After a stop off in town for some more supplies I finally made my way back onto the road and set on my way. The road today was more merciful on my tired legs and I was soon on another fabulous cycle track taking me off of the busy main road and deeper into the Tasman forests. Sadly for me the cycle path ended after only a few miles and I was unceremoniously dumped onto the state highway to continue my journey, dodging the trucks and heavy tourist traffic. It turns out that the Canadian couple that I had met in Wellington were correct about the increased traffic between Nelson and Christchurch. I had another 2 days cycle before I reached the junction where the trucks would eventually turn off and take the road South. For now, I was stuck alongside them and I was briefly reminded of my short stay on SH1 back in Huntly *shudder*.
To this point the Nelson area had seemed quite proud of its cycle paths and I must admit that I was impressed by the lanes I had ridden on and wanted to spend more time away from the main roads. I'll level with you for a moment here, my readers: I hadn't spent much time on the famous NZ cycle trails and on numerous occasions I had made the conscious decision to take the busier, paved roads. There were two mains factors for this decision: Firstly, I was taking this journey on a touring road bike rather than a mountain bike and secondly, I was absolutely paranoid about damaging the bike and being forced to push the bike and gear up and over many miles of gravel or dirt paths. However I was feeling more devil-may-care today and so when I noticed a sign for the "Great Taste Trail" I decided to wheel away from the main road and check it out. After all, what's the worst that could happen, right? Right?
The trail started nicely and was a sealed, surfaced road that dashed alongside the main highway but shortly I noticed it begin to turn off to the left and into the hilly, forested area due South of the main road. I spotted a car parked to the side of this trail; its driver, a middle-aged gent, loading his family's bikes onto the back of the car. I asked him and the family what the trail was like and whether I would be able to tackle it. The gent looked at my road frame, skinny tires, skinnier legs and overburdened rack and gave me a look that suggested he was trying to let me down easy. I must have inadvertently given him the puppy dog eyes when he eventually looked up at me because he informed that, although it would be tough on a road bike, it was perfectly doable. He told me that there was a sharp climb before a trail downhill where the route would follow the old train tracks through a long tunnel. Ooh. I like a good tunnel. I was sold. I started the ascent up the trail, stopping to awkwardly get my bike through the kissing gate up ahead, and waved goodbye to the chap. I was looking forward to this. After all, without this detour I was barely going to cover 30 miles today.
The ascent started nicely and soon leveled out until I was riding alongside a shallow valley, a great view over the surrounding farmland and forest greeting me as I did. Several cyclists, all on mountain bikes, regarded my ride with curious eyes and waved as they passed. After another half an hour, the route became quieter and I soon found myself looking at a steep incline with the road surface becoming more uneven. Where was this great descent and rail tracks I had been promised earlier? This must have been the steep incline the gent had mentioned previously and the track must be over the otherside of the hill. Surely. The paper map I was carrying did not show this section of the track and I was unable to get a signal on my phone to check Google Maps. I was just going to go for it; I was sure that one session of orienteering we were made to do at Junior School would kick in and I would be able to Bear Grylls my way through this situation. Sadly for me the track become more and more unmanageable and I fear that the deeper gravel and steep incline would result in a fall. Something I was not prepared to do so far from the main road. Sadly, and not for not the first time, I dismounted the bike and pushed it up the hill. Slowly but surely, the route became harder to push up. My arms ached, the surrounding foliage became thicker and more vicious with brambles beginning to appear, grabbing at my ankles as I struggled. Sweating and cursing I continued to push uphill past one false summit after another. Eventually I reached the top of the trail and looked down over the summit of the trail to the thick pine forest below. What a view. I still had no idea where I was or where to go next but at least I was at the top. I took on some water, had a bite of cereal bar and breathed, happy that I now only had to make a short descent back to the road. My luck appeared to have changed. Then it started to rain.
I took a few obligatory photos of the surrounding forests and hills and one or two sweaty selfies (see images below for proof of perspiration). I was relieved and happy to be up and over the crest of this unexpected obstacle but I was also keen to remain as dry as possible. I threw on my waterproof jacket, waterproof trousers, waterproof socks and pedalled in the general direction of the main road. The rain was really started to come down heavily and before long I was getting wet. The wonderful thing about waterproofs is no matter how much you spend, you're going to get wet after a certain amount of time. I would find this out later in the trip that, no matter how much waterproofing you do, 6 hours in the saddle in the pouring rain will get you a little damp. Nil Desperandum. I set off down the track. Initially the surface was a horrible hybrid of partial tarmac and light gravel; lulling me into a false sense of security before forcing me to focus on my front wheel. It was a new experience to have to be focussing on the road surface the entire time but at least it was keeping me engaged. Soon the road turned swiftly north-bound and turned into an aggressively-steep descent down, what I can only assume to be, a mountain bike track. Again, super-fun but I had to stop a few times to retrieve some items which had been flung from the back of the rack as I made the bumpy descent. Word of advice for any potential cycle-tourers out there: when in doubt, check a bloody map. Not sure I would recommend tackling a mountain bike track with a fully-laden touring road bike in the rain but, truth be told, it was great fun.
I exited the trail through a car park, much to the amusement of some logging workers who pointed and laughed at me as I soggily wheeled out onto the highway. The remainder of the journey to my campsite was comparatively uneventful, save for one quick rest stop in a roadside cafe in a foolish attempt to wait out the rain. After another hour or so I wheeled into Quinney's Bush Camp, a large motor camp ground and activity park. I had done a bit of research and learnt that the camp ground boasted a host of amenities for all the family: water slides, dirt bike track, swimming, playground etc. I decided I would skip taking a dip in the river once I arrived at a very soggy and grey campground.
The campground was the only site in the immediate area and so I was paying a premium $18 for the privilege of pitching the tent in this quagmire. Frustrated with the day, I grumpily set up my tent and scurried to the camp kitchen to dry my clothing and belongings. As anybody who has camped during the great British summer will tell you, it's next to impossible to dry out your belongings whilst camping in the rain. I did my best to locate anywhere to hang my coat, jersey and socks but it was no use; I was just going to have to man up and accept the fact that adventure would not always provide me with perfect weather conditions. And on the plus side I had managed to stock up on supplies whilst staying in Richmond and had my newly-purchased cooking set to make myself an appetising pasta/tomato soup/tuna meal. I received a mixture of admiration and horror from my fellow diners as I shared my story of the day. Many of the people staying here were older couples seeing the country from the relative luxury of a camper van. One couple in particular had decided to spend a day at the camp ground as they didn't want to drive in the rain. Wimps. Tomorrow, I was informed, would be another day of heavy rain. Gulp.
Tomorrow I would tackle a slightly longer day and attempt to reach the town of Murchison. A small village by British standards but a veritable metropolis containing several campgrounds, shops, launderette and pub. With the rain slamming down against the tent, I fell into a restless sleep considering how much damper I would become on my journey.
Trip Day 20
44.88 miles
I awoke several times in the night with a horrible realisation. My sleeping bag was wet. Scrambling around in the dark for a light I felt water on the outside of the sleeping bag as well as on the floor of my tent. Feeling around to the roof of the tent I realised that water was somehow coming in from the small ventilation mesh at the top of the inner tent. To my horror I realised that I had forgotten to tie down the outer flap which protected this mesh. Springing to my feet (or as much as one can in a small two person tent) I put on my waterproofs and clumsily exited the tent into the deluge outside. In the dark I was able to tie down the guy ropes, thus sealing the mesh and hopefully ensuring a drier night's sleep. Back into the tent I surveyed the water damage. All electronics had been put into my waterproof handlebar bag and the sleeping bag wasn't as wet as I initially thought. I had been lucky but I still cursed myself at this rookie mistake. Sir Edmund Hillary wouldn't have made that mistake would he, Josh? No he wouldn't. I fell back asleep soon after and prepared myself for the next day.
Looking back to my first rainy day at Tongariro Lodge it now occured to me that although I arrived at the campsite during a downpour, the following morning it was a beautiful day. That morning at Quinney's it was still pouring down with rain when it was time to pack down the tent and my gear. After breakfast I set about packing down my campsite in as hasty a manner as I could muster. I wasn't particularly enthusiastic about soaking my gear, especially my already-moist sleeping bag, and so frantically set about getting myself ready to leave. I wasn't in particularly high spirits that morning. My progress through the South Island was slower than I had hoped, I had taken an ill-advised diversion the day previous and now I was wet and cold. I reminded myself of where I was and what an amazing time I was having and pulled myself onto the bike and out of the camp ground.
The bike was holding up well after its off-road experience the day before and I was beginning to feel more comfortable with the heavy load on the back. It's a strange experience carrying such a heavy burden on the back of a delicate, two-wheeled vehicle and I was astounded at how much I was getting used to the weight and handling. Don't get me wrong, hills were still a pain in the backside and any time I attempted to rest off the bike the front wheel would often spin round on itself and threaten to topple the whole bike. However I was starting to enjoy the feeling of being on the bike, even if the weather was doing everything in its power to dampen my spirits.
I continued west-bound on the main highway out of Motupiko and into forests of the Tasman region. The road ran parallel to the Motupiko River and I noticed a steady climb out of the valley and into the hills ahead. Looking back now I realise that the road was going to dissect the hills of the Hope Range; my ignorance that day due to the lack of WiFi at the campsite. The road began to get steeper and before long I was tackling a short steep climb up and over Hope Saddle itself. I can't lie to you, it was a pretty miserable experience as the increased effort lead to a high body temperature and high perspiration. Combined with the rain and the fact I was wearing a hooded waterproof jacket and before long it felt like I was riding in a wearable-sauna (trademark Yard by Yard Industries 2017). The occasional cars, campers and trucks that passed offered little room as I struggle up the side of the road, attempting to keep within the meagre shoulder.
Luckily the climb was not overly long as I was soon as the lookout point of Hope Saddle. I got myself to the lookout and took shelter underneath a wooden gazebo. I was out of the rain temporarily but still soaking wet. I took most of my layers off, to the amusement of others who had stopped here, and hastily made myself a sandwich in an attempt to stave off my growing hunger. For those of you who have cycled with me before you will know of course that it was a Marmite and cheese sandwich; a concoction that I still attest to be the greatest snack available for a cyclist. I got chatting to one or two travellers who had also taken a break at the lookout, regarding their motorised vehicles with envious eyes. I had dried out as much as I possibly could and so there was nothing more to be done than to tackle the descent. The rain had began to die down and so I was hopeful that I would experience drier weather for the rest of the day. Naive fool.
With the increased standing water on the roads the descent was not quite as fast as I had hoped, my hands tightly gripped onto the brakes as they were. Much to my delight however I noticed that, after the initial descent from the Hope Saddle, the road was continuing to go downhill for many miles. I felt as if my luck was changing and I was really enjoying the new change of pace as the road continued to slope downhill. But fate has an usual way of rewarding me after completing a tough start to the day and once more the heavens opened and dampened my ambitions of riding in a dry afternoon. In comparison to the weather I was about to experience, the morning's downpour was merely a drop in the ocean. I can safely say that I have never experienced rain like that that I experienced on my trip from Hope Saddle to Murchison.
The rain was vicious. Malicious even. It was rain that was born with the single intent of ruining my afternoon. I felt personally targeted by this freak downpour. Somebody somewhere in a distant plane of existence had decided to literally make it rain on my parade. The downpour sent me slightly loopy; soon I was singing along to the music in my ears and greeting every splash from passing cars with an enthusiastic holler. Every pedal stroke filled my shoes with more water until I felt like I was wearing a portable footbath (TM Yard by Yard Industries). The rain somehow dripped down the back of the neck, bypassing the tight seal I had made with the hood of my waterproof. Thanks to the superior craftsmanship of my panniers and handlebar bag, my gear was safe and dry. I on the other hand was damp and starting to go a little crazy.
I stopped briefly on one of the downhills at a small tavern/motel for a cup of Earl Grey and a Devonshire scone (when in NZ, eh...?). The tavern was a gloriously decorated Southern NZ affair declaring a love for all things rural and farming-based. I resisted the urge to partake in a pint of Speights (NZ's most popular lager, brewed in Dunedin) and instead dried out as best I could and enjoyed a nice little sit down. I continued to put together my thoughts in my journal without resorting to scribbling the words: "Bloody hell" "It's wet" and "why did I come here" like some sort of deranged madman.
I continued downhill with the rain lashing at my face before the road levelled out and before long I was cycling through the valley alongside the famous Buller River. As the road levelled out I was hit with a furious side wind that occasionally threatened to push me clean off my bike and into a ditch but I fortunately was able to regain control. I rolled the remaining 10 miles until I saw the signs for the Murchison campground. As I rode towards the turnoff I made a mental note of quite how wet and knackered I was and recollected my damp night in the tent at Quinney's. This was one of the moments on the trip when I decided to take a more luxurious option and cycled into the town in an attempt to find a hostel. Murchison itself was a delightful small town that served as a rest point for travellers coming from Nelson in the east to the coast in the west. I spotted an information site and ditched the bike underneath a small awning as I scanned a notice board for a list of accommodation in the area. I saw advertisement for the Lazy Cow backpackers just 100m down the street and I remounted my bike and pedalled in that direction, praying for a vacancy.
The decision to stay at the Lazy Cow after such a wet day was one of the finest decisions I made the entire trip. After two wet days and with my clothing now mainly consisting of rainwater, the prospect of a warm bed, laundry facilities and pizzeria close by made the Lazy Cow seem like a paradise. Some may scoff at the idea that a shared dorm room in a small hostel in rural NZ is luxury accommodation but for me, this was a perfect place to stay. Lazy Cow turned out to be one of my favourite hostels of the trip due to its small size, relaxed nature and excellent facilities. There was free cake for crying out loud, how can you not be happy with that? After showering and throwing a load into the drier I made my way across the street to the shop to grab some supplies (correction: beer). As I returned I noticed a familiar cycle in the driveway and made my way back to the hostel's common room. There I bumped into my old friend from Tongariro, Julie the French cycle tourer! I hadn't expected to bump into her again as she was going to be taking a route north from Nelson into Abel Tasman National Park. Somehow she had managed to make this diversion and still find me here, completing a 70 mile journey to get to Murchison. I decided not to tell her of the relatively short days I had completed and reminded myself that it was possible to push myself for longer stretches.
I spent the evening dry, warm and happy. I chatted to Julie and a Swiss cycle tourists by the name of Jens about our various trips and the next stages of the journey. We were all heading west to the coast and then south from there. There was a rough agreement that we would take the same road and perhaps ride together for some of the journey. Having already found out how early they were both planning on leaving I thought this a slightly optimistic idea but entertained it nonetheless as I downed my beer and tucked into my pizza.
Tucked into my bed on the bottom bunk in the dorm room, I considered how much damper the next few weeks were likely to get. I was warned of the increased rain on the west coast and so was likely to hit one or two more days like today. I didn't care. I was warm and cosy and I had had a great evening chatting away. I was inspired by Julie and Jens to attempt some longer distances and make the most of my days here. Tomorrow, I decided, I would smash out a 60 mile day and reach the coast and the town of Westport.
Bike Day 12: Murchison to Westport
Trip Day 21
60 miles
My alarm sounded early and I leapt from my bed. Julie and Jens were already in the process of preparing themselves and looked set to be out the day way before me. I wished them both good luck and hoped to see them again on the trip at some point. Allowing them this headstart, I packed my now-dry gear and prepared for my day ahead. Looking at the map it appeared that the road would be cutting west, playfully running alongside the Buller River and gorge before exiting into the north-west at the small town of Westport. I decided this would be the best place to aim for and so I took to the saddle and began to pedal.
The day was bright and calm; a welcome relief from the previous day's battle through the tempest. The road ahead would be undulating and would pass through one or two small settlements en route to my final destination at Westport. It would be by no means an easy day but, according to the ever-changing forecast, we were due a dry day and the cycle was due to be spectacular. All the heavy traffic from Picton was due to turn South just after Murchison; I was happy to have a bit more of the road to myself and felt more confident tackling the hills without the threat of a heavy traffic behind me. The forecast held true and for the first few miles I was making good headway, enjoying the feeling of being in the saddle after such a challenging day previous. It's amazing how the state of the weather can put any cyclist (or perhaps just me) in such contrasting moods; a wet day full of hills and headwinds can feel like hell-on-Earth but a ride in a warm sunny day through good scenery is one of the greatest feelings imaginable.
As promised the road consisted of various undulations but none too challenging on the legs. The road was running alongside the Buller River and gorge and so made for some beautiful and dramatic riding; the road frequently taking narrow one-lane bridges over the river. The downhills at times cut a steep path and I was hitting some very quick speeds; my over-indulgence on the brakes beginning to fade as the roads began to dry. I stopped momentarily at a DOC campsite for a quick sandwich and drink. With the close proximity of the river I was soon set upon by the eternal irritant, the sandfly. Whilst batting these nuisances away I started chatting to another pair of cycle tourists - a young Japanese couple. In broken English they explained that they were heading west before cutting south to Reefton. They set off ahead of me as I waved them away. Second breakfast consumed and sandflies mostly avoided, I continued on my way.
Another 5 miles passed and I was coming up to the settlement of Inangahua Junction where the east-west route would come across the south-bound road to Reefton. I had my largest of the climbs of the day under my belt, perhaps a mile or so back, and was feeling confident about my riding for the day. As I rounded the corner I came into a clearing with a long, straight incline ahead. As I began my ascent I spotted something just up the hill that released all of my smugness in one go; fellow cycle tourists pushing their bikes up the road. I'm not necessarily the most competitive of people but the sight of fellow cyclists pushing up this moderate incline spurred me to keep in my own saddle. As I passed I saw that it was the young Japanese couple from earlier. I shouted encouragement as I passed them and continued over the top and down the other side. I prayed that I didn't get a puncture or mechanical problem as payment for my smugness but fortunately my ride to Inangahua Junction was free of problems.
Since Richmond I had been following a suggested itinerary that somebody had published online. The itinerary went as far down as Queenstown and, although I was loathe to follow another person's suggested journey, it did give an excellent indication of all upcoming settlements, shops and accommodation. The itinerary suggested stopping for lunch at a small cafe in Inangahua Junction. With no other options close by I decided to take the advice and pulled by bike into the forecourt of this gas station/cafe. Not being overly hungry I just grabbed a bowful of sweet potato wedges and a Coke. I got chatting to the owners, a middle-aged kiwi couple, who gave me advice about the route and where to go once I hit the west coast. As she brought out my wedges, one of the owners whether I had been caught in "that storm" yesterday. She told me that a metre of rain had fallen over the course of a few hours in the afternoon and that that was particularly unusual for this region. I felt a little vindicated by this question as I was beginning to worry that I was being overly dramatic for what could have been a usual weather condition in this part of NZ. It certainly felt like I had cycled through a metre of rainwater.
I cleaned the plate up and pushed on to the last 25 miles of the day. By this point I had completed 35 miles and so was on point to complete my longest day since the second day of the cycle. I was also due to climb the most number of feet since the day I cycled to Rotorua. A big day ahead essentially. Again, if anybody is seriously interested in the statistics then give me a shout and I will send you the most boring excel spreadsheet imaginable.... As I was traversing alongside a particularly glorious part of the road, I remembered something that the bloke back at Inangahua Junction had told me. After informing him of how beautiful I thought the south island to be he told me to "forget everything you've seen so far. It gets more beautiful from here on in." This excited me; I was already blown away with this landscape and what I had seen up to this point. I knew I still had the west coast, glacier country and the southern lakes to enjoy but it still amazed me that this man considered our current surroundings to be drab and boring in comparison.
Before long I was climbing my final ascent out of the forest, the river now far behind me, and as I crested the final hill I came out into the flatlands. I had passed through the forest and was now into a clearing and staring down the road towards Westport and the west coast. Looking at my cycle computer I still had around 6 miles to go before I hit the centre of Westport but I was beyond excited to have done over 50 miles through that terrain. My legs were tired, my stomach screaming at me but I knew I was close to a good night's rest. I had briefly scouted ahead and knew that I had no real viable options for camping and so took a chance and phoned ahead to a small surfing hostel in the centre of town. They confirmed my booking and I wheeled my way down to the high street of Westport towards my accommodation.
Westport itself is a fairly unremarkable town of just over 6,000 people. For such a small population it certainly has a wide selection of amenities but it felt a little too far away from the typical tourist route to reap the benefits of passing coaches and camper vans. Many signs encouraged me to grab my surfboard and head down to the beach but with the skies darkening and the temperature dropping, I politely declined. I checked into a relaxed hostel and stocked up for dinner; turns out my light lunch was not enough and I treated myself to a heavy dinner.
The last few days had been tough and tiring but it didn't matter; I was on the west coast and would soon be passing through some terrific scenery. I couldn't wait to get out there and see it all. Plus it surely couldn't get any wetter could it?
The day was bright and calm; a welcome relief from the previous day's battle through the tempest. The road ahead would be undulating and would pass through one or two small settlements en route to my final destination at Westport. It would be by no means an easy day but, according to the ever-changing forecast, we were due a dry day and the cycle was due to be spectacular. All the heavy traffic from Picton was due to turn South just after Murchison; I was happy to have a bit more of the road to myself and felt more confident tackling the hills without the threat of a heavy traffic behind me. The forecast held true and for the first few miles I was making good headway, enjoying the feeling of being in the saddle after such a challenging day previous. It's amazing how the state of the weather can put any cyclist (or perhaps just me) in such contrasting moods; a wet day full of hills and headwinds can feel like hell-on-Earth but a ride in a warm sunny day through good scenery is one of the greatest feelings imaginable.
As promised the road consisted of various undulations but none too challenging on the legs. The road was running alongside the Buller River and gorge and so made for some beautiful and dramatic riding; the road frequently taking narrow one-lane bridges over the river. The downhills at times cut a steep path and I was hitting some very quick speeds; my over-indulgence on the brakes beginning to fade as the roads began to dry. I stopped momentarily at a DOC campsite for a quick sandwich and drink. With the close proximity of the river I was soon set upon by the eternal irritant, the sandfly. Whilst batting these nuisances away I started chatting to another pair of cycle tourists - a young Japanese couple. In broken English they explained that they were heading west before cutting south to Reefton. They set off ahead of me as I waved them away. Second breakfast consumed and sandflies mostly avoided, I continued on my way.
Another 5 miles passed and I was coming up to the settlement of Inangahua Junction where the east-west route would come across the south-bound road to Reefton. I had my largest of the climbs of the day under my belt, perhaps a mile or so back, and was feeling confident about my riding for the day. As I rounded the corner I came into a clearing with a long, straight incline ahead. As I began my ascent I spotted something just up the hill that released all of my smugness in one go; fellow cycle tourists pushing their bikes up the road. I'm not necessarily the most competitive of people but the sight of fellow cyclists pushing up this moderate incline spurred me to keep in my own saddle. As I passed I saw that it was the young Japanese couple from earlier. I shouted encouragement as I passed them and continued over the top and down the other side. I prayed that I didn't get a puncture or mechanical problem as payment for my smugness but fortunately my ride to Inangahua Junction was free of problems.
Since Richmond I had been following a suggested itinerary that somebody had published online. The itinerary went as far down as Queenstown and, although I was loathe to follow another person's suggested journey, it did give an excellent indication of all upcoming settlements, shops and accommodation. The itinerary suggested stopping for lunch at a small cafe in Inangahua Junction. With no other options close by I decided to take the advice and pulled by bike into the forecourt of this gas station/cafe. Not being overly hungry I just grabbed a bowful of sweet potato wedges and a Coke. I got chatting to the owners, a middle-aged kiwi couple, who gave me advice about the route and where to go once I hit the west coast. As she brought out my wedges, one of the owners whether I had been caught in "that storm" yesterday. She told me that a metre of rain had fallen over the course of a few hours in the afternoon and that that was particularly unusual for this region. I felt a little vindicated by this question as I was beginning to worry that I was being overly dramatic for what could have been a usual weather condition in this part of NZ. It certainly felt like I had cycled through a metre of rainwater.
I cleaned the plate up and pushed on to the last 25 miles of the day. By this point I had completed 35 miles and so was on point to complete my longest day since the second day of the cycle. I was also due to climb the most number of feet since the day I cycled to Rotorua. A big day ahead essentially. Again, if anybody is seriously interested in the statistics then give me a shout and I will send you the most boring excel spreadsheet imaginable.... As I was traversing alongside a particularly glorious part of the road, I remembered something that the bloke back at Inangahua Junction had told me. After informing him of how beautiful I thought the south island to be he told me to "forget everything you've seen so far. It gets more beautiful from here on in." This excited me; I was already blown away with this landscape and what I had seen up to this point. I knew I still had the west coast, glacier country and the southern lakes to enjoy but it still amazed me that this man considered our current surroundings to be drab and boring in comparison.
Before long I was climbing my final ascent out of the forest, the river now far behind me, and as I crested the final hill I came out into the flatlands. I had passed through the forest and was now into a clearing and staring down the road towards Westport and the west coast. Looking at my cycle computer I still had around 6 miles to go before I hit the centre of Westport but I was beyond excited to have done over 50 miles through that terrain. My legs were tired, my stomach screaming at me but I knew I was close to a good night's rest. I had briefly scouted ahead and knew that I had no real viable options for camping and so took a chance and phoned ahead to a small surfing hostel in the centre of town. They confirmed my booking and I wheeled my way down to the high street of Westport towards my accommodation.
Westport itself is a fairly unremarkable town of just over 6,000 people. For such a small population it certainly has a wide selection of amenities but it felt a little too far away from the typical tourist route to reap the benefits of passing coaches and camper vans. Many signs encouraged me to grab my surfboard and head down to the beach but with the skies darkening and the temperature dropping, I politely declined. I checked into a relaxed hostel and stocked up for dinner; turns out my light lunch was not enough and I treated myself to a heavy dinner.
The last few days had been tough and tiring but it didn't matter; I was on the west coast and would soon be passing through some terrific scenery. I couldn't wait to get out there and see it all. Plus it surely couldn't get any wetter could it?
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