All posts by bpheasant

around home, NZ, snow

Little ski beyond Little Mt Ida

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July seemed a month of Covid finally catching up family here. First, I got off lightly with a mostly-enjoyable week of what I’m calling Covid-lite – plenty of reading, watching, eating and keeping warm by the fire. A little congestion returns occasionally, but I’ve been pleased with energy levels generally (as another venesection approaches), and on a couple of easy runs and a short gravel ride. Unfortunately family around the corner didn’t get off nearly so well, having a thoroughly horrible week of illness and little sleep. There wasn’t much I could do to help, save run a few errands; strangely it was more isolating than the week I was confined at home.

That month done, first of August seemed auspicious timing to finally get out in the local hills. James was keen and arranged access to explore beyond Little Mt Ida. Getting up on to the main range and to Mt Ida (which I’d walked to from the back of the range earlier in the year) was mooted, but we’d see how conditions were. I was pleased just to get to go up Little Mt Ida for the first time – long having looked at it with curiosity when nearby.

The access track was still frozen hard as we drove up it on a clear and quickly-warming morning. Truck parked on the zig-zag as we reached the snow, already the wind was picking up as getting the gear organised was very much done in the shelter of the vehicle. Not enough snow to bother putting skins on, as we’d soon be off the track and cutting across tussocks, skis were precariously attached to the side of my pack (tail-ends hanging a bit low) and off we set – trail runners sufficing so far; with no better place to put them, I was left trying to keep ski boot straps on my shoulder.

Mt St Bathans as we left the truck.

A steady walk up the mostly snow covered road, we kept going straight ahead off the road as it switchbacked to the summit. Twenty minutes of gradual descent to the conservation area boundary was easy enough, my skis didn’t catch too much, and there was enough snow that I only got spaniard-stabbed once. But my, it was windy on the saddle.

Getting much steeper, still some way to go before even thinking about putting skis on.

Home Hills on left in front of St Bathans Range.

The walking became much more difficult being undershod, thankfully James was breaking trail. Reaching the small gully we’d been aiming for, we decided it wasn’t worth trying to skin up – so we continued hiking. By now I was getting a bit concerned as to how I’d get down from here if we didn’t find more snow. Bit steep and icy for me carrying skis and boots; a misstep and stumble induced a decent twinge in my good-shoulder, so that was something to be mindful of. After near-on two hours and a whopping two kilometres, and ever-increasing wind, we approached more snow to the fate we’d anticipated – it was far too windy to go any further. Fortunately, there was a little gully off to the south that had been collecting much windblown snow.

Couldn’t stop looking at it.

Time to finally put skis on. Looking over Little Mt Ida to the Ida Valley and Dunstan Range.

Not exactly groomed conditions, so a great time to see if I could remember to ski. It wouldn’t be pretty, but it sure beat trying to walk off this slope! I certainly couldn’t turn as sharply as James, but my way down in some really nice snow was made – with some thought and trying my best to avoid varying shrubberies.

Unsure what I’m doing over there, but some proof I had skis on yesterday.

Good fun, even if big pockets of powder did catch me unawares and leave me trying to get up with skis slightly akimbo. I look forward to skiing again shortly. Traversing through increasing amounts of foliage, the skis were soon back on our packs – at least we’d dropped almost a hundred metres easily and avoided hiking the steepest part. With the ends of my skis constantly catching plants and snow, walking downhill was engaging; amusingly, my right ski kept trying to ankle-tap me as the strong wind blew it around.

Not unpleasant tussock walking with plenty to look at.

We went up the tussock covered slope above the top of the track at right, came down the gully to the right of that.

Back at the road, we couldn’t not ditch our gear for the short walk to the summit.

East to the Kakanuis.

Most excellent to get up in the hills for a little, low-speed adventure. As is often the case, I most appreciated seeing an area I’m somewhat familiar with from a different perspective and assemble the pieces on the landscape further in my mind.

bikepacking, bikes, NZ, shoulder

Nydia Track – mostly

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Somehow last year, I wangled my way onto the inaugural Sounds2Sounds bikepacking event start list. While I was very much looking forward to riding 1500 km down the South Island from Queen Charlotte Sound to Milford Sound, I didn’t put a lot of thought or time into planning my ride, figuring I’d get to the start with the usual gear and take it from there – I was even more anticipating touring the route with various friends at whatever pace they chose. Amongst summer adventures, helping family out and then deciding to move to Naseby for the winter (brrr) – which required finding somewhere to live, Sounds2Sounds was a ride in the back of my mind that would sort itself out.

Riding away from Blenheim Airport, I realised that for all my travel with a bike over fifteen years this was the first time I’d assembled a bike at an airport and just ridden away (having thoughtfully disposed of the cardboard box) – exciting! A flat and easy thirty-five kilometres in light Sunday afternoon traffic took me north to Havelock (not to Havelock North, which I’m far more familiar with). Finding the campground, there was enough time to pitch my tent, get supplies, cook dinner and come up with a plan for the few days before I started Sounds2Sounds. I’d do an overnighter north on the notoriously rugged Nydia Track (very much a tramping/hiking trail), camp just past the trail end and spend the following day exploring gravel roads around Pelorus Sound before returning to Havelock.

With only fifty kilometres to cover that Monday, albeit much at a slow pace, it was a leisurely start before quiet gravel roads took me to, across and alongside the Pelorus River and Sound to the trailhead on a still, sunny morning.

Over the Pelorus.

Warm-up, and forty percent of the distance, done in eighty minutes I thought the twenty-seven kilometres to the next road would take seven hours of at touring pace.
The first climb was more rideable than I was expecting, but still – forty minutes to gain two hundred metres over two kilometres is not rapid. Only just into the descent to Omahakie Stream I found West Coast friends, Nina and Rachel, on their last climb of the return from an overnighter – pity I was a day late, or I’d have had some good company. We stopped for a natter before all getting a move-on. The descent over all too soon, it was time to settle into the hike up to the highest point of the day – Kaiuma Saddle. It was a pleasant walk, and not nearly as bad as I’d been expecting – all the roots and rocks easily negotiable. There was no hurry and I just plodded away.

A rare glimpse of the terrain.

Down to Nydia Bay from Kaiuma Saddle. A good spot for lunch in the sun.
The descent was good technical fun, especially with a loaded rigid bike, and in half an hour I was down skirting the edge of Nydia Bay. The few dwellings in this isolated spot were interesting to see. There were even some people around – it seemed common to walk in one day and stay a couple of nights before completing the track; I had no such plan.

A brief detour down to the Nydia Campsite for no particular reason.
I settled into the last big climb for the day – 350 metres up to Nydia Saddle. It was pleasant enough going, and would have only taken an hour and a half, until I happened upon a large, recent treefall near the top. It completely covered the track, and the hillside was steep enough that attempting to go around it when alone was not a risk and effort I was willing to expend. Further investigation found I could just get under it. So close to the saddle and the end of the track it was worth a go.

There’s my bike back down the track, having just found I could get under the tree and all the foliage it had brought down with it.
Never before have I had to take all the bags off my bike to get past an obstacle.

Posting bags through the pinch point – getting to and from this point was enough effort across all the branches and vines.
Even with the bags off, my bike wouldn’t fit, nor could I manhandle it through. Amused by the absurdness of it and enjoying the challenge, off came the wheels and with sufficient trips back and forth I worked hard to wrestle the frame through (pedals and handlebars particularly adept at getting caught on vines and branches).

There was a way through there, unsure now how.
At last, forty minutes later, I was reassembling my bike and reattaching the bags – pleased that there was no damage. A few hundred metres to the saddle, it was time to rest and refuel – that had been a different kind of effort to the normal hike-a-bike. Recognising my tiredness, I resolved to take it easy on the final descent – also knowing that the last section was notorious for its rooty nature and requiring time off the bike.

Alas, not even a kilometre down the track I got my balance wrong on a slow rocky bit, put my right foot down and my momentum took me over the bank. Impacting my left side, but still going down the bank, a tumble whacked my right shoulder on a tree and out it came, again. The seventh time now, the dislocation came with the clear thought of “well, that changes the next few months – no Sounds2Sounds, no biking, moving house is going to be difficult, more physio…”. Otherwise only a little scraped up, it took some time and energy to get back up the steep bank to the track with my left arm only any use. Confirming my shoulder was out and not going back in, it was an easy decision to reach for my SPOT tracker.

I’d intended to bring my personal locator beacon on this trip, but someone wanted to follow my dot, so the SPOT it was. Not the best under the canopy of thick bush, but fortunately I’d crashed just before a slight opening in the trees – it looked the result of a long-ago slip. I was most pleased to see the lights flashing green, indicating that the device had found sufficient GPS satellites and my SOS had gotten out. The clearing also meant that I had a nice patch of sun to lie in – on the track with my arm hanging off the side hold a water bottle in an exceptionally hopeful bid for the muscles to tire and relax that I might relocate my arm. It didn’t work, but it was nice lying in the sun.

With the sun slipping away behind the trees, and along with it the warmth of the day, it was time to prepare for a possible night out on the track – I didn’t expect to see any hikers until at least mid-morning. Thankfully my bike stayed on the track, so I began the slow process of extracting my ground sheet, mattress, and sleeping bag. Mattress inflated, I slowly worked through the pain of any movement of my shoulder and arm, to get in my sleeping bag – remarkably tricky with one arm to use while the other shoots pain all around.

No sooner had I settled into my invalid’s cocoon that I heard the faintest trace of helicopter blades whipping through the air. Quickly, compared to getting in, I was back in the open air to try and spot the chopper and wave it down. As it got closer and the sound bounced around the hills, I eventually worked out it was on the other side of the ridge and out of my sight. Sigh. The noise faded as it disappeared somewhere. Slowly I again attempted to get in my sleeping bag. Having just done that over many minutes, the chopper came back.

This time it was on my side of the valley, down a bit and I could see it! But in this dense bush, the crew spotting me had the proverbial task – although I guess they’re well practiced. I set my helmet light to flashing and pointed it at the side of the helicopter. Eventually I was spotted, which was even more pleasing. I wouldn’t be spending a painful night alone on the track. Hovering over me for a bit it was draughty, then off it went (I later learnt to unload unnecessary weight in a nearby paddock) before returning.

The downwash so strong, all my sleeping equipment was in danger of blowing away down the track. Heck, I was in danger of blowing away; crouching and holding onto my gear continued for minutes. Not entirely comfortable, besides the obvious, in this position, after a time things calmed and went very quiet as off went the chopper. I stood and turned to find a paramedic, Neil, standing right behind me. His proximity was somewhat startling, but I was well-pleased to see him. All the standard questions ensued as he went about his assessment of the situation. Thankfully I had no other injuries (it wasn’t much of a fall really, just not a good one for a weakened shoulder) and was making sense – I think. With drugs soon into my left hand, the edge came off and a plan was made and enacted while we waited for the helicopter to return in half an hour. Curiously, the rescue had come from Wellington – not that far away really, but across on the North Island – as the local rescue helicopter was otherwise occupied.

In some ballooning, all-enveloping harness I’d be winched up with Neil, along with most of the luggage off my bike. Unfortunately my bike couldn’t come with, but I was happy for Neil to stash it off the side of the track – confident it’d not be found by the few people out here mid-week and cause more alarm. Back came the chopper and the downwash. I’m still deeply impressed with the whole winching process in such a small clearing in the bush – soon I was up in aircraft and we were off to retrieve that gear. In spite of the whole situation, I enjoyed the flight to Blenheim (chosen over Nelson as it required less fuel for the helicopter to return to base) getting a view of a part of New Zealand I’m relatively unfamiliar with.

But this is the only picture I managed to snap between being seen to medically, filling in details on a tablet and messaging loved ones (family having been contacted by rescue services, domestic and international, to check it wasn’t a false alarm understandably had a few questions).
Landing at Wairau Hospital, at least I could walk myself into the Emergency Department, where what I’d tried to do trackside was repeated – the bed was more comfortable as my arm hung off the side with weight taped to it. Familiar fun times sucking on the Entonox as various people tried and failed to relocate my arm. By now it had been out four or so hours and, predictably, it wasn’t going back in. Again, time for a general and it was, apparently, quickly back in. Much rejoicing, well, as much as possibly through the haze of the drugs wearing off. I guess five hours is better than the six it was out the previous time… I was pleased the relocation attempts weren’t as excruciatingly painful or numerous this time.

Photo taking really goes downhill when my right arm is out of service.
Onto another bed for observation and a Covid test (strange timing there, but priorities). I was slightly put out by a nurse suggesting I was about to be discharged into the night of an unfamiliar town to be left to my own devices. I rated chances of finding a motel near midnight on a Monday night in Blenheim as low to dismal; I might have just rolled out my sleeping kit again and slept under a tree on the hospital grounds… Thankfully the doctor decided I needed to be kept in “for observation” and found me a bed in a ward. Sometime after one in the morning I managed to get some sleep, pretty happy that my arm was back in place and I wasn’t out in the bush. Very thankful for the prompt, and somewhat exciting, rescue and the medical treatment.

Turns out I did know one person in Blenheim, Warren – whom I’d met briefly on the Six Corners Challenge, and was due to start Sounds2Sounds the same day as I had been. After a visit from the physio and another doctor, I was discharged mid-morning and Warren kindly picked me up and let me rest at his house for the day. The afternoon was enough to organise retrieval of my bike the following day, have some gear I’d left at the Havelock campground collected and delivered and me to stay with Warren’s mother for a few days while I worked out how to get home.

I was well looked after by Linda, amongst much bikepacking talk, at her place up the Taylor River valley. Pleasingly, this was on the Sounds2Sounds route, so I was able to see a lot of the riders go past – nice to see friends, even though I couldn’t ride. My shoulder was a bit stiffer than usual post-dislocation, and gave some unusual pains further down my arm – I assumed from the force used to relocate it. I settled into one-armed life again, trying not to use it too much – but still trying to help around the house a little. The rural setting was most pleasant for gently exploring, there was much time spent reading and sleeping too. Warren delivered my bike (it had been well hidden, taking Aaron almost as long to find it as it did to run in from the top of the Nydia Track), and it made sense for Linda to take it south when she went to collect Warren and Tosca from Milford Sound. It made even more sense for me to get a lift too and save the hassle of negotiating a flight south. So a week after my crash, I made it home – many thanks to all those that helped me.

As it was, I was only off the bike for four weeks as with some physio I quickly got back my full range of movement. Being in a sling only really lasted a couple of weeks; moving into an overly-cute rental cottage was manageable with help. Since then I’ve enjoyed settling into a little home, plenty of time with and helping out family, much mountain-biking from home on the finally-delivered and -assembled new mountain bike, casually helping a couple of short-staffed local businesses, getting enough firewood to survive comfortably a winter far colder than those of Napier, and, now that regular frosts have arrived, a lot of reading in front of a roaring fire. Somehow I even ended up on a podcast, in a manner of speaking.

I was most surprised, impressed and delighted when this caricature of me dropped into my podcast feed. Credit: Jonny Simpson.
With such cover art and my writing here, there’d be little chance of guessing that the episode has almost nothing to do with riding bikes! Except to say, it’s my story – so of course bikes aren’t far away. Noticing a New Zealand-sized gap in personal finance media, Ruth, and Jonny, set about rectifying that with an excellent website and podcast. It’s quite a resource and has certainly and ably filled that gap over the last six years. Somewhere along my own path to not having to work for a living (not a fan of “retired”), we corresponded a bit and sometimes I’d drop in for a tea and chat when I was passing through town. That’s a bit more often now that I’m only an hour down the road.

On one such visit recently, I was mildly taken aback (should have seen it coming) when asked if I’d share my story for the podcast. As the whole idea of the podcast is to share people’s money stories and get more conversation about such things going, I could but say an honoured-yes. Quite concerned that my story isn’t really that interesting compared to the others I’ve heard, it turned out I’m more than happy to talk personal finance for three hours – just as well Ruth could relate it far more concisely. So if such things interest you, the episode is here, check out thehappysaver.com or contact me – I’ll happily chat about my own experiences.

bikepacking, bikes, food, friends, NZ

Four Peaks and Orari Gorge via Blue Mountain Station

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Due to the excellence of the two previous bikepacking trips Andrew had invited me on this year (this one possibly the best I’ve been on, this one not far behind), I was a deadset starter for a much less ambitious overnighter as we head into winter. Since dislocating my shoulder again (I may get around to telling that story) on the last day of summer, long days on the bike have been absent. That was in part due to a month off the bike and in part finally getting my new mountain bike together – this autumn, conditions have begged for as much trail riding as possible.

As the plan was only for a hundred kilometres and staying in farm accommodation meant no need to carry camping gear, thoughts turned to how much extra space there would be for food. Fond memories of the feast on this trip to Apiti spurred discussions that we needn’t all eat individual rehydrated meals from pouches – instead we could cook and eat together. Closer to the time, I also realised such a weekend would be a good test of my new bike’s bikepacking suitability – by no means what it was designed for, but something that was in the back of my mind when choosing it. I’d have to carry a backpack full of food and water, and any riding on the road would be a chore, but it seemed a fortuitous opportunity – plus I’m still loving riding it as much as possible.

Assembling in Geraldine Saturday morning, the purple patch of weather had truly ended – after riding straight to a cafe, we eventually got going into the cool and damp gloom. Gradually climbing from the plains into the foothills, I was soon lagging – finally succumbing to putting my raincoat on, only for the rain to stop shortly after, didn’t help.

Nor did stopping for the occasional photo of little note.

Road turning to gravel, there was finally some gradient to help me keep up and engage my riding brain a bit more. Leaving Te Moana River and following Leishmans Stream past some recent logging (my digger-spotting antennae on high alert after much time recently with my nephew) the deteriorating surface soon kicked savagely. A rocky creek crossing entry and exit had me off the bike and pushing briefly. Around a couple more corners, the surface and renewed steepness were too much for both my legs and bikepacking tyres (by design, the wheels for each of my bikes can go on the other). This was the longest and only sustained push of the trip.

The track on the other side of the stream looks a far kinder gradient.

At the top of the big push, we easily cut across the saddle to find a recently bulldozed track down.

Looking over to Doughboy Saddle – not even 900 m, Andrew definitely going easier on us this trip.

Thanks Jo for the almost-group photo.

Such a smooth descent for a farm track! Still, good fun with the occasional creek crossing in the corners. Also Jo’s photo.

A bit of route consideration at the bottom and we were soon on the half hour climb to the saddle – most enjoyable chatting away as the day brightened a bit. Halfway through the distance, after noon and at our highest point – lightening the load of food seemed reasonable. Cue lunch.

Down to the Opuha Valley, with the Sherwood Range sitting in front of the Two Thumbs.

Not looking too weighed down by bags.

Another long descent on farm track. Looking back to Doughboy Saddle, even getting sunny now; we came down the track on the left.

Much fun had on those downhills on a bike far different to the rigid frame one I usually bikepack on. A silly amount of fun really. The phrase “gun to a knife fight” kept crossing my mind. Pleasingly also, for such a bike, loaded, it climbs pretty well without a full lockout – even with the narrower gear range than is common meaning a harder high gear (32:11-42 if anyone cares).

Rob conquering another climb as Devil’s Peak watches over us.

Andrew looking pleased – perhaps with another plan coming together, the weather coming around to his usual standards, or just another long downhill ahead.

Bryan also pleased – perhaps that hut was not overnight accommodation for eight bikepackers.

Another saddle gained, the last sizeable one through Four Peaks Station.

Looking green suddenly for the descent to the Opuha.

Out of the station, we had the opportunity to witness some truly extraordinary feats of navigation before turning for the twenty-two kilometres to Blue Mountain Station for the night. The last section of climb out of the Clayton Valley demanded a surprising amount of effort to gain Meikleburn Saddle.

Rewarded with a fast descent, we were soon cruising down the upper Orari Valley to the Cook House.

Over a shed to the other side of Mt Peel – to that usually seen, that is.

Decent old woolshed too.

Woolshed photos for Andrew Watts.

We settled into our accommodation for the night – The Cook Shop. It wasn’t difficult – wood in from the shed and soon a fire was roaring (down to base layers despite the cold outside), heritage apples were collected from the carpet beneath two big trees (many hundreds more still to fall) and stewed (kudos to Jo for the tedious looking prep), hot drinks were sipped while many snacks were devoured (can there be too much chocolate?) from the comfort of the sleep-inducing recliners.

In one of the more remarkable bikepacking cuisine episodes I’ve seen, Andrew pulled two loaf tins and about two kilograms of dry ingredients from his bags and set to making two loaves of bread! As the evening drew in, various groups moved through the kitchen as the kettle seemed to be constantly boiled for more tea – a big salad was prepared, jambalaya appeared, and a large vege curry cooked all while the aroma of fresh bread permeated.

No danger of a calorie deficit on this trip. Another of Jo’s photos.

Although too full to move, it was a lively evening of much chat. Perhaps helped by those committed to the cause who hauled in cans of beer, about a litre of port, bourbon and coke (although I hear there is a new line of bourbon-scented bikepacking bags about to be released), a wee dram and Glayva. We were so full, we almost forgot the apples for dessert. The riding can’t have been too much for anyone – no one was in bed by nine o’clock.

I’m unsure if it was the bathroom calling or just rearing to get going on another day of riding new places, but everyone was up well before dawn on an overcast, damp morning. Not ideal. But first the serious business of lightening the day’s loads. The second loaf of bread mostly went into tasty French toast/eggy bread, but still ample remained for the jam and honey that appeared from somewhere. More of that tasty apple also disappeared. Packed up and the Cook Shop tidied, eight-thirty seemed very reasonable as there wasn’t even three hours of riding down the Orari and back to Geraldine.

Another almost-group photo, this time by Andrew as he amused us with creative ways of failing to get the camera to sit on the gate.

First up – avoiding wet feet where the track had washed out with a little hike-a-bike. Bryan’s photo.

Not raining yet, but damp still.

Half an hour of easy riding took us to the confluence with Basin Stream. We took a small detour to check out the hut, which seven years ago had been restored to its former late-1800s glory. It had been done so that the restoration was barely noticeable, but those that had visited before told of what a vast improvement it was over the old damp, infested freezer box it was.

I took a photo of the hut. But this is Bryan’s photo.

Here is that photo, as the cloud continues to come and go.

After poking around a bit and deciding that this would be a great base for a few days of exploring the station’s tracks and terrain further, during warmer and longer days, we continued up the valley (jettisoning bags in the hut) to see what we might see. More hills, clouds and some nice little climbs.

No one was tempted to continue gain another five hundred metres in the gloom to the peak of Mt Frances – that can wait for the next visit – so we turned and flew down the hill. The clouds cleared from Mt Peel, and the ridge down to Middle Mt Peel, but clung in the valleys a bit more.

Bryan on the descent back to the hut.

On the way to reclaim my bags from the hut. Another of Bryan’s pictures.

Back beside the Orari, the valley narrowed into a gorge – this gave us numerous pinch climbs to make us earn our descent to the plains. All were rideable, but not quite by me.

I watched from afar at the so-called Gates of Orari as much of the group attempted this particularly tough little ascent.

Carrying as much speed as I could as the approach flattened only carried me a fraction of the way up. The surface was a bit loose, more my rear tyre not well-suited, and it became a low-speed grunt while trying to keep a line with some traction.

Almost there! Another of Bryan’s photos.

Just made it, surprised to get a small applause – heaving lungs showing this one as the most effort I put in all weekend.

An enjoyable descent (see further below for video of me having too much fun on the bike I insisted on dragging around) to the flats, before more testing little climbs.

The rain set in, waterproof layers went on and the camera went away for most of the rest of the ride.

Crossing Andrews Stream (the naming of this didn’t get enough attention really), we were off the wet grassy farm track onto a faster gravel surface which continued to improve for the last hour back to town. While the rain stopped, my fingers didn’t warm much – so it was nice to get back to the vehicles and get into warm, dry clothes. Our excellent weekend together ending with more tasty food and hot drinks in a local cafe.

What a great little trip to get back into bikepacking after ten or so weeks, a fun bunch of riders that all contributed much to the enjoyment, of both riding and sustenance. Thanks especially to Andrew for organising another ripper of a trip; hopefully I can speak for all in looking forward to the next one, wherever that may be.

Well done for making it this far, even if you’ve just scrolled through looking at the pictures. As usual, Andrew has told the story of the trip better with far less text and more pictures…

bikepacking, bikes, friends, GPS, NZ

Southern Special – Meg Hut to Clyde

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Wet feet as soon as leaving the hut, we were soon pushing and lifting our bikes up a skinny track for a bit of early (well, eight o’clock – early for this trip) hike-a-bike. Andy and I were thoroughly schooled as Rachel went for the full bike carry across her shoulders. But the tussock and trail were not so bad to dissuade me from keeping my wheels on or close to the ground.

A clear start to the day, but it hadn’t been cold overnight.

Hut getting smaller; Rachel’s photo.

Bit of a switchback, waiting patiently for the sun to strike the corrugated iron of the hut. Alas, as slow as progress was hiking up the hill – it wasn’t slow enough.

After gaining two hundred metres in half an hour, the Cromwell Cardrona Pack Track became old 4WD track and surprisingly rideable.

Well, there was still the odd steep part. The ridge behind, part of the previous day’s route (left to right).

We started to get glimpses of snowy peaks in the distance.

Almost two hours and five kilometres, in it was decision time. Do we continue on the direct pack track to Deep Creek on a barely-there trail (bound to be overgrown with tussocks and spaniards) or do the other two sides of a triangle north-east and then south on 4WD track? After much deliberation, we gave the pack track a go. That barely lasted a hundred metres, the going was far too slow and tough. We bailed and headed off on the double track.

This did mean an extra couple of hundred metres of climbing, but it was far more rideable than the pack track!

Andy in his element setting up for more videoing. Nevis Valley way off south.

Mt Aspiring making an appearance.

The climbing pretty much done now, we had quite a descent to look forward to. About 1400 metres, wahoo!

But first, someone insisted (ahem, me) that we should walk up to the highest point of our trip – Mt Dottrel – as, when would we be back?

A steady climb to the flat top, the first real bit of downhill we’d done that day behind.

I think it was worth it. Cromwell down below with Lake Dunstan and the Cairnmuir Mountains behind. Old Man Range on far right, we’d go over that low point between the two later in the day

Back at the bikes, there was nothing for it but the long, surprisingly smooth considering, downhill interspersed with many stops as new angles on the view opened up to stop us in our tracks.

Mt Dottrel at rear.

The southern end of the Dunstan Range – must get up there.

A rut! Quite a surprise. Rachel’s photo.

Lifting our bikes over a locked gate, I was beginning to feel that we weren’t on the farm that we had permission to be on. But what would it matter up here?! We’d eventually get to where we were supposed to be. But with such a warm still day up here – really, not a breath of wind, uncanny – the leaseholders were up maintaining one of their huts. What are the chances?! Apologising profusely for inadvertently trespassing, they were very gracious and up for a bit of a yarn. The beers before noon probably helped us in this situation.

Even this newspaper clipping was dragged out – not the last time we were told that day of Rambo’s demise. After what I saw over a month prior, he had it coming.

With helpful directions of how to get where we were supposed to be (there was still quite a bit of the wrong farm to get through), we farewelled the farmers and headed off – straight up a pinch climb, only just managing to ride all of that.

There was much enjoyment to be had on the Pisas picking out places the three of us had ridden together recently. Here the Chain Hills, Dunstan Saddle, the Lauder Conservation Area were visible in front of the St Bathans Range. Still more places to return to or explore for the first time.

Into the farm we were supposed to be on, finally!

Occasionally spaniard plants aren’t making me yelp in sudden pain, the spikes seen indicate why they often do.

Twas a fun and fast descent.

Rachel’s photo.

Up the Kawarau Gorge; soon, I’m told, there will be a cycle trail down there to connect to Queenstown. That’ll be cycle trail all the way from Middlemarch! Will just remain to connect it to Dunedin.

Getting lower. Over to Bannockburn, the start of the Nevis Road, the Old Man and the afternoon’s route over Hawksburn Rd.

Picking out the sheep tracks that I “ran” up and down on last year’s Mt Difficulty trail half-marathon. What was I thinking?

Down in the valley floor, it was heating up. So we went to the pub.

You wouldn’t pick it, but this photo is for the slight view of the Pisa Range and where we were just an hour or so before. Quite satisfying sitting eating looking at that, exclaiming “we were up there”! It was fantastic after all.

Eating, the real reason we go bikepacking. Also notable for Andy’s remarkably clean shirt (Clean Shirt!), bought just for being vaguely presentable in Queenstown. Rachel’s photo.

Having spied family friends drive past us on our brief road section, I insisted we go and visit in Bannockburn. Partly because I’d not caught up in years, partly because it was midway through a northwesterly-fanned scorching afternoon. I think we all enjoyed the visit, fresh summer fruit, and respite from the sun.

Lagging as we again headed out of town, I was taking it easy. It was a blessing when the hot tailwind turned to a cooler headwind, funnily enough. Just twenty kilometres and five hundred metres of climbing before we returned to our start point, I finally seemed to get stronger. Maybe it was just because Hawksburn Rd had always been a bit of a challenge, but after the time over Percy Saddle and then on the Pisas, this was just a small bump in the topography. The elevation graph certainly shows it like that! It must be said that the surface up to and on the pylon road is much improved – far more rideable than I remember.

Hawksburn Farm in the sun, Old Man Range behind.

Some of the last climbing for the trip, relatively easy going.

Undulating across the saddle, there’s the end of the Dunstan Range again. One day…

Finally, one last, steep downhill back to Mark’s place.

With that, our week-long tour was over. Still can’t believe the weather, never had to put my rain coat on once! In fact, in eleven days bikepacking together on long-planned trips – I wore my raincoat only to drop off the Lauders when it suddenly got cold for a long descent. Considering the terrain we’ve been in, that’s something. And that’s just a bonus on top of the enjoyment these trips exploring lower South Island hills with Andy and Rachel brings – another cracker.

One more plug for a far better summary of what the trip was actually like: Andy’s video.