Having called it a day in the southerly storm, got warm and then, with nothing else to do, slept well before sunset – it was a fitful night’s sleep. I must have been quite exhausted, as my bivy bag was markedly more claustrophobic than it ever had been. But it’s real purpose was to keep decades of dirt and pigeon droppings off, so it was simple enough to open it up and relieve the anxiety. Leaving our humble digs shortly after half-four, we had a bit of lost time to make up.

Clambering back over the fence, we were back on gravel for much of the morning. As the sky lightened, we climbed a couple of hundred metres. This section was off the Old Dunstan Rd route proper, but knowing the real route slogs up and over farmland steeply I was not quibbling with Dave’s routing. Short of water, we refilled out of a canal below the Paerau Weir, which feeds power stations I didn’t know were there.

Rejoining the Old Dunstan Rd, the big climb I remembered well loomed into view. As the day dawned, it was definitely cooler than last year. Progress up the ten percent gradient for an hour was slow and steady, but seemed easier. There may have been some walking, perhaps I’m blocking that out.

The weir, the road we’d just ridden and out over the upper Maniototo Plain.

Jake powering ahead again.

Reaching the high point, still heading into the southerly, and seeing all the snow down to our level I was well pleased we’d called the previous day early and avoided the exposure up this high. It was cold and bleak enough as it was.

Dropping down to the Loganburn Reservoir, undulations tired us and took us towards another ridge. Knowing that we did not have to go up the Lammermoor Range and instead were turning east away from the headwind was a great comfort. That there was a big, prolonged descent that really shook me up was quite good too, even if it was interspersed with some decent pinch climbs. Out of the desolate tussock-clad hills and into productive farmland, we lost seven hundred metres and finally turned to have the wind behind us.

This was off the Old Dunstan Road and took us on a quieter more direct route north to Middlemarch, where we knew breakfast, brunch and lunch were waiting.

There was of course a steep climb waiting for us through Rocklands Station.

Joining the highway north after some ridgetop riding, the wind pushed us the twenty kilometres to town. I was happy to be off the highway for the last third; that is, until we found major resealing work on the gravel surface was in early days. Early enough that the gravel had been laid for kilometres, loosely graded but definitely not compacted. It was awful, but with energy that would soon be topped up we powered through.

Finding the only cafe in town certainly didn’t take long. Much to my chagrin we were ten minutes too late for a full English breakfast, I may have been somewhat fixated on such a thing for the previous six hours. Still, there was still plenty of delicious food to fuel us to our next stop.

Bacon and egg pie, broccoli salad, green salad, couscous salad, two spinach & feta parcels, tea for two, a chocolate milkshake and bottles of water…

That didn’t last long.

Breakfast/brunch/lunch over, we promptly rode around the corner to buy snacks. I may have also had a particularly tasty ice cream too while having a delightful chat to a senior about bikepacking, hearing how intrigued and envious she was about our rides.

The logical way out of Middlemarch for Ranfurly would be joining the rail trail at its southern terminus. But Dave had us on gravel roads that I’d not ridden before. For some reason I had plenty of energy and was feeling pretty good; mostly, I think it was the tailwind. I quite enjoyed the hour on the gravel road only climbing gradually as we headed up alongside the Taieri.

Crossing the river, joining the highway and then climbing away from them both, finally we joined the traffic-free and smooth rail trail. I waited for Steve and Jake, to briefly impart a bit of local knowledge about Naseby, before leaving them – I didn’t see them again until the finish at Lake Tekapo.

Joining the rail trail at Hyde.

Weaving and dodging plenty of cycle trail tourists, the gentle rail gradient sped by. Strangely for me, I had the hammer down and made good time – an easy riding surface and that lovely tailwind. Based on my expected progress, I was pretty sure Ranfurly would be the last open store I would pass before finishing. So I made sure to stock up for the twenty-four hours ahead, before following one of the few routes into Naseby I was unfamiliar with.

The route called for a singletrack section in the Naseby Forest. Due to fire risk, that had been closed for the previous days and those ahead of me had mostly not been able to ride it. But the closure had been lifted, so my progress predictions were set back a bit as I enjoyed some slower riding through the trails and beside the water race. But I still had enough time to stop for a cuppa, eek a little charge into my dying phone, arrange with family a pick-up and to book somewhere to stay and rest before flying home.

Leaving town just after six, it was a glorious evening and I was looking forward to riding riding over Danseys Pass – in the northerly direction, for the first time. After I’d stopped at the renowned pub for a big lamb shank, of course. The wind pushed me up and over the deserted gravel road in lovely warm light.

The pinch climb after the lavender farm slowed me some, but soon I was dropping down to Duntroon and the Waitaki River as darkness descended even quicker. By now it was near eleven o’clock and I was thinking I should make Kurow – maybe even beyond – before getting some rest. If I got past Kurow, I might be good for my longest-distance day (anything over 270 km would do) and that would leave me less than a hundred to knock off the following day.

From Duntroon to Kurow I only had to follow the Alps2Ocean trail upstream, which shouldn’t be that hard. After all, Adele and I had ridden the whole trail (about 300 km) on heavy full-suspension bikes in two and a half days two years earlier. Alas, it proved more difficult than I expected for reasons I wouldn’t have guessed.

Partway to Kurow, the trail left the roadside at the Otekaieke River. Following the river towards its confluence with the Waitaki, it had clearly flooded recently as the trail was destroyed and was now somewhere in stretches of river gravel. Nearing midnight, the signage heading the “wrong” direction along the trail was woeful. I lost the signs near where I was supposed to cross the Otekaieke; consulting the GPS track wasn’t much use either as I found another instance of the low-resolution file that had been provided being less than adequate. Using my best interpretation of the base map, the GPS track and what I could see, I ended up following a trail into a copse of willows (that looked good candidates to be of the whomping variety).

It was a warm night and as I got further into the trees, it all became a little surreal. Partway in it was clear there was no trail, but the foliage was thick enough I lost my bearings and my GPS lost its signal. With many branches down there was a fair bit of hoisting my bike over trees and through small gaps. Thankfully, I never felt in any danger and I wasn’t particularly worried about my temporary disorientation; if anything, I was rather bemused at what was quickly becoming a comical blunder and accepted my fate.

There were quite a few walking tracks marked on the base map, so I figured I’d reach one of those eventually. I didn’t. I could hear the hum of a large pump station quite near, so headed for that. Eventually adjacent to it, I was hemmed in by a wall of fallen stumps some metres high – I can only assume they were some sort of flood protection for the pump station. There was no way over them, so I tried retracing my route. Eventually I found my way out after forty minutes of dragging my bike around. It was quite exhausting, but I’d had a pretty great day so wasn’t too put out.

Knowing to stay well away from the trees, I found the route and headed for Kurow. Apparently I was on the trail again, but it was in pretty poor condition – perhaps I was getting a little tired by now. Fifteen kilometres avoiding being showered by irrigators, riding through a vineyard and trying to stay awake had me in Kurow where at half-one it was time for a sleep. By now exhausted, I unrolled my bivy and tried to sleep under a trip-trap bridge in a playground.

That was another big day, by far the greatest distance I’d ridden in one day on this trip – but strangely the easiest day yet. For the first time in five days, I hadn’t been blown off my bike – so that was something. Also, I’d hardly had to push my bike – that was something even more.

In the lee of the caravan, I slept soundly and didn’t have too many problems rolling out at five o’clock into much calmer conditions. At Nevis Crossing I was surprised to spot four tents and bikes roadside. Who were these people, when did they pass me? They must have rode late into the night. I didn’t see them again.

I’d conveniently forgotten that getting out of the valley was a gradual forty kilometre climb. This didn’t really matter as things were so much better out of the wind and lightening of the surrounds brought new sights that I enjoyed. As always on these events, it’d be great to return and take a bit more time to poke around the landscape and history.

The valley narrowed and the grade increased slightly.

Opening of the valley a little increased the views, creek crossings gave the opportunity to wet one’s feet. Taking in the hills surrounding me on all sides I began to speculate where the route out may lead. It was a fairly straight road out, only kicking up a little to take me over into Southland at 1100 m. Looking at the map now, I’m bitterly disappointed I didn’t notice, much less take, the excellently named Roaring Lion Trail to the side.

Pointing the front wheel down, soon I was past the historic Garston Ski Hut – making a note to return here with a beefier mountain bike and explore further.

There was over seven hundred metres to lose plunging down the exhilarating gravel to the Mataura valley floor. Reacquainting myself with the fierce norwester, I was slowed a little.

Snaking down the hills took me to a short stretch of highway and onto Garston (apparently the most-inland settlement in New Zealand; who knew?).

Nine o’clock on a Tuesday morning didn’t give many options for second breakfast, but a food van was more than enough. Cheese roll to accompany breakfast? Why not, I was in Southland for a day… Joining the Around the Mountains trail to Lumsden, the route was on or near the old rail corridor passing through small towns and many pastoral scenes.

With the course slowly going around base of the foothills of the Garvie Mountains, it was flat riding that was only hampered by the gale. But as I curved around towards Lumsden, the wind became more helpful until finally I was blown into town. Taking the opportunity to resupply for the upcoming remoteness of the Old Man Range, I was surprised to return to my bike and find that my gloves, buff and sunnies were blowing down the street – my helmet having been whipped off my handlebars by the gusts. I didn’t find my sunnies, but figured I could go without. I also found that I’d briefly caught up to Steve and Jake, they’d had far less sleep on the balcony of a very old house further up the Nevis than my awning.

Flat road out of town had the wind directly behind me, it sure was fun flying down long straight gravel roads – except when exceedingly large tractors appeared from clouds of dust. Turning north east, the road was not straight; any part of the route with a more northerly aspect brought me to a standstill. I realised that being without eye protection was not good with the amount of pollen and dust being whipped around. My eyes begin to puff up and close. For the third day in a row, I was blown off my bike by the wind – a good opportunity to take some hayfever meds and hope my eyes might settle and open a little.

Crossing the Waikaia River, I rolled into the eponymous settlement and up to Jake and Steve outside the store – time for ice cream for respite from the heat. None of us were too sure what we would find on the upcoming range and as it was mid-afternoon, I was happy to have company as we headed up the valley to Piano Flat battling the wind.

More trail angels! I hardly knew where I was in the country, but there was an invitation to come to the farmhouse for tea. I don’t know how I passed that up, the goodies in the box probably helped.

After lovely riverside riding for some time, we entered dense native forest and the steep undulating climbs and descents began.

Turning off the deteriorating road, the 4WD track seemed to plump for the direct route to the top of the Old Man. We paused to eat at the derelict Christies Hut before starting the push up through 700 m over five kilometres. Slow progress, it was at least steady and manageable – I was glad to have the wind behind us.

As the afternoon drew to a close there was now not excessive heat in the wind.

It flattened out, a bit, and was rideable in parts.

Turning north, we straddled the provincial boundary. While a kinder gradient, the insane crosswind hampered progress as the shadows lengthened. Nearing dusk on the top of this range and making slow advances, it was obvious we would be up in this howling gale through the night. Being blown off my bike was no longer exceptional as progress consisted of a mix of slow riding, walking with some sort of order and staggering trying to stay upright.

By this stage it was a sixteen hour day for all of us, and the third consecutive day of struggling against the gale force winds. A quick trailside conflab weighed up our options, the risks of navigating along the range in the wind and darkness, our energy levels and concluded that we should only push on a little more before dropping off the ridge to a hut that Jake knew of.

Three kilometres of downhill was tough in the gloom – it was into the wind and we’d have to regain the height lost in the morning. But as darkness gathered we arrived at Potters Huts, dragged our bikes inside, fetched water, warmed with hot drinks and ate our meagre rations.

It was hard to believe this was once a gold mining settlement of 150 hardy people. It was fierce enough up here on a clear summer’s night; winter must have been something else.

A slightly newer hut sheltered us for the night.

Happy to not be trying to sleep in my bivy bag, the smell of the mattresses was best ignored.

There ended another satisfying and exhilarating day; we collapsed into bed and listened to the wind pound the corrugated iron all night. It’s probably just as well that I’ve only recently realised I was but thirty kilometres from where my day started – having ridden close on two hundred and climbed a little too! There was of course the small matter of the Old Woman Range in the way…

Nigh on six hours of quality sleep was more than enough to get me riding again at four-thirty on Monday morning. Twenty-odd kilometres of gentle climbing up Cardrona Valley Rd was much warmer than the so-cold-my-fingers-can’t-operate-zippers morning near the end of my Tour Aotearoa. As the day dawned, I reached the Snow Farm access road and began the climb up onto the Pisa Range. Unsurprisingly for a NZ ski-field access road, it was steep and heavily switch-backed – this one climbing almost a thousand metres in little over ten kilometres.

Quickly I was overlooking the valley below as the sun hit the hills opposite.

Soon after, Steve and Jake caught up to me. We chatted a while, but they were stronger climbers so rode off. The wind, still tending west to northwest, was starting to pick up again and push us up to Snow Farm.

I was pleased to be doing this climb in the cool and shade of the early morning.

Past the lodge, the route was off to Meadow Hut. Luckily for me, I’d been up here six months prior for a little bit of ski touring – otherwise this would have been another spot in the route where the low-resolution GPS route would have been frustrating. It was vaguely downhill to the hut, but the grass surface was annoyingly slow.

The hut appeared soon enough and seemed a good spot for a snack and brief pause.

There was still about five hundred metres to climb up to the high point of the route, just off the summit of Mt Pisa. This was more a hiking trail, nicely technical compared to all of the riding so far. Following Kirtle Burn up, the grass was often spongy, the creek crossings rocky and unrideable – a good challenge and plain honest fun.

Kirtle Burn Hut was out of the slight valley the creek was in. I didn’t stop long, as the wind had really picked up.

I was surprised that Jake and Steve caught up to me again – apparently they’d stopped in the ski lodge for water. We continued together.

A zig left and then a zag right and we were definitely on the shoulder riding up through barren rocks.

Before long, it was too steep and windy to ride.

Joining the Pisa Range Ridge Track, things began to get really interesting (read, scarily challenging). Turning towards the north, the gale went from being an occasionally helpful tailwind to a treacherous crosswind. The first challenge was Sally’s Pinch, a narrowing in the ridge with a cliff off downwind and the wind funneling aggressively through. Approaching it, for the second consecutive day I was blown off course and off my bike. I decided to walk. Steve and Jake, having a bit more ballast to weigh them down struggled through.

It was all I could do to inch forward while trying to hold on to my bike as the wind did its best to turn it, first, into a kite and then a two-wheeled missile. Far too many times I contemplated being whisked away to certain peril somewhere down near the Wanaka-Cromwell highway. Nothing for it but one foot in front of the other.

The last time I bothered to take a photo – it was a long push up that slope from Sally’s Pinch into the wind.

Fifteen minutes of tediously slow progress did get me to the highest point. Where I was delighted to find I couldn’t even ride on the flat or downhill. With the rocky track and the wind, I just couldn’t keep any sort of control of my path. It’s always frustrating not being able to ride downhill! While the others could ride, the safest option and best chance of getting off the range under my own steam was to walk much of the descent to start with. Also, if something untoward did occur – I didn’t fancy a helicopter was going to make it up to rescue me.

Back to Wanaka – six hours of effort didn’t seem to have got me as far as usual!

Eventually I could ride again. There was much rejoicing.

A brief turn west to climb steeply then led to where I could then ride all the way down.

These flowers looked an invasive species, but they sure were pretty.

More poor-GPS-trail induced confusion at a series of gates slowed my descent slightly, but before long I was back on the valley floor. Very pleased to have survived, I now have a new standard for windiness when on a bike. I also still had my bike, so that was a plus. Having driven through a few times, I didn’t even know Queensbury was an actual place – but it did have a welcome and very good cafe. I collected my frazzled nerves as I refuelled.

The wind direction on the Pisas and the direction of the road told me I would have a rollicking tailwind to whisk me to Cromwell. That I did, for the first third of thirty kilometres to town. The rest, on the side of a highway, was plain wind-induced toil. Tiring by now, I got out of the sun again and ate at Subway – taking half of it for dinner, as the route next went through the remote Nevis Valley. This was another bit of the course unknown to me and I was well looking forward to it.

I did however remember the climb up to and just beyond Bannockburn. I knew I could stay in the small settlement in relative comfort, but four-thirty and just over a hundred kilometres seemed much too early to call it a day. Even if it had been a tough day, my legs were still going round (however slowly) and the sun was shining. Somewhere in here, I chose to ignore the ever-present wind in my thinking. Leaving Cromwell, I was once again surprised to have Jake and Steve catch up again. They’d taken one long break instead of my two shorter ones. The path around the edge of Lake Dunstan was nice, but energy sapping. Soon I was left by myself for the steep pinch up to Bannockburn. I just sort of kept pedaling, the decision seemingly making itself.

Turning onto Nevis Road, this part of the route was new to me and I was excited to finally be heading into the Nevis. For some reason, this gravel climb built to legendary status in my mind. It didn’t disappoint; averaging near ten percent gradient, it was an efficient way to climb almost a thousand metres. Parts of it were much steeper and I took my time, happy to spin my way up the hill and not push my tired body too much. Also, it was worth stopping to take in the scenery every so often:

Even at my pace, I ended up chasing much of this herd up the road as one by one they peeled off.

Eventually, I was no longer herding cattle up the road.

Back towards Cromwell and Lake Dunstan.

Most of the climb had been sheltered enough, but rounding one corner as I neared the top the wind hit me full in the face again. Having practiced so well walking my bike uphill earlier in the day, I accepted my fate, dismounted and pushed on. In some respects, the gale was horrendous and progress was slow. But compared to the morning’s ordeal and the prospect of real injury, this was a lovely evening stroll!

Eventually I reached the sign Duffers Saddle; I rather wanted a photo of my bike next to the sign. Alas, it was too windy for my bike to stay propped against a signpost. I was struggling to stand up and began to wonder if this would be another time where I’d have to push my bike downhill. But the surface, being an actual road, was much better and I could enjoy (as far as the wind allowed) the seven and a half kilometre downhill to the Nevis River.

It was quite a fun drop down into the valley – I’m sure nothing to do with my legs not having to do anything.

By this time it was approaching a sixteen hour day for a mere hundred and thirty kilometres; I was starting to look for somewhere to shelter from the persistent gale for the night. Getting close to the river I spied a caravan in the middle of nowhere. It looked pretty shut up and left, with nice big awnings. Hmmm, inviting. On closer inspection, it was definitely parked up for the summer and no-one was around. Internal debate ensued for a few minutes before I decided I couldn’t just doss down in someone’s caravan awning.

I went to find shelter behind the riverside willows. Turning, I saw approaching a truck, which carried the owners of the caravan. We got chatting about the crazy bikepackers they’d seen; before long I was invited to sleep in the awning for the night, invited in for a cup of tea and water bottle-filling. Fantastic and much appreciated. The remainder of my Subway was devoured as I calmed after the exertions of the day. I slept well that night rather satisfied at having got through a challenging day and over three thousand metres of climbing.

Home for the night, wonderfully sheltered from the wind by the caravan.