No frost this morning, but it certainly felt colder than the previous frosty night at Anderson Hut – I probably should have jumped a fence and slept in the trees. Unable to sleep, and hearing a bike roll out (one that wasn’t Olly’s, no idea who must have turned up in the night) I decamped and was rolling in the cold just after half-five. It took a little while to find some legs and warm on the undulating gravel road. Thankfully the easterly had died off overnight, as hoped and expected when choosing to camp early.

This was quite a nice section, even with some backcountry Hiltons that may have been warmer than the campground, and I enjoyed seeing the day dawn as I trundled through. Seeing a bike ahead, I was surprised to chase it down quickly given my sedate pace. It was Andy, smiling away – which is incredible considering he’d had a big crash off Cass Saddle and added to his already long list of mechanical woes. Additions included ripping a brake lever off, destroying his rear derailleur and burping his front tyre. I couldn’t believe that he was still riding his bike, but here he was – and doing it all with a big smile. The smile possibly from being still moving after all that; impressive.

Brief pause for a snack at Dog Box Corner, before the early morning traffic of school buses and trucks.

Three hours in and the big gravelled drop to the Rakaia River on the pleasingly-named Zig Zag Road, before the grovel up the other side.

Rakaia Valley.

Over the river to Mt Hutt Range.

Turning south off the highway, it was an easy twenty minute gradual downhill to Methven, the first town in three days – exciting! The bike shop (only one on the entire course) was right on a corner in the centre of town and there was an excellent cafe next door. I may have had two breakfasts, the first by myself while drying my sleeping kit on the sunny sidewalk in the centre of town. Other riders arrived; to our amazement, the bike shop had all the parts required (including some fairly niche ones) to fix Andy’s poor bike – and at a very reasonable price. With another long stretch between towns, I loaded up on food at the store and got a big lunch to go from the cafe before making to leave.

Mark, who I’d been half a day behind for most of the week, surprisingly was still in town (nursing a severely inflamed achilles it turned out) and managed to hobble down and see some of us for a bit. So a rare photo of me mid-race, looking surprisingly happy and good – if I do say so. Farewells bidden, it was off for the flat section of the Canterbury Plains in the heat of the day.

I must have had a lot of food, as backpack still in use for a long, hot road section.
Photo: Mark Watson (check out his TTW report for far better photos and conciseness).

While flat and not a particularly interesting landscape, it was just what I needed between two challenging two-day sections of the course – I quite enjoyed the respite of gentle riding through farmland on a mixture of gravel and seal, especially with little wind.

Crossing the Rangitata, I devoured my large lunch before turning north to head up the right bank for almost-sixty kilometres. Early afternoon now, it was certainly warming up. I wasn’t expecting any shops up here, but lo and behold a small cafe at Peel Forest; would have been silly not to stop for an ice cream and cold drink. By the time I got to the only hill of note in the road, it was a baking afternoon. There was at least a topdressing plane buzzing around for distraction. I was getting a bit low on water, so was pleased to see a big creek coming out of the only part of the hills that didn’t looked to be grazed – time to top up, and soak my shirt again.

Over that hill, it was back to the gentle and gradual ascent of the wide valley. Into the late afternoon, again the easterly really picked up – lovely to have a big tailwind for the last part of the road. I narrowly missed getting stuck behind a large traffic jam of the sheep variety and entered Mesopotamia Station about half-five – plenty of daylight left to get back into hiking, on what was shaping up to be a lovely warm evening (it was still very hot at this stage).

Southern Alps in the background.

Leaving the road, Ben McLeod Range behind.

Sharply climbing from the river flats and so warm still after a day in the sun, the extra energy required soon had even my shirt off (as well as helmet, gloves, hat) – a truly rare occasion, there certainly was no one around. Royal Hut seemed a bit much of a push, but I thought I could get to Felt Hut for the night – about twenty kilometres and nine hundred metres of climbing on rough farm tracks away.

With that settled in my mind and so much light remaining, there was no rush; looking around it was a tremendously beautiful evening, so still and warm with the light starting to draw in. Most of it I could have probably ridden, but I was more than happy to push through the deer farm soaking in the evening. Each further unfolding of the panorama both behind and below me, and in front and above me, was to be savoured.

Some shade for a brief moment, Sinclair Range behind.

The Ben McLeod Range continued to draw my attention, especially as the sun dipped lower.

Snake from a plane, Potts and Big Hill Ranges in the distance across the upper Rangitata.

The first and biggest section of climbing took a couple of hours, eventually it cooled enough as the shadows lengthened to reach me to start putting some layers on. I was still happy to walk, although I noticed a tweak in the lower outside of my left leg. This would soon spread to a tightening across the front of the ankle and upper foot. Walking became a little uncomfortable, but easily manageable. I particularly enjoyed seeing the terrain from the ground – after we’d got a good look at it from a few thousand feet on the way to the GSB.

Flattening out a bit on High Terrace.

Fun, fast descent to Moonlight Creek – and beyond.

Spot the airfield hut. My favourite range of the day keeps going and keeps giving.

Down at the airfield, ish.

A brief section of beech forest.

Out of the woods, the climb to Bullock Bow Saddle commenced. It was steep alright, but the Felt Hut turn-off was only a third of the way up – the rest could wait until the morning. The track was still rough, and this was about the only time I really noticed my recently dislocated shoulder in an adverse way. As I tired, my footing was not always found and while pushing the bike a slight jolt from stumbling on loose or large rocks would tweak my shoulder just a little – enough to remind me of its inherent instability, but nowhere near enough to tear it apart again. Just another little thing to be managed on this journey.

The last deer gate (there had been many) approached as the back boundary of the farm neared. Initially this gate was certain to be locked – getting a loaded bike over a two metre gate singlehandedly would be enough to worry about without the shoulder complication; but later course notes indicated there was a chance it would be unlocked for us. Mentally, I accepted that it would be locked and I’d spend some time getting gear and bike (in various pieces) over the fence; so it was a great relief to find no lock on it. Over a small spur, it was downhill to Felt Hut – I just had to find the correct track.

It was a bit more of a descent than I would really want to reverse in the morning, but I was pleased to get down to the hut just on sunset. A private hut, it was open for use and was a complete delight; the decades of mustering history were inscribed on the corrugated walls set in a clearing in a nice patch of bush, with a great stream running nearby. Refilling water bottles, I also took the chance to soak my aching lower legs for as long as I could tolerate the cold water. To my surprise, Olly arrived only twenty minutes after me; while I’d like to think he caught far more of the tailwind than I did up the Rangitata valley, he was definitely faster than me and able and willing to ride far more of what I walked. Still, I was by no means complaining as he soon had a fire roaring in the hut.

The earliest roll call of musterers I found was from the early sixties.

Having another early finish was quite the luxury (as was managing almost 200 km for the day) – pushing over Bullock Bow and onto Royal Hut may have been a bit much. Also, I got time to reflect on an absolutely majestical evening. The stillness and solitude on such a warm and beautiful evening was the highlight of the ride so far – those three hours more than made up for all the toil in the previous few days, it was amazing. It still remains my favourite part of the route, and I’d happily put in eight days of such effort again for anything as spectacular as that night. Toasty in the hut, I fell into the best sleep I had on the ride – even with Matt arriving at the hut at about one-thirty in the morning.

A harsh frost overnight froze our water, not to mention my shoes and socks I’d left drying by the fire – they certainly weren’t dry! But that didn’t stop Pete, I assume rather tiredly, purloining one of my soaked socks – and rather amusingly refusing to give it back as he didn’t want put another icy cold sock on! For some reason I thought it a good idea to carry Pete’s rejected sock on my seat bag, maybe I was tired too after the Dampier and a frigid night of little sleep. I happily put my waterproof socks on, which in wet icy shoes was a winner.

Guess which bike spent the night in the trees, comparatively warm.

After the big previous day and chilly start, it was a leisurely seven-thirty before I got away and immediately had to cross, confusingly, another Esk River. The morning was spent on farm tracks that increasingly grew to wide gravel roads. Generally it was undulating, with the odd dive down to cross a waterway and grovel back up onto the plateau. A beautiful morning, there was plenty to look at; the sun didn’t take too long to hit me and warm things a bit. I caught up to Andy and enjoyed riding with him for the rest of the morning. Carrying a lot of extra batteries and so on, he was trying to capture this long section on video for the official film (Rob couldn’t make it in here).

Leaving Anderson Hut.

Andy also seem besieged with odd mechanical problems. He’d cracked a carbon seat post the day before, but never mind – he was carrying a spare! The mind boggles. By now one of the rivets on his leather saddle was sitting a bit proud, causing some discomfit. As we were riding along chatting, taking photos and so on, Andy happened to look down and notice the quick-release lever on his rear axle was missing. Thankfully, the axle was firmly in place and in no danger of removing itself – the main problem this missing lever could cause would if the wheel had to removed for some reason, it did not need this for now.

Someone was having a laugh with a few of the appropriated road signs around.

It was a most enjoyable morning with some easier miles, actually being able to ride for a bit was a welcome change, and such views to soak in as we pedalled along. Reaching the Mt White Station buildings, there was extensive new construction happening – Andy saw his chance to ask some tradies for a file to smooth off that pesky rivet. I continued out of the farm alone, dropping down to the Poulter River and grovelling up the other side as it got a bit warmer.

Down to the Poutler.

Just a short section now to the short highway section, above the Waimakariri River it was exceedingly pleasant.

Shortly before the highway, the first trail angels (Sue and John, I think) were happened upon. Could hardly say no to a cuppa and some ginger slice before the few kilometres north to the Cass River. What was this here? Some sort of trail magic convention? A healthy gathering of faces familiar from the GSB were out in full support mode – Dan (preferring the term “trail wizard”), Nina and Katie (without question “trail angels” fitting better) – and had plenty of tasty treats on offer; I couldn’t help but wonder if there was some sort of competition in rider-feeding. I wasn’t complaining, any variety in my diet was welcome. I may have lingered too long, understandably I maintain, as both Olly and Jeff caught up and passed me. Guess I’d better head up the Cass River bed too… But not before jettisoning Pete’s sock (why was I carrying that?) and changing out of sweaty waterproof socks, unfortunate to be using one of my dry night-time socks – but at least I eventually remembered I had them.

Well fed, and buoyed by company both reminding me how mad and fortunate I was to be out here, the hike up the Cass River bed and then up and over the saddle was not too daunting. A baking afternoon, the short rideable section soon gave way to pushing and lifting the bike over the large river rocks and often the river itself. The cool water sweet relief on the feet, the habit of soaking one’s shirt and hat in the mountain water an effective heat management strategy – albeit with a second or two of shock putting a cold-soaked shirt back on. Again the stuffable backpack was deployed – filling this with my seatbag (all my sleeping kit), a full water bottle and a few other heavy items worked fantastically well for hike-a-bike by removing considerable mass from my bike and making it much easier for me to overcome gravity and the occasional awkwardness of lifting over obstacles.

Forward progress continued to be made with Olly and Jeff; it took us about an hour before we left the river to climb through more beautiful beech forest. Averaging a shade over ten percent, the hiking trail was frequently steeper – one particularly memorable part up a steep bank looked impassable, but there was an almost-as-difficult alternative at the top; that took some balance and effort. Cooler in the forest, I still found it a warm afternoon – there were frequent breaks, drinking from cold streams and much chat. I was happy making steady progress and seemed to have a far better time than most accounts of this section.

Shortly after Cass Saddle Hut (a wee hut, with a split stable door as a curiosity), the forest gave way to the tussock and the large avalanche/rock chutes came into view. It was great being up in the mountains and I enjoyed hearing about all the different tracks in the area – I don’t think just because it was a distraction from the one I was on! The trail mostly disappeared and it was back to lugging my bike through and over it; this only seemed a problem for me at that time, but still – forward progress on a wonderful day. Five o’clock had us at the saddle (three and half hours for that eleven kilometres), time for decent break to eat and enjoy the view.

Looking southwest from Cass Saddle.

The back (compared to the only other part I’ve visited) of the Craigieburn Range.

Northwest to the Black Range.

Over the saddle, the first two hundred metres of drop was unrideable – far too steep for me. No matter, after that it was pure bliss – what a downhill through beautiful native forest. Constantly engaging and so much fun to soak in, I was down at Hamilton Hut just after six. This had been suggested as a good overnight spot, but it was too early to stop for the night – even if a sudden wave of tiredness hit me (it had been a good, but clearly exhausting day). I paused for ten minutes to eat another tuna meal and chat to the hut maintenance crew, refuelled there was a little track left before getting to the Harper River.

Looking over Hamilton Creek, one can make out where the track is in the forest, Cass Saddle and the Craigieburns up there too.

The two hours down the Harper River were a complete drag/carry/wade/push. The 4WD track crossed the river dozens of times, each requiring a dismount (if one was fortunate enough to be riding) and it wasn’t always easy to see where to go – but downstream was often all that was needed. When not in the river, the track was often completely flooded in standing water – was a little warmer I guess than the river. Unsurprisingly, Olly caught up to me – he’d been delayed by a loose cassette.

Route finding at the confluence of the Avoca River proved a bit difficult with more matagouri and then bigger rocks to negotiate.

Still it was a gorgeous evening, it was nice to be in new country and I hadn’t been at work that day (“I’m not at work”, and “I chose to be here” being a oft-repeated mantras that week when things were a little less than rosy).

Finally off that river section, the town of Methven only sixty kilometres away was mildly tempting to get to. But the easterly was building again, I didn’t fancy a headwind – and there was a long no-camping stretch. After thirteen hours backing up on the previous day, I was happy to find (with a little effort) the Trustpower Campground and call it a day – we’d at least managed over a hundred kilometres! In bed shortly after dark, it was shaping to be another clear, cold night as I drifted to sleep satisfied with another TTW day of steady progress and no drama (sock theft aside!).

Somehow I was first off into the beech forest only just before the day dawned. Again, so many trees down and much lifting interspersed with small rideable parts. The extra energy I had the previous night, it had abandoned me and I moseyed on at my own pace. Somewhere riding something I possibly shouldn’t have been, I overbalanced at slow speed and toppled off the side of the track straight into some soft undergrowth. It took a little while to extricate myself without incident, I think that was closest I got to a crash all week – so I’ll take that.

Another tricky (I can think of some choicer adjectives) wire bridge took me over the Hope River and to Hope-Kiwi Lodge for a wee snack break. The grassy flats were some respite and I rode a little with Matt before he disappeared in front somewhere around Kiwi Saddle. At the head of Lake Sumner we were out of the forest again, but couldn’t simply ford the Hurunui nearby as, I assume, there was no guarantee that it would be safe for the entire field. Instead it was a bit of a traipse up the flats to the bridge. I somehow managed to end up on the wrong side of a creek and wasted ten minutes in a tangle of fallen trees – the treefall on the Hope-Kiwi seemed a lot better after that effort spent in vain.

Just a bit more matagouri to negotiate.

At the Hurunui (North branch) bridge we had the choice of fording the river or trying to get over the biggest wire bridge yet. I checked out the river and decided it was too deep and swift for me. So up to the bridge I went; it had the biggest nastiest approach yet. I had no idea how I’d get up the ramp, let alone across the bridge; the river didn’t look so bad after all. In fact it was so nice, halfway across I had a quick completely unplanned sit down in it – that didn’t last long, it was chilly! The day was completely overcast and quite cool, I was fading a bit five hours and only twenty-six kilometres in; definitely time to stop and have a decent meal – I devoured one of the many tuna meal pouches I was carrying, and things got better.

Olly and Andy caught up, twas nice to have some company for the rest of the flats as we headed back towards Lake Sumner. Was even nicer to have company for the steep push up a farm track (now in private land for a long time) to Lake Mason.

Andy and Olly climbing above Lake Sumner, our route had already taken us through the forest on the other side of the lake (right to left).

Up the north branch of the Hurunui.

Things flattened out a bit once at the lake and there was a bit more beech forest that was even rideable in parts. Except if one pays too much attention to the GPS and rides into a large branch – we found Matt with a (un)healthy amount of blood on his face. The four of us continued together. In a sure sign I was tired I made another small navigation error (missed a turn, may have been wishful thinking to stay on the easy track), unfortunately I was at the front and everyone followed me a little way up a hill before I realised I was off track; oops.

Leaving Lake Mason behind, pretty decent farm road took us for ninety minutes along perhaps the most benign terrain all day to the (North) Esk River – which is strange to write as I regularly cross another Esk on my weekday commute. Now after three in the afternoon, the day still completely socked in and not at all warm – it was decision time. We were at the foot of the Dampier Range, the first concerted hike-a-bike section of the course. The course notes said that the next twelve kilometres would take “6+hrs??”, so we’d be running out of daylight in inclement weather if that was so. Happily, everyone was happy to give it a nudge and see how it would go. There was no point in calling it a day mid-afternoon without seeing what it was like.

Water topped up a bit, there began the steep climb through tussocky pasture initially, then it was just straight tussock. Apparently there was once a horse track up here, but any markers had long since been removed and the unmaintained track had for the most part reverted into the surroundings. For five kilometres, the gradient averaged fifteen percent – but it was at its steepest at the bottom. There was much carrying in amongst the pushing. Those five kilometres took us two and a quarter hours of steady progress. Sometimes there was a discernible path, other times we were floundering around in a bog trying to move both bike and feet forward. At least it was cool, with a light breeze (it sounds like others crossing early copped a fairly strong, cold and at times wet southerly in the face; we were lucky) and the views provided some distraction from tussock after tussock.

Matt and looking up the Esk.

Olly and the distant memory of the pleasant farm road on the true left of the Esk can just be made out.

A bit of a track to push along the ridge.

Oh yay, the spiky Spaniards are starting to appear.

Others have also struggled to convey with words just how slow, tough and draining this section was. We were making steady progress, but there was nothing fast about this. Reaching the high point of our route across the range after three hours was a relief, before realising that any semblance of a track or path completely disappeared into a sea of large tussocks as we sidled left. I was surprised to see two riders (in the loosest sense of the word) ahead of us in the mist – who could that be? We did eventually catch Jeff and Pete, who seemed a fair bit colder than us.

After an hour of sidling, pushing, carrying and trying to find the best route we could finally get back on our bikes. In fading light, we dropped steeply on open country before a bit of beech forest. Even on my rigid bike it was mostly rideable and ever so much fun; I enjoyed trying to keep up with Matt, with limited success. After such a slow day, the downhill was well earned and certainly savoured.

Matt and Olly down near Anderson Stream.

As it turned out, we were off the Dampier Range and at Anderson Hut for the night in less than five hours – so plenty of daylight left to eat, get water, eat and make camp.

Anderson Hut only sleeps two, I opted to bivy in the trees.

After a day of continually wet feet, Olly’s fire was most welcome. Socks and shoes were laid out to dry a bit.

Night having fallen, the sky finally cleared – it promised to be a cool night. I snuggled into my bivy bag reflecting on what has got to be one of the toughest days I’ve had with a bike; never before has the distance travelled to energy expended ratio been so low. A mere sixty-four kilometres had a moving average of less than six kilometres per hour, and at almost fourteen hours between huts an overall average of well less than five kilometres per hour!

The Tour Te Waipounamu adventure and challenge I signed up for had certainly begun. Nonetheless, with only the smallest of lows I was happy with steady progress all day, managing the terrain and weather well enough, and just surviving really. I took a lot of confidence for having got through the toughest country I’d ever taken a bike (loaded at that), and now having a taste of what I expected was just what the course would repeatedly throw at us, I was sure I could finish this thing (barring any mechanical, injury, medical or other disaster obviously).

Amanda was pretty much packed up by the time I woke, was I that fast asleep? I hurriedly got up, stuffed things on my bike and tried to catch up. Climbing the mild side of the Porika Track was a lot drier than when I went over in the other direction early-October, so it all seemed much easier. Completing most of the climb with Amanda, I was having far too much fun on the steep, rocky descent to wait around. Brakes squealing destroyed any early morning peace and right at Lake Rotoroa it was good to catch up with Geof and Ken. Amanda caught up while I filled water bottles and the ride over the Braeburn, down the Mangles Valley and into Murchison was enjoyable in its companionship as we got into our work for the day.

The excellent Rivers Cafe in town was well-frequented by fellow riders and I enjoyed a big breakfast and pot of tea. A decent break did me good and the ride up the Matakitaki before the climb to the always brilliant Maruia Saddle flew by, much of the latter half bouncing between passing and being passed by Amanda, Brian, Matt and Olly.

Stopping for snacks, sunscreening and admiring the Matatitaki.

A short section of highway lead us to the Dredgeville farm section. Route-finding through the various grades of tracks wasn’t too bad, but progress was slowed a little as the afternoon warmed. Warnings of large bogs used for four-wheel driving seemed to be overstated – there was one that needed wading through, but there was a river crossing shortly after to rinse the mud off. By now, the small group had reduced to just the company of Olly and Matt – little did I know we’d be in close proximity for the next week. A late-lunch was had at the curiosity that is the Springs Junction cafe; to their credit they didn’t mind us smelly bikepackers walking around in bare feet as our soaked socks and shoes tried to catch some rays.

The highway over Lewis Saddle was pleasantly quiet and the climb got done as I enjoyed the forested surrounds.

I made good time to Boyle River and was keen to see what I’d put in the box I’d sent weeks before to the food drop. Hopefully enough to get me the 246 km to the resupply at Methven; with significant hike-a-bike, I expected it to take about two and a half days. Deploying my stuffable backpack for the first time, the three kilograms of food found places easily enough on my bike and back. There was a collection of food that riders in front had left behind, of that only a big mixture of salted pretzels and honey & mustard bagel bits (the only thing I have to compare whatever they actually were to) appealed – I stashed a lot. (Salted pretzels became a go-to snack for the rest of the ride, I went through bags of the things.) Just as I was about to leave, the group from Maruia Saddle reassembled – nice to see some other riders again briefly.

Back on the highway for ten kilometres I was feeling pretty good – not fast, but good. It was with both excitement and a little trepidation that I left the seal for the Hope-Kiwi track. For me, this was where the familiar was left behind and everything until Tekapo (450 km, about four days away) would be new to me. Not only that, it was where the big country and hike-a-bike sections started. With just over two hours of daylight left, I thought the ten kilometres to Hope Halfway Hut would be a good finish to the day. Snacking briefly at Windy Point, I was ready to get into it.

First, a wire bridge that puts the infamous Arataki bridge to shame.

This one was long!

The usual technique of upending the bike and shunting it forward didn’t work. In the end I resorted to pushing bike forward on its wheels and at every pair of uprights, stopping and manoeuvring both bars and pedals as they struck the sides. A slow, tiring process – and that didn’t account for simply getting on and off the bridge.

The hiking trail was littered with tree-fall which required significant dismounting and manhandling of my bike. Short stretches were rideable and I was loving it, unsure why I had so much energy; for some reason I felt like I was flying through there. Nevermind that the nine kilometres to the hut took over two hours, I was having a blast.

Some short sections of blissful beech forest riding.

As the gloom gathered in the forest, I caught up to Dulkara and Andrew. This was surprising, they’d been well ahead of me much of the day. Maybe a bit more sleep helped? I probably should have carried on at my own pace and made the hut in what light remained, but I was more than happy to have some company and chat. Turned out I had Dulkara to thank for those tasty snacks out of the Boyle River trailer – really must find out just what that mixture was, it helped so much over the tough two days to come.

We made the hut at half-nine, thoroughly disturbing two unfortunate hikers as we ate and settled into the hut. Matt and Olly arrived half an hour later to fill the bunks; maybe more so, I think someone slept on the floor. Not such a great sleep that night in a full hut, but I was pleased to have the prologue to the main guts of the course done without fuss in about the time I expected (maybe a little faster) and eagerly awaited what I would find next.