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.

Greeted by a sky seemingly on fire and a mild morning, thirty-seven riders milled around the top of the South Island making last minute adjustments and quiet chat. There wasn’t much left to do, liberating, except wait for seven o’clock to arrive and roll south.

Photo from hikebikecake.com – check out the other riders and rigs there too.

With little fuss we were off and I hung around a bit waiting for the bunch to clear the bottleneck, easily repeating my GSB technique of starting right at the back. For the flat section to Collingwood (almost thirty kilometres) the no-drafting rule did not apply, I joined a small bunch. But I’m hopeless at riding in a bunch and someone’s squeaky bag was doing my head in already; I made up a reason to stop and let them go, leaving me in peace – and dead last.

A short, firm beach section – good to catch up to and ride with Amanda a bit.

Optimistic.

Back on the sealed road to Takaka, it was tolerated and the traffic didn’t get too close. I didn’t need to stop, but there were others’ bikes about and a bakery – I was sure a couple of pies were in order already. Out of town, Rachel (riding buddy from two excellent West Coast rides a few months before) and I headed for the long singletrack up the historic Rameka Track. Again happy to hang back and conserve energy, twas a thoroughly enjoyable climb. Hana caught up to us and up we went tail-end Charlies. Many of the stream crossings required a dismount, but it was fun to try and clear as many as possible. Near the top I went past Rachel and found both, a lot of energy to speed up a bit, and a lot of people just in front.

Rachel not going to Bluff at the start of the Rameka.

Familiar from late-September, once out of the Rameka the climbing continued on gravel from Canaan Downs before all that altitude was lost on the highway – annoyingly missing the shuttle through the roadworks by seconds, but that just gave a chance to eat and chat to Geof and Ken. Down at sea level, it was a long gradual climb up the very pleasant Motueka River valley as the afternoon warmed considerably. I chased down a getting-back-into-it roadie and had a long chat about what madness we were up to before he turned for home.

Turning right up another valley, it was soon time to cross the Baton River – a time to get wet, cool feet and find some others to chat too. Bit surreal to see (heard it well before) a big, old International flatdeck truck come around the steep, rocky corner loaded with irrigation pipes and then ford the river. Sweating over the small saddle, twas soon time for a pleasant downhill to Tapawera and refuelling at the pub. A large group had congregated and many were a bit caught out with how hot it had suddenly got, me included. But nothing a lot of food, cold drinks and some rest didn’t fix.

Heading south, naturally, the gradient stayed easy along cycle trail and highway as the hot afternoon gave way to a warm evening.

Quaint to see old machinery making wee square bales.

Through a farm section, the course turned sharply uphill to follow a pylon road over the hills. Walking seemed just as fast for much of it, so I got those muscles properly active for a bit. Once on the ridge and out of private land, camping was allowed and suitable spots were found. There was still daylight remaining, and preferring to sleep lower I kept going. I caught up to Amanda again – she had a camp spot in mind that sounded far better than my “I’ll see what I’ll find on the side of the road after the next farm” approach.

The descent over in ten or so minutes, we negotiated some large cattle as night gathered and we whizzed along the valley floor to the main road. The short section of highway was quiet and safely ridden before we got to the start of the Porika Track and the excellent camping spot Amanda had scoped out online – definitely some advantages to doing more research, but generally I was happy to not know too much beforehand and having more to discover along the way.

Strangely for the first night of such an event, I slept well – contented with a good day, easing into the adventure to come.