Category Archives: NZ

family, friends, hiking, NZ

Lake Christabel turnaround

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I’m unsure who was more excited – Adele to take two novices for an overnight hike (tramp in the local parlance) or Fiona to go on said hike. It assuredly was not me – but I was more than happy to go along for a walk, at the very least there would be a whole lot less cleaning afterwards than after a West Coast winter mountain-bike ride. We set off early Saturday morning east through the Buller Gorge and carried on past Reefton as dawn marched on.

Adele had chosen a route that would take us from the Lewis Pass highway (just short of Maruia Springs), up besides Rough Creek and on to the tops before descending to the overnight hut at Lake Christabel Hut (which is actually a mile short of the lake), before walking out to Palmer Rd. As such, we had to leave a car at the end of our planned walk – we discovered it really was quite cold out, as all the short wooden bridges on this rural road were iced over.


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Nonetheless, car shuffle done we set off alongside Rough Creek. Quickly, it became obvious that the creek was not the only rough feature around – the trail was mostly unformed and soon started steeply climbing the hill over a lot of tree roots and moss.

The sun made a brief appearance in the sky – some of its light even filtered through the canopy.

The route flattened out a bit as we walked beside and through/over the river for a while.

While we were still well below the tree line, we started to come across patches of snow – a somewhat worrying sign for walking over the tops.

We made good time to the tree line and started tracking our way through a good half-foot of snow to get a view of where the snow-poles would lead us. Visibility had decreased, but we could make out a few poles in front of us – as it wasn’t windy or miserable we decided to push on. The snow deepened – generally about knee high, occasionally I post-holed to my waist when I was making tracks. We were glad to have a hiking pole each – just as well someone thought to bring those .

There’s a pole! Go over there. About half-way up Adele took the lead through the steeper terrain, I had it easy at the back for a while.

Reaching the saddle (we’d climbed about 900 metres in four kilometres – a bit more than I’m used to), we turned to see cloud filling the valley we’d walked up.

Venturing just over the saddle, Adele suddenly found it very icy and compacted. We were unprepared for such conditions, with no crampons or ice-axes (and Fiona & I have no real experience in using such things). The ice patch was likely not that large, but it wasn’t a risk worth taking – so we turned and headed back down the hill. I’m sure I’ve said before, I loathe prolonged walking downhill – especially with a large pack – it just hurts and there’s no challenge or enjoyment in it. Thankfully we made it back to the car safely – which is no mean feat considering the number of small falls Fiona and I had on the slippery route/roots back down.

So for the second time this year, due to adverse conditions I found myself staying at the rather bizarre Alpine Motor Inn & Cafe at Springs Junction – a place I didn’t even know existed last year. I think I even had the same burger – it was just as large and somewhat weird (probably due to the hash-brown). Grateful for a roof overhead (it was cheaper than huts on the Heaphy) – it was just as well we had our sleeping bags as the only heater in the room shone like a small star, so had to be turned off at night. The provided linen would have been OK, perhaps, in summer. A memorable and perversely fun place to stay, if only for odd reasons – including the mountain stream that the stone-walled building was built into, it reminded me of being in European mountain villages.

Sunday was a much more leisurely day – mostly because we didn’t take loaded overnight packs on a day walk and the terrain and trail was much friendlier. Also, hot pools! Just past Lewis Pass is the northern trailhead of the St James Walkway – a sixty-six, five day hike. We walked the first hour or so until we got a decent view of Cannibal Gorge (a literal name, unfortunately) and then stopped for a snack before returning to the shelter at the start of the trail – where (royal) we cooked and feasted on Pad Thai (meant to be the previous night’s hut-dinner), yum.

A pretty little walk, I don’t think it even rained and considering the snow and ice around – not too cold for wearing shorts either. With all this extra time, we went and soaked in the Maruia Hot Springs. I’ve driven past here a few times in the last few months – considering it’s in the middle of nowhere, it rather odd it is so Japanese-spa themed. Nice all the same.

bikes, family, friends, MTB, NZ

West Coast Weeks

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Now that June is over, my weeks based in Westport are also coming to an end – it’s been a nice change of scenery. While somewhat wet, it has definitely been a lot less cold than if I’d spent the month further south at Mum & Dad’s house. Adele’s also been pleased to have various visitors, besides me, as we all realise just how isolated Westport is. With people new to the area, there is always added incentive to go out and show them new places.

Craig, Kelly and their young daughter, Elsie, visiting for a weekend meant a trip out to Charming Creek – I finally got to ride the whole thing (it’s only ten kilometres each way) after being stopped by a large trail-covering waterfall last time. We didn’t even get rained on! But there was plenty of water standing on the trail to soak us. The river not being in a raging, flooded torrent was not quite as impressive – but it did mean I got to see the most-noteworthy waterfall as we followed the fallen-into-disrepair railway up the valley.

As with a lot of the coast, there were mining relics to explore. These at the top trailhead – where we turned around for a quick, fun and wet return to the cars.

The girls having been for a Sunday mountain-bike ride up at Denniston while we (mostly Craig, admittedly) watched over Elsie – the late afternoon was time for Craig to take James and me on an adventure quite different to those I normally write about (no bikes!). Half an hour south, a bit past Charleston, we turned off the highway and followed a narrow gravel track inland and up into the hills. Craig declared we had found the right place as we parked the car – what he’d seen I had no idea, one patch of native bush looks much like any other. With a bit of advice I managed to get into my harness – as climbing things generally bores me, it’s been many years since I’ve had to put one on.

Someone saw a slight parting in the foliage and we set off down a narrow path, hiding the car keys in a small hovel trailside as the steps got steeper and more slippery. Surprisingly, there was an official sign warning of a tomo – which as far as I could work out was a really big hole in the ground. The surprise being the sign in such an isolated place; the large cavity in the earth being rather the point and not at all suprising. I stood around in the increasingly heavy rain getting rather wet, wondering why I wasn’t somewhere warm reading a book by a fire, as Craig and James set-up various ropes and slings that would, all going well, prevent me falling forty-odd metres and making little impression, but a big mess, on the rocks below.

With little time to do more than accept the fact that I’d be lowering myself a long way down a cliff with only a slight theoretical, and no practical, understanding of the hows and whys – I found myself doing just that. With a wet, doubled-rope threading through my belay device, it turns out being rather small and featherweight [disturbingly – if I was a boxer, I would be a featherweight; also, I’d probably be the worst boxer ever] does slow things down if you’ve not got the technique sorted. Still, in such circumstances I much prefer slow and steady over fast, uncontrolled and dead. The waterfall beside me cascading into the giant hole with much greater certainty and confidence was doing a fine job of making everything very slippery and more difficult. Eventually my technique improved and I descended a bit faster; one strand of rope ran out (a sixty metre rope can’t be doubled all the way down a forty metre cliff) and I bounced a little as I passed that by.

Somewhat relieved to be standing on solid ground, rather than bouncing off the side of it, James made his down and soon we were caving! Some photos of all this would be useful, but it was so muddy and wet down there I left my camera safely at home. For a couple of hours we proceeded through quite a network of tunnels downhill. We followed the stream part of the way, marveling at the large stalagmites and stalactites (some were a good eight inches in diameter) and appreciating the rather dainty ones forming that were no thicker than drinking straws.

It was a lot warmer underground than we expected – the others shed a layer or two, while I gave up trying to keep my feet dry and just walked in the stream when it became too much like hard work to stay out of it. Hauling ourselves up small rockfaces, clambering over things and gingerly jumping off rocks into semi-darkness was, as Craig said a few times, a full-body workout. I felt my shoulders twinge a couple of times from exerting force at weird angles – a warning that I shouldn’t pursue caving more, I’d hate to be stuck underground with a dislocated shoulder.

Craig reckoned he’d been down here four or five times before and seemed to know where he was going as I blindly followed, every so often hearing words along the lines of “this is the right way”. Every so often we’d emerge from a narrow passage into a larger chamber. It was one such chamber that we started to return to repeatedly after Craig started to utter the words “this doesn’t feel right” a little too often. This started to become mildly alarming after what seemed like half an hour. I was not keen on having to get myself back up that slick tomo in the dark. Eventually we had success as one previously overlooked passage sent us on the right track; we crawled and hauled ourselves on our bellies down another shrinking tunnel.

With Craig convinced we were back on the route that would get us back above ground, we elected to take a small side-route. This first involved a ten-metre shuffle head-first under an extremely low ceiling. I’ve not found too many instance where lacking in upper-body strength is useful, and this wasn’t one – but it was a good time to be very skinny. The ceiling was so low that I had to turn my boots parallel to the floor – as if I had my Size 8’s perpendicular, they would quickly wedge between ceiling and floor. Emerging from that, we were in a deep, but narrow cleft, in the rock. Soon this narrow chasm had a stream running swiftly down it, showing just what had carved such a deep slit in the layer rock. The layers were pronounced, but smooth as we shuffled past. Hardly having wide hips, even I had to twist my body sideways to be able to walk forward.

That rather unusual journey over we reached the objective – sizeable whale bones fossilised in the rock many metres below ground, but now somewhat exposed by the rock having been worn away. Amazed, we studied these for some time before deciding we really should get going and returned through the narrow passageway to the main route. With more shuffling down a muddy creek bed, we were finally able to stand up again and clambered up a lot of rock. Suddenly, Craig spotted ferns in the dark ahead – we were outside again and it was much later than we thought. With no real path, we headed up the left bank of the Nile (not that one) before Craig spotted some small reflectors off to our right. Following these had us bush-bashing through dense bush back to the gravel road, ending our fantastic little adventure with a half-hour walk up the road in the rain to the car and retrieving the rope from the start.

Later the following week, after a flying trip Napier (where I tested out Sounds Air’s new nine-seater service, Westport to Wellington), Fiona, a family friend of ours from growing up in Te Puke, arrived for a few days at the end of her med. school holidays. Around Westport, we went for walks to Cape Foulwind to see the seals, explored small local bike trails and waited for fine spots between the frequent showers of rain. Further south, we visited the Pancake Rocks at Punakaiki. Finding that the gravel road we intended to follow inland was closed due to slips, we explored another short walk nearby.

The Truman Track starts on the side of the highway and follows an easy path through a wide variety of native trees, before the bush finally thins and you find yourself above a rather charming little bay. I enjoyed exploring the bay, and the next one too (avoiding being stranded by the incoming tide), looking at the various wear patterns in the mudstone – while James, the geologist he is, looked more closely at rocks on the beach and Fiona tried to escape sandfly attacks.

A most excellent stay visiting the coast – the highlight was definitely the Heaphy, both trips – there’s a lot to do and more left unexplored for next time. Thanks Adele & James!

bikepacking, bikes, MTB, national park, NZ

Double Heaphy

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Every so often it’s good to do something a little nuts just to push one’s limits and see if you can do it. Even before we’d finished our previous, somewhat curtailed by the weather, Heaphy attempt I was starting to consider the feasibility of riding the whole trail there and back over two days. As we’d ridden the western (approximate) half of the trail, I thought it was possible to ride that in about four hours with few stops – and that includes the only big climb when riding west to east.

With that in mind, completing the whole trail in a day should be possible while carrying overnight gear and enough food for two big days of riding. James was also up for this challenge – even if it would mean his two biggest days ever on a bike, all the while lugging quite a load. We just had to wait for two consecutive days which had fine weather forecast – two such days we discovered while away in Christchurch. So dashing back from the east coast on Monday, we had just enough time to buy enough food and organise ourselves before an early start on Tuesday.

The weather was definitely clear when we got up at five o’clock – it was the first frost I’ve seen around Westport, and a heavy one at that. We were at the trailhead just after first light to make the most of the daylight hours (you aren’t allowed to ride the trail at night). The morning gradually warmed, but not by much, as we made good time along the beautiful coastal section to Heaphy Hut. There was little time to take photos, so these from the last trip will have to do.

The section of river crossings to Lewis Hut took but half an hour and then the sustained climb to James McKay Hut, after which I’d pegged as a good time for lunch, was upon us. On our previous trip we’d been told of and seen the resting diggers of trail maintenance crews – we were hoping that they’d improved the trail a lot. The top section had been gravelled and was remarkably better and easier going; alas, the middle section was considerably worse having been churned up by the mini-diggers – there was considerable pushing through thick, gloopy and claggy mud. But we stayed on track and made James McKay for lunch.

This was a different view from the hut compared to last time – a lot less distant cloud and more snow.

We pushed on wondering if we’d be quick enough to get to the end of the trail and then return up the sixteen kilometre, eight hundred metre climb to Perry Saddle Hut for the night. While Brown Hut is at the east trailhead and would have been the best location to stay – other practicalities dictated we would stay at Perry Saddle Hut instead. Brown Hut is an older, smaller hut than Perry Saddle and does not have gas stoves and cooking equipment – things we didn’t really want to carry if we didn’t have to.

The section between James McKay and Perry Saddle was different again – there’s a little climbing, but it’s not too onerous as you mostly stay between six- and eight-hundred metres above sea-level. Through some rather pretty, but soggy, parts early on the trail is board-walked – which provides a nice change from hitting rocks often. Passing across the tussocky Gouland Downs was so much more open than most of the riding – we were glad for a lack of wind. There were a couple of small, swift rivers that we waded through as getting cold and wet feet seemed a lot less hassle and quicker than trying to get across wire swing bridges upstream that were not designed with bikes in mind.

The trail got very slick and quite large sections had standing water that was manageable, but constantly sprayed us with water. On the side of the trail were significant patches of frost and snow. The clay got even more slippery as we climbed up to the saddle (about 900 m) and started attaching itself to our bikes. The last few hundred metres up to the hut was very rough, but just rideable after a long day in the saddle. Getting to the hut just after half-past three, we thought it prudent to call it a day, as while we would have easily got down the last sixteen kilometres to the end – we would not have made it back up by dark. Instead, we opted to start early the next day – this also meant that we would do one of the two big climbs on each day. It made the second day over ninety kilometres, leaving not much time for dilly-dallying or other issues, but seemed a good decision.

Finding another new, well-equipped hut we set about getting the coal range going and drying our bike shoes and clothes. The warden was very friendly and the views from the saddle were much better than I imagined those at Brown Hut at the bottom of the next valley would be. We refueled while watching the sun set on the mountains. Early to bed, satisfied with great day’s ride (James particularly so, the 58 km being his biggest day on a bike – so far) – slept pretty well as the hut was pleasantly warm.

It was not so pleasantly warm when we were out the door and scraping the frost off our bikes at first light the next morning. Unfortunately, I suspect due to a more-limited water supply, this hut did not have a bike wash-down set up – if it had have, we would have bothered to hose the mud off after the first day’s ride. Setting off, we found rear cables frozen – James couldn’t change gear, I had no operational rear brake and my gear shifter was also stuck. It was a gentle climb to start up to the trail’s highest point, Flanagan’s Corner, and left in my easiest gear I was soon spinning out.

That was all sorted out with a drenching of water while we dealt to bigger problems on James’s bike. The Heaphy sure is hard on bikes, particularly chains, with all the mud and grit that flicks up in to drivetrains and brakes. Suddenly, James had no chain – it having come apart. Trying to fix that in the semi-dark with chilled fingers was no fun; once we could see what was going on, the best solution seemed to be installing an eight-speed powerlink on the ten-speed chain. Not ideal, but it worked and it was a lot easier than mucking around with a chain-breaker in the gloom and cold.

We’d hardly got going again when James had that sinking feeling that comes from a puncture – damn. It wasn’t a great start to the day considering the tight schedule we running. That all fixed, we didn’t want to tempt fate and so took it rather easily down to the end of the trail. A nice wide trail, with enough rocks to keep it interesting had us gradually dropping – mercifully, it wasn’t nearly as cold in amongst the trees as I feared. We had occasional glances of the Aorere Valley and the surrounding ranges. For a long time, I’ve not seen a harder frost than the one that greeted us on the valley floor – for that reason, and the extra time we took to descend, we didn’t hang around. Turning at the parking lot, it was straight back into the climb.

The rivers were crystal clear, but on such a chilly morning not at all inviting.

With a nice trail surface and a rather gentle gradient (pretty constant at five percent), we made good time back up to the saddle – only really stopping for a couple of fallen trees and a short snack. As we had to repack our gear (we hadn’t been silly enough to take all our sleeping gear and food to Brown Hut and back) anyway, we had an early lunch while trying to offer V-brake advice to the ranger.

Departing at noon, I thought we would just get through the sixty kilometres by dark as we’d previously averaged just under 10 km/hr riding the same trail in the opposite direction and gaining nine hundred metres of altitude. So with a big net altitude loss, we should be OK without having to push the limits too much. Turns out I was right, we made good time – there was even a bit of time for snapping some photos, chatting to various people: another bikepacker from Yorkshire, our hut companions from Perry Saddle, and the trail builders (although I did embarrassingly get stuck in my clips & fell on a tricky stream crossing right in front of them – getting a little tired).

The wet trail glinting in the early-afternoon sun before the slippery descent onto Gouland Downs.

Looking out over the downs.

As James pointed out, sections of the bush looked a little like giant bonsai trees.

A rather pretty little stream.

Back at sea-level we were on the home stretch – but the Heaphy decided to have one more go at writing James’s drivetrain off – the little chain guides completely ruined. Make sure you’re well covered for spares and mechanical nous on this route – it does at times feel remarkably remote, probably because it is. Also we were back on familiar and faster trails – we almost got back to the car without needing headlamps – donning them only for the last descent from Kohaihai Saddle, as it was very dark under the trees.

I finally bothered to get a photo of one of these signs – the likes of which I’ve never seen on a mountain-bike trail before.

So, it turns out that the Heaphy double is entirely possible over two days – admittedly we had two clear, sunny, almost-windless days – even with a relatively novice bikepacker (having remarkable determination – he says stubbornness – helps). I was pleased to see the whole trail, after missing out ten days prior, and James was excited by conquering the challenge – the second day of ninety-plus kilometres blowing his previous longest day on the bike out of the water.

A great trail through such varied and remote landscape – fully deserving of its “epic” classification in the latest version of the Kennet Brothers’ Classic NZ MTB Rides. Thoroughly recommended; obviously, just going one-way over two days would be more enjoyable and enable more appreciation of the scenery.

bikes, MTB, NZ

South Island Rides All Around

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After our thwarted attempt to ride the Heaphy and a few days of inclement weather, James and I were itching to get out riding when the weather was more friendly. It’s just as well James obviously doesn’t mind driving hours for a bit of riding – as that’s what it took to find a bit of sun. Looking back on the last week, there was an awful lot of driving as we rode in three quite distant places in the central South Island in the space of five days.

First up it was close to two hours down the coast to Hokitika, where the locals have built a nice network of trails up on Blue Spur Ridge behind the town. I’d taken to borrowing Adele’s bike (which is considerably lighter and more fun than my touring one) and enjoyed a couple of decent climbs and tried to come to terms with riding wet, slippery and twisty singletrack. We rode for a couple of hours – liking the sun, completing a large circuit of most of the trail network, repeating the trails we particularly enjoyed and only once getting a little off-track. I felt a bit cheated by some of the trail names – See-saw didn’t have a see-saw and Tunnels only had one tunnel.

Looking out over the Hokitika River valley.

There was the odd trail feature built – but I thought it a bit slippery to wisely attempt this.

Yes, the trail disappears through a skinny tunnel. I was pleased not vanish into the ether halfway through.

The following day we headed off to Christchurch as most of James’s family was going to be at his brother’s that weekend – also, the weather forecast was better than in Westport, where Adele would be on-call and not able to go riding. I was lured by the talk of a ride up on the Port Hills (on the southern edge of the city) and exploring trails new to me.

Four McKirdy men (James, his two brothers and their father, Don) and I set off early enough that it was still quite fresh on a clear Christchurch morning – oh, Andrew’s dog Jack also joined us as trail dog. After about five miles of road we were at the west base of the hills – and soon climbing steadily up some well laid trails. That much time has been spent on these trails was obvious, we passed one crew of about five still improving some tight corners and another place where trail tools are kept locked to a fence-post for ready access.

It was disturbing to be suddenly spat out next to a new subdivision – at least we could see the mountains across the Canterbury Plains.

When the singletrack ran out, it was 4WD tracks and grass that took us most of the way to the top.

A herd of Banded Galloways were happened upon.

We paused before our descent to look at more things in the distance.

The McKirdy men looking at things in the distance.

How Jack managed almost thirty kilometres, I’ve no idea. A bit slower on the flat, he was much faster uphill than us and surprisingly quick down singletrack.

The upper reaches of Lyttelton Harbour – on the other side of the hills to Christchurch.

About to head into the Flying Nun trail – an enormous amount of time has gone in to this one. Lined, almost paved, with plenty of natural rock it flows so well and is just one big bundle of fun!

After an absolute blast on Flying Nun, there was a little bit of climbing on the road up to Victoria Park where we had fun getting slightly lost making our way down the hill on a myriad of trails. There were some quite big jumps that were beyond me, but mostly I was able to ride it. We even found a big (in the size of its vertical drop, not length) see-saw over a fence to make up for the missing one in Hokitika.

We so enjoyed our Saturday ride, that we went up again Sunday – this time Don shuttled the rest of us to the top as we had a family-lunch deadline to meet.  More good fun on Flying Nun before exploring further around the hill in Bowenvale Park.  Near to the end of the Bowenvale Downhill I had one of my worst crashes in a long time.  Negotiating some rocks next to a tall bank dropping off the right side of the trail, I got it all wrong.  The option of flying head-first down a bank didn’t appeal and I somehow managed to put myself down on the trail with my bike weighing heavily and awkwardly on top – I got off rather lightly, with only some slight bruising and no other damage.  I lived to ride home and ride another day.

The next day, in fact.  On the way back to Westport we stopped briefly in Hanmer Springs – a nice little mountain resort town with some quality hot pools.  But we were there to explore the trails in the forest – which we did.  They were a little wet, which is odd as I always think of Hanmer as rather dry and hot.  When it suddenly started dumping snow on us, we turned down the hill to the car – as we still had to get home and prepare for the following day’s adventure.

The snow continued falling as we drove over Lewis Pass – although a bit grey, it was beautiful.  I snapped a few token shots through the car windows.