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).