From Wellington to Wanaka by bike
We woke to the demoralising sound of rain drumming the tarmac. An early start was critical to tackle the final day - 226km and more than 3000m of elevation gain - of our cycle-tour from Wellington to Wanaka, but the comfort of a blanket is always amplified against a backdrop of a downpour. My sister Judy and I eventually forced our aching bodies up, organised ourselves, and stared into the dismal, wet morning from the comfort of our warm room. Twenty eight kilometres of eternal dampness and wind gusts lay between us and breakfast at the South Westland Salmon Farm Cafe. The first step is often the hardest. Once we started pedalling, the blood began flowing as something resembling fluidity tried to emerge. Water sneaks into the most unlikely of places after an hour of cycling in the rain. The relief when we arrived at the cafe soon evaporated when we were told that the EFTPOS system was down and, having no cash, they would not serve us. The thought of pedalling another wet, cold 60km to Haast on an empty stomach was more than deflating. But this was not the first time we had encountered the Stone Age when it came to payment on the West Coast, and Judy quickly persuaded staff to allow us a bank transfer over WiFi. The bowl of sugary, warm porridge that followed was, quite simply, a redemptive lifeline.
"Twenty eight kilometres of eternal dampness and wind gusts lay between us and breakfast at the South Westland Salmon Farm Cafe."
A check of the forecast showed no respite - up to 10mm an hour - as we considered a dispiriting three-hour ride to Haast. As blustery rain swept onto the deck outside, a discussion ensued about whether to call the cavalry in Wanaka to come and collect us. The idea of cycle-touring had always appealed, but only ever as a fantasy of spectacular, sunny days through the most pristine settings. I had never embarked on such an adventure because the inevitable reality check would, no doubt, come in the form of rain and violent headwinds. But a brief window of time and a strong dose of ambition led to a plan to follow 1000km of the Tour Aotearoa trail to Wanaka. It follows mountain bike tracks, seldom-used sealed and gravel roads and, where they’re the only option, state highways, all wrapped in warm, South Island hospitality. But it was going to be gruelling; the most I had ridden in one day was 120km, which had only been three and a half hours on a road bike. Following sage advice from more experienced riders, my sister included, we armed ourselves with cyclocross bikes and carried little else besides a change of clothes, bikerepair stuff, a first-aid kit and the all-important, chafeguarding butt-butter. Booking hotels meant we could leave tents and sleeping bags behind. A still, calm morning greeted us as we biked off the ferry in Picton and onto a paved road that meanders along the coastline and through a series of paradisal bays. Our first stop, at Havelock, entrenched a pattern that would last the whole journey: lots of eating and lots of coffee. Our bodies would become temples of efficiency, processing five to six meals a day. The first day's challenge was the Maungatapu Track, a steep mountain bike trail that crosses the densely-forested hills of the Bryant Range. The 1084m-climb was three times more than anything I had ridden, and the gravel was so unforgiving in places that we were forced to dismount and walk. But the absence of city bustle and the tranquillity of lush South Island landscapes were instantly enriching. It was only early afternoon by the time we rolled into Nelson, so we cancelled our booked room and continued down a cycle trail along the coast, through city parks and alongside a river into the tiny hamlet of Wakefield. Our fatigue must have been easy to discern. “You’ll be right after you get a few beers in ya,” a friendly man said as we arrived. A worker at the bar then kindly offered us pizza slices before we could even order dinner. Day one: 134km, 1750m elevation gain, seven hours of riding. By 8pm, Judy was dead to the world, four seconds after laying down on her bed. Heading south over the following days delivered hour after hour of stunning scenery; the pine and eucalyptus on the way to Dovedale Saddle, the verdant mountains of Kahurangi National Park that neighbour the Tadmor Valley, the mossy beech trees that hug the gravel road over Maruia Saddle. And all accessible on a network of quiet, empty roads, the kind you would linger on and take your time, if you were driving. Just as memorable were the eccentric characters. There was Louise at the Gowan Bank Backpackers, on the edge of Nelson Lakes National Park, who plied us with sandwiches and coffee and offered shelter from incessant sandflies. When her lack of EFTPOS services left us feeling poorly prepared, she simply gave us her account number for a bank transfer, whenever convenient. Melbournite Rea, with a gentle smile and friendly demeanour, welcomed us in the small settlement of Maruia, where she was revelling in the change of pace from urban life. Though the cafe was closed, she gladly made us toasted sandwiches, and didn't even charge us
"The idea of cycle-touring had always appealed, but only ever as a fantasy of spectacular, sunny days through the most pristine settings. I had never embarked on such an adventure because the inevitable reality check would, no doubt, come in the form of rain and violent headwinds. "
for tiramisu because she wasn’t sure how long it had been sitting in the cafe cabinet. There was the man outside restaurant Panda Xpress in Murchison who, in response to our famished stomachs seeking immediate relief, advised us to seek it “anywhere but here”. And after a downpour riding into Blackball, population 450, Wendi Wilson nourished us with sweet chai and scones, adding later that the recent rise in the local school roll was good for the town because it "deepened the gene pool”. Reefton was another of many charming stops where we refilled our stomachs and relaxed our legs. The old mining town has seen a renaissance after John Bougen, who made his fortune after founding Dress Mart, moved there and showered the community in money. The main street is now awash with colourful banners, vibrant cafes and restored heritage buildings. Reefton had all the typical signs of easy South Island life: homes with spacious lawns and open front doors, barefoot youngsters kicking a rugby ball on the street, and drivers that don’t mind stopping for cyclists. Our overnight destination, which used to house miners, was owned by a congenial man, Norbert, who spoke in German vowels and invited us to watch him perform an entertaining puppet show in his lounge that evening, featuring an antagonist who could turn straw into gold. As our journey continued, we soon realised that anticipating a thrilling descent made the uphills less soul-destroying. Some, such as after Braeburn Saddle, were on winding gravel roads that crossed water-filled fords. Others, like the 35km into Reefton, were on sealed highways that delivered exhilarating speed, with wind in our faces, beaming smiles, and eyes wide with elation. Three steep passes guarded the road into Fox Glacier, each delivering a glorious downhill. So perfect was the final one that, when my chain somehow dislodged, I didn't bother stopping and just glided into town, coming to a rest next to a young man who had the curiosity to ask: "Why the fuck would you bike when everyone here drives everywhere?" Having just hit 80kmh on the downhill into Fox Glacier, my response had no hesitation: "Because it's fucking awesome." A similar sentiment accompanied the 132km of The West Coast Wilderness Trail, which traverses magical landscapes on a grade-two mountain bike trail. From Greymouth, flax bushes and cabbage trees line the track as it follows the coastline, offering glimpses of the Tasman Sea crashing onto sandy shores. The trail rolls inland after the Taramakau River. We cycled in radiant sunshine towards mountains shrouded in ominous mist, passing perfectly flat reservoirs and crossing a boardwalk over wetlands as dragonflies fluttered by. Several times we paused on bridges above jaw-dropping chasms