Take me to the (Whanganui) River
Riding the Mountain to Sea Cycle Trail
Icycle through history on the Old Coach Rd, through the middle of nowhere on Middle and Ruatiti roads, and learn of abandoned farms and the Bridge to Nowhere along Mangapurua Track. It leads to the Whanganui River, where Ken jet-boats us down its silent, vibrant wilderness to Pı¯pı¯riki.
Pı¯pı¯riki Camping Ground is a short ride from where we land. It is an uphill ride at the end of a day that had reached more than 30 degrees Celsius. The cold drink from the camp store, once a Pı¯pı¯riki School classroom, barely touches the sides, as I read the information on the walls.
I learn that Josephine, behind the counter, is the great granddaughter of Jack Allen, the first captain of the paddle steamer Waimarie on its maiden voyage up the Whanganui in 1900. There’s an old newspaper article on riverboats and the Ma¯ ori legend of how the river was formed.
A photo of Pı¯pı¯riki House in 1903 shows a grand two-storeyed building, which had 100 rooms, a dining room seating 120, and a balcony that overlooked Ma¯ ori villages. Known internationally as the Rhine of New Zealand, in the late1800s/early-1900s, Pı¯pı¯riki was a busy place, the first overnight stop on a riverboat journey from Whanganui.
The camping ground, run by Whanganui River Adventures, is fairly empty. There are a few campervans and two tents on the vast field. I freeze overnight in our cabin, travelling with only a sleeping sheet, our gear stuffed in panniers.
We’re warned to be careful on the Whanganui River Rd, used by early-morning logging trucks. But we don’t get going on our fourth day of the Mountains to Sea Cycle Trail until about 9.30am. The logging trucks are long gone.
On the evil hills out of Pı¯pı¯riki my thigh muscles burn. I look back at the tiny settlement. A few roofs are tucked between greenery and brown fields, two boats float at the river landing.
Silvery grey leaves look like lumps of gravel on the narrow, tar-sealed road that undulates, twisting and turning like the river that weaves through the gorge below. Almost vertical, bushclad cliffs meet its shores where tree trunks clutter its shallows like pick-up sticks.
A sign indicates we’re entering the Whanganui National Park then, after around eight kilometres climbing, it’s gloriously downhill into Jerusalem/ Hiruha¯ rama. An hour after leaving Pı¯pı¯riki, we reach a yellow-ish letterbox marked The Sisters, at the end of a driveway. It leads up to a red-roofed, mustard building, with St Joseph’s Convent 1892 painted beside the door. It’s locked, although a notice states accommodation is available.
Around its corner, we discover the matching St Joseph’s Church looking out to a peaceful bush valley. I push open its unlocked door and peek in.
The cream interior is simple except for the altar table, golden wood carved in a Ma¯ ori design. A nativity scene sits below, and statues of Mary and Joseph stand beneath red, white and black ko¯ whaiwhai borders decorating the tops of walls. We wander the Rosary Way past the sun-dappled prayer garden. There’s not a soul around.
Eight or so undulating kilometres further on, with peeks of the river, I find myself in London/ Ra¯ nana. What an international journey! Its maybe 10 houses – including the white concrete hall built in 1954, and the marae next door where a board out the front tells of its history – are deserted.
Ponga and native bush give occasional shade along the road. The restored Kawana flour mill lies down a path tucked among trees below road level, its water wheel motionless. It provides a history lesson on flour mills along the river in the 19th century. Opposite, I peer through the window of a miller’s restored colonial cottage into a simple kitchen.
Up the hill, Matahiwi Gallery Cafe, which occupies an old school building, is closed. We push the gate open and eat lunch sitting under the shade of a roof that protects the wooden boat, River Queen, used in the 2005 movie of the same name.
We pass through farmland, by cliffs the colour of newly poured concrete, and white Kohu Cottage, a blaze of purple agapanthus out front, where a yellow road sign states Wanganui is 47km away.
Through trees, I spot The Flying Fox, two buildings surrounded by dense bush far below on the opposite side of the river. It would have been a fun place to stay, just for the trip by aerial cable car across the water to reach it.
An abandoned farmhouse, windows gone, half a chimney and faded weatherboards, stands among hay-coloured grass. We explore the tunnel culvert, a supposed five-minute walk, but barely taking one. Looking into the fern-framed tunnel is like peering through a keyhole into a bright room, daylight and picturesque greenery at its far end. A car goes past. There is other life out here!
A¯ tene Viewpoint Walk is a two-hour return walk, according to a sign. Maybe it could be done in an hour . . . we probably have the time, but don’t have the energy, 43km ridden, water bottles near empty, my face grimy with salty sweat.
Maybe four houses populate Athens/A¯ tene. There’s been more beehives along the way than buildings. A faded yellow shed further on has a mark showing where the river reached in a year I don’t catch as I pedal past.
Rivertime Lodge, standing just off the road, is a welcome sight. And joyfully, a short walk down from our ensuite cabin is a swimming spot.
I wade over rounded stones and sink gratefully into the cool, crystal-clear waters of the Whanganui River.