Predictably, the first night in six where I paid to lay my head somewhere – I had the worst sleep of the lot. Between the heat inside and chatter outside, it was not restful. Woken for the final time at two-thirty, trying to get back to sleep for an hour wasn’t wasted when at least one good idea presented itself. Eventually I accepted sleep was not returning, so I got up and groggily got organised – locking myself out of my room in the process. Thankfully there was a phone at reception and a helpful night staff member on the other end of the line.

Into the crisp, clear night just after four I was happy enough to ride the flat Alps2Ocean section. Thoroughly enjoying it and the grand view of the stars, I turned my light off for a while; but not wanting to end up in the canal alongside, that didn’t last long. The day dawned as I joined the short stretch of trail beside Lake Pukaki for the second time in four weeks. That was short-lived as the course headed south on the Pukaki River road; the twenty kilometres of river rocks wasn’t as bad as I expected. I did have the sun rising to distract me.

Not a lot in the Pukaki River.

A reminder…

Benmore Range.

A more distant perspective of the Ben Ohau Range than the first day of the GSB.

It was worth turning and looking behind every so often.

Turning south, the final stretch of riverbed-like road felt the worst by far –
was probably all in my head as it seemed as though it should be a short, easy section.

The next section to Otematata through Black Forest Station was familiar from GSB19. Knowing a long climb through a dry, rocky section was approaching I was pleased I’d left early and the day still had some coolness to it. The five hundred metre climb now looks small on the elevation profile, but that’s more an indication of the afternoon and evening. It only got steep at the end, and there was a nice stream to soak my shirt in partway up.

Lake Benmore appeared, as the Hawkduns loomed ominously in the background.

A good, fun and fast descent on the pylon access road dropped me at the lake edge – but I certainly hadn’t forgotten the lumpy little bit to get to the dam. Reaching the highway at half-twelve I was pleased to see a small coffee cart right on the intersection – that meant I didn’t need the small detour into town. I was happy to rest in the shade with cold drinks, tea and a large lunch – while happily chatting to avid dotwatchers, before half an hour had gone, the day had got very hot and I made my escape.

Through the, what can only be described as, barren Otematata Station it was almost two hours to get up the 550 m climb on farm tracks – sometimes just on farm, no track. Well into the thirties, I managed not to cook myself (finally I’ve worked out how not to do that, it only took four years of intermittent dehydration and heat stroke during events) – another thing that went very right for me during Tour Te Waipounamu.

Down to Otematata; back when my parents had a holiday home here I could never conceived I’d be doing something like this – riding my bike used to be a lot easier! But significantly less rewarding.

We didn’t stay high for long, soon dropping most of the recent altitude gains into the valley on the left. Hawkduns still looming large behind.

At least the sudden loss of all that height brought us back to a river, the Otematata – more rehydration and shirt soaking for the next little section upstream.

A short section alongside and through Chimney Creek – late afternoon now, I had a big rest at the final crossing before starting on the climb proper onto the Hawkduns. Olly caught up to me just as I was setting off – he’d put well over two hours into me that day and was certainly getting stronger as I started to feel the lack of sleep the previous night.

Chimney Creek and the just-discernible start of the climb

This time, the start of the climb was the steepest – near twenty percent in the late-afternoon heat was brutal. I was pleased to have company, as well as the occasional rest. Almost four hours of pushing to reach the summit on chunky track – I struggled to ride almost any of it. Olly thought we could reach the Oturehua pub by closing (it was Saturday after all) and I was happy to go along with this as it was my original goal for the day. Possibly I should have stopped at Wire Yards hut, as I was already sixteen hours into a very hot and climby day; also, I knew just how wicked the descent would be in fading light on a loaded, rigid bike (it was very fun on a big day trip six years before). I completely missed even seeing the turn-off to the hut, but I wasn’t really looking for it – the pub sounded good.

Lovely still evening for views – south-east there was the Ida Range, and even the start of the Kakanuis to spot.

Back north across the Hawkdun tops to the Benmore Range and well in the distance the Southern Alps were clearly visible.
Cracking evening.

Walking Spur was as rugged as I remembered, but with a day twice as long as the previous visit (not to mention the preceding week) the exhilaration was more of the trying stay upright variety rather than gleeful riding.

Ample distraction from all the rocks!

I was lagging further behind Olly now, finally reaching the summit just as the last of the light faded.

That left the most rugged of the rideable descents on the course to hit in the dark. It certainly kept me awake as my brakes squealed all the way down. That five kilometres was hair-raising to say the least. About halfway down, ping! Hit something too hard and there goes a spoke. Still, the rest of the wheel survived the remainder of the rock and water bar barrage – so that bode well for the remaining three hundred kilometres of the course.

Olly was waiting at the end of the track with the disappointing, but not unsurprising (it was ten o’clock and Oturehua after all), news that the pub kitchen had closed. Needing food for tomorrow, this presented a bit of a quandary – as the store wasn’t due to open until ten on a Sunday. Tired from my biggest and hottest day on the race – eighteen and a half hours – I didn’t see the point in going into the village. Finding water and somewhere to bivy got my vote. The Mt Ida Water Race obliged with the first, and a stand of big old pines half a kilometre down the road the second. Waking the wood pigeons, whomp whomp of their wings distinctive, and some briefly-raucous magpies while we made camp, it took a little while for me to calm and fall asleep after an exhausting day – easily the most climbing in a day I’d done all week. With thoughts of possible wheel repair, I drifted to sleep.

After easily the best sleep I had all race in the brilliant little Felt Hut, it wasn’t a particularly early start. I started the rest of the push to Bullock Bow Saddle (650 m over 4 km) as day broke. I found Andy packing up his tent back where the hut track joined the race route and enjoyed a brief catch-up.

Easy surface to start.

Ben McLeod Range grabbing my attention for one last time; the last descent of the previous night clearly visible, Fern Hut is down in that patch of forest.

Getting steeper; with fresh legs I’d have enjoyed trying to ride this sort of thing.

But not a chance of trying at that moment.

Halfway up, spot the rider/pusher.

A bit short of two hours of pushing, a pause to snack and take in the views of the Two Thumb Range opening up.

The descent started with big, chunky, sharp rocks across scree slopes. Mostly rideable, it was only a little hair-raising at times. Past a couple of tarns, it mellowed somewhat in both surface and gradient. Down at Bush Stream, we rejoined the Te Araroa trail and the trail quickly degenerated into more tedious unrideable tussock bashing. Still, the barren stoney ranges around were enough to distract one.

Royal Hut, three hours into the morning, was a natural spot to stop for a bit and check out the little building that quite a few riders stayed in over consecutive nights. Just as I was leaving for the long hike-a-bike to Stag Saddle (highest point on the route) Olly arrived, Andy, Matt and Pete weren’t far behind.

This was about as much of a track as there was for the early part, constantly crossing the stream did keep feet cool and gave ample opportunity for soaking clothes as the day heated.

Most of the time, the next pole could be seen – but many times it was just guessing the best way through the tussock.

Needless to say, there was a lot of carrying (actually it was mostly carrying for hours) and I was still pleased with how having transferred weight to my backpack was working for me.

The creek valley narrowed, and got rockier; we kept close to the stream through the guts of it.

Sometimes there was a bit of scrambling to be done, always fun with a bike.

Sometimes (regularly) I had a rest – especially when the surface started looking like this.

Times like this it was a toss up between the big tussocks and not being able to see the uneven surface below (by now, both lower legs and ankles were very tight and sore – manageable but noticeable) or big rocks that moved more than one would expect.

About halfway up, looking back at progress and definitely not looking at the gradient pitching up ahead.

Climbing a bit more steeply, I could finally see Matt, Andy and Olly picking their paths up.

Wasn’t all toil on another gorgeous and still day in the mountains. Again, I could have been at my desk…

It flattened out a little before the final push to the saddle. The best path to take became even less obvious.
Fascinatingly, the flora changed again.

Almost there, the last little bit of foliage.

Not far now!

Made it! Lake Tekapo beyond.

Again, I’m not able to convey just what that was like – certainly tough, but achievable and satisfying to get up and see some wonderful sights on a glorious day. Five kilometres, six hundred metre elevation gain – four hours, that probably goes a long way to convey the slowness of it; I’m just glad it was another exceptionally pleasant day of weather. As the others were so close, I waited around to congratulate them and have a little company briefly (looking back, this was the day I spent the most time alone – but these guys were always pretty close, so it didn’t feel like it) – and rest.

Matt.

Andy.

Olly.

I don’t remember doing this at all, but there it is – my little bike in front of the Southern Alps.

The race route now took us away from the poled Te Araroa trail, and had us on a sketchy scramble as we sidled through a lot of large, chunky and sharp rocks beneath Beuzenberg Peak to pick up a trail down the ridge. When we could finally ride, it was fantastic – big views and great, rocky riding down and down.

Hard not to enjoy this.

Alas, it was not to last. In the only routing that I find inexplicable, instead of following the main trail down to, I assume, the gravel road that would later take us to Tekapo we dropped left off the ridge onto the hiking trail to Camp Stream Hut. Very quickly, the downhill through yet more increasingly large tussock became unrideable. After the climb up to Stag Saddle, not to mention Bullock Bow, it was a cruel twist. Oh, you want to ride downhill? Sorry.

Never mind, instead of hating life (and Brian!) it was far more beneficial to take a little mind reset and put myself back into hike-a-bike mode and accept it all as part of the challenge. Just another bit of this mad week to get done…

Camp Stream Hut, after which we dropped to the eponymous flowing water and bashed through the stream, walls of matagouri and more tussock.

Again, the cooling stream was a boon on a warm afternoon. Joining Coal River, we were not to stay valley bound for long. Suddenly this:

One of the steeper pieces of trail (as opposed to no trail), it seemed to have a tenuous grasp on the terrain – there wasn’t a lot of room between a person hauling a bike and peril.

Not quite nightmare material, it still looks plenty steep without being able to see the trail

That done, the trail finally started trending down – but it wasn’t particularly fast as it snaked around.

Eventually there was the much awaited proper-downhill to the gravel Lilybank Rd for a quick and easy fifteen kilometres into town. Only quarter to seven in the evening, I could quickly have some dinner and resupply for the next section. Alas, it had been another tiring, slow five kilometres per hour kind of day – the draw of the first shower in six days, washing clothes, having a wee bit more down time and the chance to chat to friends and family were too much. I got a room and set about cleaning me, my bike and my clothes; all the while preparing for the final five hundred kilometres of this adventure – knowing/hoping that the most challenging parts had been disposed of.

Was worth the wait, didn’t last long.

No frost this morning, but it certainly felt colder than the previous frosty night at Anderson Hut – I probably should have jumped a fence and slept in the trees. Unable to sleep, and hearing a bike roll out (one that wasn’t Olly’s, no idea who must have turned up in the night) I decamped and was rolling in the cold just after half-five. It took a little while to find some legs and warm on the undulating gravel road. Thankfully the easterly had died off overnight, as hoped and expected when choosing to camp early.

This was quite a nice section, even with some backcountry Hiltons that may have been warmer than the campground, and I enjoyed seeing the day dawn as I trundled through. Seeing a bike ahead, I was surprised to chase it down quickly given my sedate pace. It was Andy, smiling away – which is incredible considering he’d had a big crash off Cass Saddle and added to his already long list of mechanical woes. Additions included ripping a brake lever off, destroying his rear derailleur and burping his front tyre. I couldn’t believe that he was still riding his bike, but here he was – and doing it all with a big smile. The smile possibly from being still moving after all that; impressive.

Brief pause for a snack at Dog Box Corner, before the early morning traffic of school buses and trucks.

Three hours in and the big gravelled drop to the Rakaia River on the pleasingly-named Zig Zag Road, before the grovel up the other side.

Rakaia Valley.

Over the river to Mt Hutt Range.

Turning south off the highway, it was an easy twenty minute gradual downhill to Methven, the first town in three days – exciting! The bike shop (only one on the entire course) was right on a corner in the centre of town and there was an excellent cafe next door. I may have had two breakfasts, the first by myself while drying my sleeping kit on the sunny sidewalk in the centre of town. Other riders arrived; to our amazement, the bike shop had all the parts required (including some fairly niche ones) to fix Andy’s poor bike – and at a very reasonable price. With another long stretch between towns, I loaded up on food at the store and got a big lunch to go from the cafe before making to leave.

Mark, who I’d been half a day behind for most of the week, surprisingly was still in town (nursing a severely inflamed achilles it turned out) and managed to hobble down and see some of us for a bit. So a rare photo of me mid-race, looking surprisingly happy and good – if I do say so. Farewells bidden, it was off for the flat section of the Canterbury Plains in the heat of the day.

I must have had a lot of food, as backpack still in use for a long, hot road section.
Photo: Mark Watson (check out his TTW report for far better photos and conciseness).

While flat and not a particularly interesting landscape, it was just what I needed between two challenging two-day sections of the course – I quite enjoyed the respite of gentle riding through farmland on a mixture of gravel and seal, especially with little wind.

Crossing the Rangitata, I devoured my large lunch before turning north to head up the right bank for almost-sixty kilometres. Early afternoon now, it was certainly warming up. I wasn’t expecting any shops up here, but lo and behold a small cafe at Peel Forest; would have been silly not to stop for an ice cream and cold drink. By the time I got to the only hill of note in the road, it was a baking afternoon. There was at least a topdressing plane buzzing around for distraction. I was getting a bit low on water, so was pleased to see a big creek coming out of the only part of the hills that didn’t looked to be grazed – time to top up, and soak my shirt again.

Over that hill, it was back to the gentle and gradual ascent of the wide valley. Into the late afternoon, again the easterly really picked up – lovely to have a big tailwind for the last part of the road. I narrowly missed getting stuck behind a large traffic jam of the sheep variety and entered Mesopotamia Station about half-five – plenty of daylight left to get back into hiking, on what was shaping up to be a lovely warm evening (it was still very hot at this stage).

Southern Alps in the background.

Leaving the road, Ben McLeod Range behind.

Sharply climbing from the river flats and so warm still after a day in the sun, the extra energy required soon had even my shirt off (as well as helmet, gloves, hat) – a truly rare occasion, there certainly was no one around. Royal Hut seemed a bit much of a push, but I thought I could get to Felt Hut for the night – about twenty kilometres and nine hundred metres of climbing on rough farm tracks away.

With that settled in my mind and so much light remaining, there was no rush; looking around it was a tremendously beautiful evening, so still and warm with the light starting to draw in. Most of it I could have probably ridden, but I was more than happy to push through the deer farm soaking in the evening. Each further unfolding of the panorama both behind and below me, and in front and above me, was to be savoured.

Some shade for a brief moment, Sinclair Range behind.

The Ben McLeod Range continued to draw my attention, especially as the sun dipped lower.

Snake from a plane, Potts and Big Hill Ranges in the distance across the upper Rangitata.

The first and biggest section of climbing took a couple of hours, eventually it cooled enough as the shadows lengthened to reach me to start putting some layers on. I was still happy to walk, although I noticed a tweak in the lower outside of my left leg. This would soon spread to a tightening across the front of the ankle and upper foot. Walking became a little uncomfortable, but easily manageable. I particularly enjoyed seeing the terrain from the ground – after we’d got a good look at it from a few thousand feet on the way to the GSB.

Flattening out a bit on High Terrace.

Fun, fast descent to Moonlight Creek – and beyond.

Spot the airfield hut. My favourite range of the day keeps going and keeps giving.

Down at the airfield, ish.

A brief section of beech forest.

Out of the woods, the climb to Bullock Bow Saddle commenced. It was steep alright, but the Felt Hut turn-off was only a third of the way up – the rest could wait until the morning. The track was still rough, and this was about the only time I really noticed my recently dislocated shoulder in an adverse way. As I tired, my footing was not always found and while pushing the bike a slight jolt from stumbling on loose or large rocks would tweak my shoulder just a little – enough to remind me of its inherent instability, but nowhere near enough to tear it apart again. Just another little thing to be managed on this journey.

The last deer gate (there had been many) approached as the back boundary of the farm neared. Initially this gate was certain to be locked – getting a loaded bike over a two metre gate singlehandedly would be enough to worry about without the shoulder complication; but later course notes indicated there was a chance it would be unlocked for us. Mentally, I accepted that it would be locked and I’d spend some time getting gear and bike (in various pieces) over the fence; so it was a great relief to find no lock on it. Over a small spur, it was downhill to Felt Hut – I just had to find the correct track.

It was a bit more of a descent than I would really want to reverse in the morning, but I was pleased to get down to the hut just on sunset. A private hut, it was open for use and was a complete delight; the decades of mustering history were inscribed on the corrugated walls set in a clearing in a nice patch of bush, with a great stream running nearby. Refilling water bottles, I also took the chance to soak my aching lower legs for as long as I could tolerate the cold water. To my surprise, Olly arrived only twenty minutes after me; while I’d like to think he caught far more of the tailwind than I did up the Rangitata valley, he was definitely faster than me and able and willing to ride far more of what I walked. Still, I was by no means complaining as he soon had a fire roaring in the hut.

The earliest roll call of musterers I found was from the early sixties.

Having another early finish was quite the luxury (as was managing almost 200 km for the day) – pushing over Bullock Bow and onto Royal Hut may have been a bit much. Also, I got time to reflect on an absolutely majestical evening. The stillness and solitude on such a warm and beautiful evening was the highlight of the ride so far – those three hours more than made up for all the toil in the previous few days, it was amazing. It still remains my favourite part of the route, and I’d happily put in eight days of such effort again for anything as spectacular as that night. Toasty in the hut, I fell into the best sleep I had on the ride – even with Matt arriving at the hut at about one-thirty in the morning.

A harsh frost overnight froze our water, not to mention my shoes and socks I’d left drying by the fire – they certainly weren’t dry! But that didn’t stop Pete, I assume rather tiredly, purloining one of my soaked socks – and rather amusingly refusing to give it back as he didn’t want put another icy cold sock on! For some reason I thought it a good idea to carry Pete’s rejected sock on my seat bag, maybe I was tired too after the Dampier and a frigid night of little sleep. I happily put my waterproof socks on, which in wet icy shoes was a winner.

Guess which bike spent the night in the trees, comparatively warm.

After the big previous day and chilly start, it was a leisurely seven-thirty before I got away and immediately had to cross, confusingly, another Esk River. The morning was spent on farm tracks that increasingly grew to wide gravel roads. Generally it was undulating, with the odd dive down to cross a waterway and grovel back up onto the plateau. A beautiful morning, there was plenty to look at; the sun didn’t take too long to hit me and warm things a bit. I caught up to Andy and enjoyed riding with him for the rest of the morning. Carrying a lot of extra batteries and so on, he was trying to capture this long section on video for the official film (Rob couldn’t make it in here).

Leaving Anderson Hut.

Andy also seem besieged with odd mechanical problems. He’d cracked a carbon seat post the day before, but never mind – he was carrying a spare! The mind boggles. By now one of the rivets on his leather saddle was sitting a bit proud, causing some discomfit. As we were riding along chatting, taking photos and so on, Andy happened to look down and notice the quick-release lever on his rear axle was missing. Thankfully, the axle was firmly in place and in no danger of removing itself – the main problem this missing lever could cause would if the wheel had to removed for some reason, it did not need this for now.

Someone was having a laugh with a few of the appropriated road signs around.

It was a most enjoyable morning with some easier miles, actually being able to ride for a bit was a welcome change, and such views to soak in as we pedalled along. Reaching the Mt White Station buildings, there was extensive new construction happening – Andy saw his chance to ask some tradies for a file to smooth off that pesky rivet. I continued out of the farm alone, dropping down to the Poulter River and grovelling up the other side as it got a bit warmer.

Down to the Poutler.

Just a short section now to the short highway section, above the Waimakariri River it was exceedingly pleasant.

Shortly before the highway, the first trail angels (Sue and John, I think) were happened upon. Could hardly say no to a cuppa and some ginger slice before the few kilometres north to the Cass River. What was this here? Some sort of trail magic convention? A healthy gathering of faces familiar from the GSB were out in full support mode – Dan (preferring the term “trail wizard”), Nina and Katie (without question “trail angels” fitting better) – and had plenty of tasty treats on offer; I couldn’t help but wonder if there was some sort of competition in rider-feeding. I wasn’t complaining, any variety in my diet was welcome. I may have lingered too long, understandably I maintain, as both Olly and Jeff caught up and passed me. Guess I’d better head up the Cass River bed too… But not before jettisoning Pete’s sock (why was I carrying that?) and changing out of sweaty waterproof socks, unfortunate to be using one of my dry night-time socks – but at least I eventually remembered I had them.

Well fed, and buoyed by company both reminding me how mad and fortunate I was to be out here, the hike up the Cass River bed and then up and over the saddle was not too daunting. A baking afternoon, the short rideable section soon gave way to pushing and lifting the bike over the large river rocks and often the river itself. The cool water sweet relief on the feet, the habit of soaking one’s shirt and hat in the mountain water an effective heat management strategy – albeit with a second or two of shock putting a cold-soaked shirt back on. Again the stuffable backpack was deployed – filling this with my seatbag (all my sleeping kit), a full water bottle and a few other heavy items worked fantastically well for hike-a-bike by removing considerable mass from my bike and making it much easier for me to overcome gravity and the occasional awkwardness of lifting over obstacles.

Forward progress continued to be made with Olly and Jeff; it took us about an hour before we left the river to climb through more beautiful beech forest. Averaging a shade over ten percent, the hiking trail was frequently steeper – one particularly memorable part up a steep bank looked impassable, but there was an almost-as-difficult alternative at the top; that took some balance and effort. Cooler in the forest, I still found it a warm afternoon – there were frequent breaks, drinking from cold streams and much chat. I was happy making steady progress and seemed to have a far better time than most accounts of this section.

Shortly after Cass Saddle Hut (a wee hut, with a split stable door as a curiosity), the forest gave way to the tussock and the large avalanche/rock chutes came into view. It was great being up in the mountains and I enjoyed hearing about all the different tracks in the area – I don’t think just because it was a distraction from the one I was on! The trail mostly disappeared and it was back to lugging my bike through and over it; this only seemed a problem for me at that time, but still – forward progress on a wonderful day. Five o’clock had us at the saddle (three and half hours for that eleven kilometres), time for decent break to eat and enjoy the view.

Looking southwest from Cass Saddle.

The back (compared to the only other part I’ve visited) of the Craigieburn Range.

Northwest to the Black Range.

Over the saddle, the first two hundred metres of drop was unrideable – far too steep for me. No matter, after that it was pure bliss – what a downhill through beautiful native forest. Constantly engaging and so much fun to soak in, I was down at Hamilton Hut just after six. This had been suggested as a good overnight spot, but it was too early to stop for the night – even if a sudden wave of tiredness hit me (it had been a good, but clearly exhausting day). I paused for ten minutes to eat another tuna meal and chat to the hut maintenance crew, refuelled there was a little track left before getting to the Harper River.

Looking over Hamilton Creek, one can make out where the track is in the forest, Cass Saddle and the Craigieburns up there too.

The two hours down the Harper River were a complete drag/carry/wade/push. The 4WD track crossed the river dozens of times, each requiring a dismount (if one was fortunate enough to be riding) and it wasn’t always easy to see where to go – but downstream was often all that was needed. When not in the river, the track was often completely flooded in standing water – was a little warmer I guess than the river. Unsurprisingly, Olly caught up to me – he’d been delayed by a loose cassette.

Route finding at the confluence of the Avoca River proved a bit difficult with more matagouri and then bigger rocks to negotiate.

Still it was a gorgeous evening, it was nice to be in new country and I hadn’t been at work that day (“I’m not at work”, and “I chose to be here” being a oft-repeated mantras that week when things were a little less than rosy).

Finally off that river section, the town of Methven only sixty kilometres away was mildly tempting to get to. But the easterly was building again, I didn’t fancy a headwind – and there was a long no-camping stretch. After thirteen hours backing up on the previous day, I was happy to find (with a little effort) the Trustpower Campground and call it a day – we’d at least managed over a hundred kilometres! In bed shortly after dark, it was shaping to be another clear, cold night as I drifted to sleep satisfied with another TTW day of steady progress and no drama (sock theft aside!).