Somehow last year, I wangled my way onto the inaugural Sounds2Sounds bikepacking event start list. While I was very much looking forward to riding 1500 km down the South Island from Queen Charlotte Sound to Milford Sound, I didn’t put a lot of thought or time into planning my ride, figuring I’d get to the start with the usual gear and take it from there – I was even more anticipating touring the route with various friends at whatever pace they chose. Amongst summer adventures, helping family out and then deciding to move to Naseby for the winter (brrr) – which required finding somewhere to live, Sounds2Sounds was a ride in the back of my mind that would sort itself out.
Riding away from Blenheim Airport, I realised that for all my travel with a bike over fifteen years this was the first time I’d assembled a bike at an airport and just ridden away (having thoughtfully disposed of the cardboard box) – exciting! A flat and easy thirty-five kilometres in light Sunday afternoon traffic took me north to Havelock (not to Havelock North, which I’m far more familiar with). Finding the campground, there was enough time to pitch my tent, get supplies, cook dinner and come up with a plan for the few days before I started Sounds2Sounds. I’d do an overnighter north on the notoriously rugged Nydia Track (very much a tramping/hiking trail), camp just past the trail end and spend the following day exploring gravel roads around Pelorus Sound before returning to Havelock.
With only fifty kilometres to cover that Monday, albeit much at a slow pace, it was a leisurely start before quiet gravel roads took me to, across and alongside the Pelorus River and Sound to the trailhead on a still, sunny morning.
Over the Pelorus.
Warm-up, and forty percent of the distance, done in eighty minutes I thought the twenty-seven kilometres to the next road would take seven hours of at touring pace.
The first climb was more rideable than I was expecting, but still – forty minutes to gain two hundred metres over two kilometres is not rapid. Only just into the descent to Omahakie Stream I found West Coast friends, Nina and Rachel, on their last climb of the return from an overnighter – pity I was a day late, or I’d have had some good company. We stopped for a natter before all getting a move-on. The descent over all too soon, it was time to settle into the hike up to the highest point of the day – Kaiuma Saddle. It was a pleasant walk, and not nearly as bad as I’d been expecting – all the roots and rocks easily negotiable. There was no hurry and I just plodded away.
A rare glimpse of the terrain.
Down to Nydia Bay from Kaiuma Saddle. A good spot for lunch in the sun.
The descent was good technical fun, especially with a loaded rigid bike, and in half an hour I was down skirting the edge of Nydia Bay. The few dwellings in this isolated spot were interesting to see. There were even some people around – it seemed common to walk in one day and stay a couple of nights before completing the track; I had no such plan.
A brief detour down to the Nydia Campsite for no particular reason.
I settled into the last big climb for the day – 350 metres up to Nydia Saddle. It was pleasant enough going, and would have only taken an hour and a half, until I happened upon a large, recent treefall near the top. It completely covered the track, and the hillside was steep enough that attempting to go around it when alone was not a risk and effort I was willing to expend. Further investigation found I could just get under it. So close to the saddle and the end of the track it was worth a go.
There’s my bike back down the track, having just found I could get under the tree and all the foliage it had brought down with it.
Never before have I had to take all the bags off my bike to get past an obstacle.
Posting bags through the pinch point – getting to and from this point was enough effort across all the branches and vines.
Even with the bags off, my bike wouldn’t fit, nor could I manhandle it through. Amused by the absurdness of it and enjoying the challenge, off came the wheels and with sufficient trips back and forth I worked hard to wrestle the frame through (pedals and handlebars particularly adept at getting caught on vines and branches).
There was a way through there, unsure now how.
At last, forty minutes later, I was reassembling my bike and reattaching the bags – pleased that there was no damage. A few hundred metres to the saddle, it was time to rest and refuel – that had been a different kind of effort to the normal hike-a-bike. Recognising my tiredness, I resolved to take it easy on the final descent – also knowing that the last section was notorious for its rooty nature and requiring time off the bike.
Alas, not even a kilometre down the track I got my balance wrong on a slow rocky bit, put my right foot down and my momentum took me over the bank. Impacting my left side, but still going down the bank, a tumble whacked my right shoulder on a tree and out it came, again. The seventh time now, the dislocation came with the clear thought of “well, that changes the next few months – no Sounds2Sounds, no biking, moving house is going to be difficult, more physio…”. Otherwise only a little scraped up, it took some time and energy to get back up the steep bank to the track with my left arm only any use. Confirming my shoulder was out and not going back in, it was an easy decision to reach for my SPOT tracker.
I’d intended to bring my personal locator beacon on this trip, but someone wanted to follow my dot, so the SPOT it was. Not the best under the canopy of thick bush, but fortunately I’d crashed just before a slight opening in the trees – it looked the result of a long-ago slip. I was most pleased to see the lights flashing green, indicating that the device had found sufficient GPS satellites and my SOS had gotten out. The clearing also meant that I had a nice patch of sun to lie in – on the track with my arm hanging off the side hold a water bottle in an exceptionally hopeful bid for the muscles to tire and relax that I might relocate my arm. It didn’t work, but it was nice lying in the sun.
With the sun slipping away behind the trees, and along with it the warmth of the day, it was time to prepare for a possible night out on the track – I didn’t expect to see any hikers until at least mid-morning. Thankfully my bike stayed on the track, so I began the slow process of extracting my ground sheet, mattress, and sleeping bag. Mattress inflated, I slowly worked through the pain of any movement of my shoulder and arm, to get in my sleeping bag – remarkably tricky with one arm to use while the other shoots pain all around.
No sooner had I settled into my invalid’s cocoon that I heard the faintest trace of helicopter blades whipping through the air. Quickly, compared to getting in, I was back in the open air to try and spot the chopper and wave it down. As it got closer and the sound bounced around the hills, I eventually worked out it was on the other side of the ridge and out of my sight. Sigh. The noise faded as it disappeared somewhere. Slowly I again attempted to get in my sleeping bag. Having just done that over many minutes, the chopper came back.
This time it was on my side of the valley, down a bit and I could see it! But in this dense bush, the crew spotting me had the proverbial task – although I guess they’re well practiced. I set my helmet light to flashing and pointed it at the side of the helicopter. Eventually I was spotted, which was even more pleasing. I wouldn’t be spending a painful night alone on the track. Hovering over me for a bit it was draughty, then off it went (I later learnt to unload unnecessary weight in a nearby paddock) before returning.
The downwash so strong, all my sleeping equipment was in danger of blowing away down the track. Heck, I was in danger of blowing away; crouching and holding onto my gear continued for minutes. Not entirely comfortable, besides the obvious, in this position, after a time things calmed and went very quiet as off went the chopper. I stood and turned to find a paramedic, Neil, standing right behind me. His proximity was somewhat startling, but I was well-pleased to see him. All the standard questions ensued as he went about his assessment of the situation. Thankfully I had no other injuries (it wasn’t much of a fall really, just not a good one for a weakened shoulder) and was making sense – I think. With drugs soon into my left hand, the edge came off and a plan was made and enacted while we waited for the helicopter to return in half an hour. Curiously, the rescue had come from Wellington – not that far away really, but across on the North Island – as the local rescue helicopter was otherwise occupied.
In some ballooning, all-enveloping harness I’d be winched up with Neil, along with most of the luggage off my bike. Unfortunately my bike couldn’t come with, but I was happy for Neil to stash it off the side of the track – confident it’d not be found by the few people out here mid-week and cause more alarm. Back came the chopper and the downwash. I’m still deeply impressed with the whole winching process in such a small clearing in the bush – soon I was up in aircraft and we were off to retrieve that gear. In spite of the whole situation, I enjoyed the flight to Blenheim (chosen over Nelson as it required less fuel for the helicopter to return to base) getting a view of a part of New Zealand I’m relatively unfamiliar with.
But this is the only picture I managed to snap between being seen to medically, filling in details on a tablet and messaging loved ones (family having been contacted by rescue services, domestic and international, to check it wasn’t a false alarm understandably had a few questions).
Landing at Wairau Hospital, at least I could walk myself into the Emergency Department, where what I’d tried to do trackside was repeated – the bed was more comfortable as my arm hung off the side with weight taped to it. Familiar fun times sucking on the Entonox as various people tried and failed to relocate my arm. By now it had been out four or so hours and, predictably, it wasn’t going back in. Again, time for a general and it was, apparently, quickly back in. Much rejoicing, well, as much as possibly through the haze of the drugs wearing off. I guess five hours is better than the six it was out the previous time… I was pleased the relocation attempts weren’t as excruciatingly painful or numerous this time.
Photo taking really goes downhill when my right arm is out of service.
Onto another bed for observation and a Covid test (strange timing there, but priorities). I was slightly put out by a nurse suggesting I was about to be discharged into the night of an unfamiliar town to be left to my own devices. I rated chances of finding a motel near midnight on a Monday night in Blenheim as low to dismal; I might have just rolled out my sleeping kit again and slept under a tree on the hospital grounds… Thankfully the doctor decided I needed to be kept in “for observation” and found me a bed in a ward. Sometime after one in the morning I managed to get some sleep, pretty happy that my arm was back in place and I wasn’t out in the bush. Very thankful for the prompt, and somewhat exciting, rescue and the medical treatment.
Turns out I did know one person in Blenheim, Warren – whom I’d met briefly on the Six Corners Challenge, and was due to start Sounds2Sounds the same day as I had been. After a visit from the physio and another doctor, I was discharged mid-morning and Warren kindly picked me up and let me rest at his house for the day. The afternoon was enough to organise retrieval of my bike the following day, have some gear I’d left at the Havelock campground collected and delivered and me to stay with Warren’s mother for a few days while I worked out how to get home.
I was well looked after by Linda, amongst much bikepacking talk, at her place up the Taylor River valley. Pleasingly, this was on the Sounds2Sounds route, so I was able to see a lot of the riders go past – nice to see friends, even though I couldn’t ride. My shoulder was a bit stiffer than usual post-dislocation, and gave some unusual pains further down my arm – I assumed from the force used to relocate it. I settled into one-armed life again, trying not to use it too much – but still trying to help around the house a little. The rural setting was most pleasant for gently exploring, there was much time spent reading and sleeping too. Warren delivered my bike (it had been well hidden, taking Aaron almost as long to find it as it did to run in from the top of the Nydia Track), and it made sense for Linda to take it south when she went to collect Warren and Tosca from Milford Sound. It made even more sense for me to get a lift too and save the hassle of negotiating a flight south. So a week after my crash, I made it home – many thanks to all those that helped me.
As it was, I was only off the bike for four weeks as with some physio I quickly got back my full range of movement. Being in a sling only really lasted a couple of weeks; moving into an overly-cute rental cottage was manageable with help. Since then I’ve enjoyed settling into a little home, plenty of time with and helping out family, much mountain-biking from home on the finally-delivered and -assembled new mountain bike, casually helping a couple of short-staffed local businesses, getting enough firewood to survive comfortably a winter far colder than those of Napier, and, now that regular frosts have arrived, a lot of reading in front of a roaring fire. Somehow I even ended up on a podcast, in a manner of speaking.
I was most surprised, impressed and delighted when this caricature of me dropped into my podcast feed. Credit: Jonny Simpson.
With such cover art and my writing here, there’d be little chance of guessing that the episode has almost nothing to do with riding bikes! Except to say, it’s my story – so of course bikes aren’t far away. Noticing a New Zealand-sized gap in personal finance media, Ruth, and Jonny, set about rectifying that with an excellent website and podcast. It’s quite a resource and has certainly and ably filled that gap over the last six years. Somewhere along my own path to not having to work for a living (not a fan of “retired”), we corresponded a bit and sometimes I’d drop in for a tea and chat when I was passing through town. That’s a bit more often now that I’m only an hour down the road.
On one such visit recently, I was mildly taken aback (should have seen it coming) when asked if I’d share my story for the podcast. As the whole idea of the podcast is to share people’s money stories and get more conversation about such things going, I could but say an honoured-yes. Quite concerned that my story isn’t really that interesting compared to the others I’ve heard, it turned out I’m more than happy to talk personal finance for three hours – just as well Ruth could relate it far more concisely. So if such things interest you, the episode is here, check out thehappysaver.com or contact me – I’ll happily chat about my own experiences.
Nor did stopping for the occasional photo of little note.
The track on the other side of the stream looks a far kinder gradient.
Looking over to Doughboy Saddle – not even 900 m, Andrew definitely going easier on us this trip.
Thanks Jo for the almost-group photo.
Such a smooth descent for a farm track! Still, good fun with the occasional creek crossing in the corners. Also Jo’s photo.
Down to the Opuha Valley, with the Sherwood Range sitting in front of the Two Thumbs.
Not looking too weighed down by bags.
Another long descent on farm track. Looking back to Doughboy Saddle, even getting sunny now; we came down the track on the left.
Rob conquering another climb as Devil’s Peak watches over us.
Andrew looking pleased – perhaps with another plan coming together, the weather coming around to his usual standards, or just another long downhill ahead.
Bryan also pleased – perhaps that hut was not overnight accommodation for eight bikepackers.
Another saddle gained, the last sizeable one through Four Peaks Station.
Looking green suddenly for the descent to the Opuha.
Over a shed to the other side of Mt Peel – to that usually seen, that is.
Decent old woolshed too.
Woolshed photos for Andrew Watts.
No danger of a calorie deficit on this trip. Another of Jo’s photos.
Another almost-group photo, this time by Andrew as he amused us with creative ways of failing to get the camera to sit on the gate.
First up – avoiding wet feet where the track had washed out with a little hike-a-bike. Bryan’s photo.
Not raining yet, but damp still.
I took a photo of the hut. But this is Bryan’s photo.
Here is that photo, as the cloud continues to come and go.
Bryan on the descent back to the hut.
On the way to reclaim my bags from the hut. Another of Bryan’s pictures.
I watched from afar at the so-called Gates of Orari as much of the group attempted this particularly tough little ascent. 
Almost there! Another of Bryan’s photos.
An enjoyable descent (see further below for video of me having too much fun on the bike I insisted on dragging around) to the flats, before more testing little climbs.
A clear start to the day, but it hadn’t been cold overnight.
Hut getting smaller; Rachel’s photo.
Bit of a switchback, waiting patiently for the sun to strike the corrugated iron of the hut. Alas, as slow as progress was hiking up the hill – it wasn’t slow enough.
After gaining two hundred metres in half an hour, the Cromwell Cardrona Pack Track became old 4WD track and surprisingly rideable.
Well, there was still the odd steep part. The ridge behind, part of the previous day’s route (left to right).
We started to get glimpses of snowy peaks in the distance.
Andy in his element setting up for more videoing. Nevis Valley way off south.
Mt Aspiring making an appearance.
The climbing pretty much done now, we had quite a descent to look forward to. About 1400 metres, wahoo!
But first, someone insisted (ahem, me) that we should walk up to the highest point of our trip – Mt Dottrel – as, when would we be back?
A steady climb to the flat top, the first real bit of downhill we’d done that day behind. 
I think it was worth it. Cromwell down below with Lake Dunstan and the Cairnmuir Mountains behind. Old Man Range on far right, we’d go over that low point between the two later in the day
Mt Dottrel at rear.
The southern end of the Dunstan Range – must get up there.
A rut! Quite a surprise. Rachel’s photo.
Even this newspaper clipping was dragged out – not the last time we were told that day of Rambo’s demise. After 
There was much enjoyment to be had on the Pisas picking out places the three of us had ridden together recently. Here the Chain Hills, Dunstan Saddle, the Lauder Conservation Area were visible in front of the St Bathans Range. Still more places to return to or explore for the first time.
Into the farm we were supposed to be on, finally!
Occasionally spaniard plants aren’t making me yelp in sudden pain, the spikes seen indicate why they often do.
Twas a fun and fast descent.
Rachel’s photo.
Up the Kawarau Gorge; soon, I’m told, there will be a cycle trail down there to connect to Queenstown. That’ll be cycle trail all the way from Middlemarch! Will just remain to connect it to Dunedin.
Getting lower. Over to Bannockburn, the start of the Nevis Road, the Old Man and the afternoon’s route over Hawksburn Rd.
Picking out the sheep tracks that I “ran” up and down on last year’s Mt Difficulty trail half-marathon. What was I thinking?
You wouldn’t pick it, but this photo is for the slight view of the Pisa Range and where we were just an hour or so before. Quite satisfying sitting eating looking at that, exclaiming “we were up there”! It was fantastic after all.
Eating, the real reason we go bikepacking. Also notable for Andy’s remarkably clean shirt (Clean Shirt!), bought just for being vaguely presentable in Queenstown. Rachel’s photo.
Hawksburn Farm in the sun, Old Man Range behind.
Some of the last climbing for the trip, relatively easy going.
Undulating across the saddle, there’s the end of the Dunstan Range again. One day…
Finally, one last, steep downhill back to Mark’s place.
Ok, one food picture. Not my usual breakfast while bikepacking, or any time at all. Delicious.
Certainly was worth waiting for skies like this.
Over the old Shotover bridge, past a head on the river flats, and looking up to Coronet Peak.
Back towards Queenstown with a little more elevation.
I spied a turnout and wanted a better view, letting the others get ahead. Down to Gibbston.
Strangely empty road, apart from the two bikes that I now had to chase down.
Rachel’s photo.
Mt Cardrona, not much of a ski field at this time.
Spaniards smell remarkably like pine cleaner. Who knew? Well, we did as Andy had been telling of it on the previous trip. Rachel’s photo.
Things kicked again, but more rideable than I thought.
Towards Quartz Knoll, the highest point of the day, as we approached Mt Allen.
Somewhere over there, hidden, is the hut we were looking for.
The push up to Quartz Knoll, looking back to Mt Allen. Nevis Valley, from the first day of the trip, way off in the background.
Standing on Quartz Knoll looking southwest-ish to Rock Peak (left, midground). The Airways installation to help passenger jets land at Queenstown visible. 
East to the southern part of the Pisa Range, it would keep until the following day.
Time for the Type I fun to start – fast, rocky, open descents.
More climbing, of course, on typical ridge riding.
Plenty more ridge to go before dropping to Tuohys Gully. The roads to and of Snow Farm and the Southern Hemisphere Proving Grounds (testing of pre-production cars in winter) visible on right.
There’s a hut down there! Not ours though, although that track at the back is also for the following day’s climb.
Aha, there’s our hut! One last fun descent and even a stream crossing.
Adorable wee hut, and we had it all to ourselves.