Alps2Ocean 2: Cracker of a Day

We started our 2^nd day with a substantial breakfast, fuel for the 50km day ahead. A quick walk outside told us we should supplement that inner fuel with a layer of warmer outer clothing. A stiff breeze was blowing, it was colder than yesterday, and showers were forecast.

[Set to start day 2 near Lake Pukaki] 

Then we clambered back onboard Morrison (our van). A certain amount of van shuttling was necessary some days, as our accommodation wasn’t always at the end of the day’s ride. So today that snakes and ladders element of the trip saw us snaking from Twizel back to Lake Pukaki. There we got back on our bikes in a stark gravelled area, a remnant from the vast hydro-electric development that has strongly marked this region.

The Pukaki Flats section was a pleasant, easy off-road ride, and it felt good to be riding again. That ladder soon took us back to Twizel, where Joh had arranged to meet us for coffee. Apparently Twizel was to be a temporary hydro-electric construction village, but it defied its use-by date. It has now become a thriving tourism hub, not least because of cycling. The coffee shop had a dozen bikes parked outside, and more lycra-clad patrons inside than most city coffee spots on a Sunday.

[Lynne, Tim and Dave nearing Twizel] 

After Twizel we rode a longish backroad section towards the Ohau Canal. Our beautiful backdrop was the Ben Ohau mountains, a range that stretches south and west from near Aoraki/Mt Cook. If we sometimes felt we were riding through a filmset, there was a moment for me where that “film” switched from The Lord of the Rings to Footrot Flats. Having stopped for a photograph, I was riding alone as I came towards a man, his young daughter and a dog. As I got closer I could see – and hear – that the man was showing the pig-tailed girl how to handle a border collie dog. He whistled loudly and called out to the dog in a gruff, commanding voice. As I puffed up alongside, the broad-hatted gentleman abruptly paused from his work, tilted his head towards me, and said through a broad grin “Gudday. Cracker of a day!”. I puffed out a “Sure is” in response, then cycled on, smiling as I left Wal, The Dog and Pongo to their work.

[A contented merino ram outside Twizel] 

The cracker of a day changed on the long, flat section beside the Ohau Canal. It should have been easy, but soon showers were battering us, and the wind became strong and gusty. The climatologist in me debated whether this was a katabatic wind draining cold air off the range, or merely a strengthening of the underlying westerly. I came to two conclusions. Firstly, whatever you called it, it was bloody hard work to cycle into! And secondly I was now officially envious of Lynne, who was out of sight ahead of us thanks to her e-bike.

[Tim riding beside the Ohau Canal] 

Eventually the squalls lessened in the lee of Ben Ohau, and we re-gathered near the Ohau Weir for lunch. The winding Lake Ohau Track took us around the shores of the beautiful lake, eliciting a few “woo hoo”s from Tim. He was clearly in his mountain biking element on this single track section. And just as patently, I was in landscape heaven. Across the startlingly blue lake skeins of loose scree slid the flanks of Ben Ohau, some right to the lake shore.

[Panorama of Lake Ohau - click to enlarge] 

We had a brief and windy afternoon tea stop beside the lake. Wind squalls were kicking up waves, which crashed noisily onto the shingle shore. We huddled behind Morrison for a while, then resumed riding, this time on the blacktop. We had “only” 10km more to ride to our overnight stop at Lake Ohau Lodge, and the countryside around us was stunning. But it proved hard going, with the wind still tearing straight into our faces.

[Wind squalls, showers and waves, Lake Ohau] 

We had one final steep push from the lakeshore up to Lake Ohau Lodge, which had a commanding position overlooking the lake and the Ben Ohau Range behind that. It was a while before I fully appreciated its position. A cold drink and a hot shower were my immediate needs.

[Lynne waits for me on the winding road to Lake Ohau Lodge] 

Walking into the lodge was like entering a mid-20^th century time capsule. The pine-lined walls were covered in black and white ski photos, trophies and huge maps. Dozen of guests gathered around a generous fireplace, lounged on old sofas, or chatted around the bar. That evening the hospitality extended to a wonderfully reviving meal served by happy and engaging staff. Our cracker of a day had become a cracker of a night.

Black and White and Heard All Over

[spot the locust hiding in the correa bush - you may need to click on the image to enlarge it. Photo by Lynne Grant.]

[back to the birds, this time exploring feast and famine in the avian world]

If there aren’t enough things in this world to break your heart, try paying close attention to the call of the Australian magpie (Cracticus tibicen). Perhaps because they are only occasional visitors to my bushland, I can never get enough of their superbly yearning voice. Bird authorities variously describe it as flute-like, warbling, piping, carolling and chorusing. Their species name tibicen reflects this, being Latin for piper or flute-player.

Different subspecies of magpie are found in every state and territory, making them one of our most widely recognised birds – both visually and aurally. Magpies were also introduced to New Zealand in the 1860s and now, despite concerns about their ecological effects, they have become established in the popular imagination over there. Murray Ball’s hugely successful Kiwi cartoon series Footrot Flats has an Australian magpie character named Pew. Also famous across the Tasman is NZ poet Denis Glover’s widely known poem The Magpies. Its chorus captures some of the bird’s melodic dexterity.

And Quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle/The magpies said

An Easter visit to Bendigo in central Victoria reacquainted me with the glories of the magpie’s call. After a good spring and summer, with drought-breaking rains and milder temperatures, everything in the iron-bark country seemed to be sighing contentedly, including the magpies. Their morning and evening calling was one of the highlights of the early part of Easter.

Less happily the spring and summer conditions had also encouraged the proliferation of plague locusts (Chortoicetes terminifera). A wave of locusts hit central Victoria over Easter. Our daily walks soon took on a strangely percussive character, as masses of locusts clicked and flicked and fluttered around us as we strolled by. Cars had less chance of avoiding this invertebrate Mexican wave, and the roads – and car grills – were spattered with locust gore.

But where there’s a surplus of food there will be diners. We once lived through a locust plague in central-western NSW, and found that our chickens were very happy to free-range on the hoppers. We learned the hard way that locusts taint eggs, making them extremely unappealing. But around Bendigo the job was done just as effectively – and with no culinary after-effects – by squadrons of magpies.

Actually the collective name for them is a tiding of magpies, and for the magpies these were good tidings. Everywhere the locusts hopped and flew, they were followed by magpies, as well as blackbirds, Indian mynahs and many other species, introduced or otherwise. The birds grew visibly fat and wobbly, expending little effort to gain a day’s worth of food in minutes.

By the end of Easter we noticed one strange side effect. There was a distinct reduction in the amount of audible Magpie song. It was as if the maggies had consumed a huge Christmas feast: far too much food and drink to expect them to sing any more carols. It was a wonder some of them could still fly.