The West Coast Wilderness Trail: Day 4

Kumara’s goldrush might have ended in the late 19^th century, but on our last night Kumara’s Theatre Royal Hotel was still channeling that vibe. The Wildfood Festival was in full swing, and the hotel’s bar and dining room were heaving. Lynne and I were invited to share a table with some other Aussie cyclists and, getting into the wildfood theme, we ordered the venison. (It was a good choice!)

[Once used for digging gold] 

As we set off in the morning we found more reminders of the goldrush days. Some old mining relics had been set on fence posts along the trail. A short while later we crossed a large suspension bridge over the aptly named Chasm. Beyond the chasm was the rushing blue of the Taramakau River, which we would have to cross on our way to the finish at Greymouth.

[View from Chasm to Taramakau River] 

And now we followed the Greymouth Kumara Tramway, benefitting again from the work of the old miners. Horse drawn trams once carried gold ore along this route to the port in Greymouth. It made for a pleasant gradient, initially through a beautiful patch of dark podocarp forest. To me one of the surprises of the West Coast Wilderness Trail had been the amount of native forest we’d encountered. In so many other parts of New Zealand it is cleared, gone forever.

[Riding a forested section of the Greymouth Kumara Tramway] 

Too soon we broke out of forest and rode into bright sunshine. The trail ran now through farmland – and parallel to the state highway – and we had to farewell the forest for good. We knew we’d soon need to cross both the highway and the river, so we were pleasantly surprised to find a new looping underpass, purpose-built to avoid a potentially dangerous road crossing. The trail then immediately swung onto the bridge across the wide, braided Taramakau.

[Sea wrack on the beach south of Greymouth] 

Our route was flattening out as it ran north along the wild coastline. Occasionally we glimpsed long stretches of shingle beach, storm wrack littering the high tide line. The intense rainfall in the mountains to the east can wash vast amounts of sediment down these rivers and into the Tasman Sea. And with it comes a huge volume of shattered timber from the forests, so much that rivers and beaches here are scoured for useable craft wood. Although we were reeling Greymouth in bit by bit, Lynne and I weren’t ready to finish. So we stretched both time and our legs on the beach, inspecting some of the storm wrack for ourselves. It was staggering to see the size of some tree trunks that had made the journey from hill to river to sea.

[Somehow this tree washed all the way down to this beach] 

It was a Saturday, and the west coast was busy about its weekend business. The salty air mixed with the tang of freshly mown grass as we rode through the increasingly built-up area. The trail itself was busier too, with a mix of day riders and full-trail cyclists. We recognised plenty of the latter, including a group from the North Island. We saw that a pedal had come off one of their bikes, rendering it almost impossible to ride. Ingeniously they’d rigged up a tow-rope, so the rider on the stricken bike could be towed by another bike the final few kilometres into Greymouth, all the while steering and braking as required.

Greymouth looked close now, the cranes and warehouses of the port in plain view. But looks can be deceptive. The trail markers pointed us up the seaward side of the port, only to take us to a dead-end at the southern breakwater. Puzzled, we followed the now-sparse signs nearly 180 degrees back, and then via a strangely convoluted route through the port to the landward side of town. If it had been a hard day’s ride, we might have been bothered by this seeming detour. But today, at the end of 4 great days of riding, it felt like a lap of honour.

As we finally rode up Mawhera Quay, alongside the Grey River, and into the town proper, a quick look around told us we’d finished. All that was left to do was to exchange congratulatory hugs, and find our way to Monteith’s Brewery for the traditional end-of-ride group lunch. And how would we get the 1.5km to the brewery? We’d ride, of course. What’s an extra 1500m between friends.

[The end! photo by Lynne Grant] 

Post Script. The coronavirus “clouds” that had been forming during our trip (early March, 2020), became much more like an imminent storm in the days that followed. We ended up cutting short our New Zealand trip, and flying home to Tasmania while we still could. We hadn’t been back long when we heard the sad and sobering news that New Zealand’s first Covid-19 related death had occurred in Greymouth. The world had changed!

The West Coast Wilderness Trail: Day 3

On a clear, blue-skied morning, we travelled east up the road from Hokitika towards the high hills – for the third time. This toing and froing was necessary to get us from Scenic Waterways back to Cowboy Paradise, where we would’ve been staying, had we booked earlier.

We’d had a superb night at Scenic Waterways, so this geographical hiccup had worked out fine. Our bikes appeared to have had a quieter night, and were still leaning where we’d left them on the hitching rail outside the Cowboy Paradise saloon. Without ceremony we donned our helmets, hopped onto our saddles, and cycled off.

[Ready to leave Cowboy Paradise] 

Whenever we’re told “it’s all downhill from here”, we’ve learned to take it with a grain of salt. Someone had said it about today’s ride, but our scepticism proved justified. Certainly we did start with a small descent through rich, dark rainforest. In places tall, thick-trunked rimu overtowered everything. But after we’d crossed the long suspension bridge over the deep, dark slot that held McPherson Creek, we began a steep, winding, leg-burning climb. A couple of times I had to shift down to “granny gear” and pedal furiously. At least the forest held its composure.

[Podocarp Rainforest] 

We’d also been briefed about a couple of fords that we’d meet this morning. Following rain these stream crossings are sometimes impassable, but after the fine weather we’d been having, the worst the fords could do was dampen our shoes as we slooshed across. We continued climbing across a high terrace. We learned later that we were riding along the line of the Great Alpine Fault, a vast zone of collision between the Pacific and Indo-Australian tectonic plates. It’s strange that you can sometimes be in the company of something dramatic; something literally earth shattering; something that’s even visible from space, and yet remain completely unaware of it. Given that the fault’s last major rupture occurred over 300 years ago, we probably didn’t have a lot to worry about. Still, ignorance is bliss.

Less blissful was the continuous uphill gradient, now on a gravel road rather than a narrow track. With hard work and persistence we finally reached Kawhaka Pass, at 317m the highest point of the whole trail. There we caught our breath alongside a handful of other cyclists also pausing at the top. We realised we were seeing a lot more cyclists this morning; many heading in the opposite direction, some with panniers and full overnight touring gear. We learned that these were participants in the biennial Tour Aotearoa Brevet event. This involves cyclists – most of them New Zealanders – riding the entire north-south length of their country over no more than 30 days. To keep from overcrowding, they had been leaving in waves of 100 from the middle of February until early March, and we were now meeting a few ripples from those waves.

[We're all smiles at the top!] 

We chatted with two North Island women who were on the tour. They told us they were expecting their husbands, who’d started riding a week after them, to join them sometime today. We took a photo for them, congratulated them on their guts, and wished them well. As they pedalled off we suddenly felt wimpy comparing our 4 day, 135km tour with their 30 day, 3000km marathon. On the long, steep descent from Kawhaka Pass, we marvelled afresh at the stamina of anyone riding up this climb with fully-laden bikes. What for us was an exhilarating whoosh through sun-dappled forest, would for them have been the struggle of Sisyphus. Before we reached the bottom, we’d passed several cyclists on their way up. Even as they were basting in their own sweat, most still managed a cheerful wave or a “G’day”. You’ve gotta love the Kiwis!

[Enjoying the downhill run] 

One of the other delights of being in remoter parts of New Zealand is the capacity of the locals to surprise you. One such was the hot tea on offer – for a small sum – at the campsite known as Trappers Rest. The host wasn’t at home, but a large tent was set up in a broad clearing next to our cycle trail. Around this was a scattering of camp chairs, and a sign offering camping (with hot shower) and, crucially, hot tea. Atop the almost extinguished fire sat a small urn with just a skerrick of hot water left in it. Not to be denied a cuppa, Lynne refilled the urn and we refreshed the fire. The wait gave us a good excuse to sit a while, and catch up with some of the cyclists we now knew by name.

[Tea break at Trappers Rest]

Our tea downed, we continued onto what we expected would be a straightforward, mostly downhill section. At one point the track met some flood damage, and jagged unexpectedly left to a makeshift bridge across a stream. But confusingly there was also a clear track straight ahead, going sharply up a steep hill. Lynne was in front of me here, and on seeing this, she had accelerated hard to get up the hill. She’d missed a small “private property” sign, so I called out, whistled, and eventually shouted, before she finally heard me. I signalled her back down, pointing to the rather cryptic orange trail marker and the bridge we had to cross.

Once across we stopped to talk to three cyclists we’d met earlier. They were looking quite puzzled, and asked us if we’d seen Cathy, the fourth of their party. We hadn’t, but we conjectured that she might have done the same thing as Lynne, and then kept going. (We later learned that was the case, and that she’d only rejoined her group nearly two hours later via a very convoluted route.) At the time we said we’d keep an eye out for her, and rode off along the track beside a water race.

[Cycling beside the water race] 

The going was now becoming flatter and more open. But we were also growing wearier. I’d been telling myself whenever we came to an uphill section, that my legs were my engine. I simply had to change down a gear or two, and push hard to keep up with Lynne on her e-bike. Perhaps I’d been too convincing, and had been pushing a little hard, because now my legs burned on every slight uphill. When we got to a wide wetland our trail followed a boardwalk. I welcomed the chance to stop and refuel. We even had a chocolate bar.

[Looking across Lake Kapitea to the Southern Alps] 

We were now down in lowland country, though the views across the hydro-electric reservoir, Lake Kapitea, showed us that the Alps were not that far behind us. Eventually, after nearly 35km of riding, we arrived into the town of Kumara, where we would spend the night in the ambiguously named Theatre Royal Hotel. Gladly we didn’t have to put on any performance to get a drink at the bar. After a day that was anything but “all downhill”, we were very glad of that.

[Time for a beer: our hotel in Kumara]