The West Coast Wilderness Trail: Day 2

A little knowledge may be a dangerous thing, but a little local knowledge can be marvellous. Gavin and Cindy, our hosts at Scenic Waterways near Hokitika, had a full house, and we were fortunate they could squeeze us into some extra accommodation for the first night. The trade-off, since their dining room was full, was that we had to fend for ourselves for dinner. Given we were 5km out of the town of Hokitika, lacked supplies or a kitchen, and had “tender derrières” that weren’t keen to ride again so soon, that could have been a problem.

[An improvised town sign at Hokitika] 

That’s where local knowledge and true Kiwi hospitality came into their own. Gavin threw us the keys to their little Honda, and Cindy – hearing of our fondness for Thai food – tipped us off to a little Thai food van on the beachfront at Hokitika. Problem solved.

[A nice idea, but NO ... we didn't stop] 

The next day promised to be longish – more than 40km – and with some steep climbs. The ride into Hokitika was gentle, and allowed us to buy lunch in town before heading for the hills. We followed the Hokitika River east as far as the small settlement of Kaniere. At first it was only slightly uphill, partly on a cycle path and partly on back roads. But before long we started to climb towards Lake Kaniere.

[Heading for the hills from the Hokitika River] 

I began to find the climb tough, and not for the first time doubted the wisdom of not getting an e-bike. At one stage we turned a corner to see a long climb ahead, and I let out a little groan. But almost immediately that turned to a whew of relief. An orange West Coast Wilderness Trail marker pointed off the road, onto a merely undulating track. And that soon turned into the loveliest of forested trails. Yes, it was uphill, but it wove delightfully through the deep shade, and beside burbling water races that had been used for both gold mining and power generation.

[Beside a water race approaching Lake Kaniere] 

We finally broke out of the forest at Lake Kaniere. A wide, sparkling blue lake with a superb backdrop of high mountains stood before us, inviting us to linger for lunch. Unfortunately the sandflies had other plans, so after a brief, ambulatory, hand-swishing style of lunch, we saddled up again. And off we pedalled, uphill again, for a few more kilometres.

[The view across beautiful Lake Kaniere] 

[Rata in bloom near Lake Kaniere] 

And then the fun began. We had reached the steepest part of our ride yet, but the good news was that it was downhill. I took the opportunity to overtake Lynne, and hooned down the long dirt road towards the Arahura Valley. I’m not entirely sure I didn’t whoop out loud; although that might have changed to a shriek when I suddenly reached a bit of road still under repair.  

The afternoon had grown warm and sunny, and it felt so good to be nearing the higher hills and mountains – part of the Southern Alps – at the head of the wide, blue, braided Arahura River. For me this was already a paradise of sorts, with high mountains, including the Newton Range, looming above. But ahead was Cowboy Paradise, the accommodation property we would have stayed at had we booked earlier. Instead the arrangement was we’d be met at the property gate at around 3:30pm, and be shuttled back to Scenic Waterways for a second night.

[The rushing, blue Arahura River] 

As we rode across the bridge over the wide Arahura we realised there was a fly in the ointment: a sandfly to be exact. We would have to wait in the open for nearly 90 minutes before our pick-up, and the sandflies were already promising to make that wait seem an eternity. As we pondered this, a ute pulled up, and its driver asked us what we were up to. On a hunch I asked if his name was Mike (the owner of Cowboy Paradise), and he gave an evasive “it depends who’s asking” sort of answer, with a slight lift of of amusement at the edge of his mouth. That was a yes, then. He quickly figured out our dilemma, and told us to come up to Cowboy Paradise, and he’d arrange getting us picked up from there. “Better than being sandfly bait, plus it’s a great ride: half an hour max.”

He drove off, and we quickly decided to take his advice. And he was right on the first two counts, if a little optimistic on the timing. Cowboy Paradise sits high on some partly cleared hills, surrounded by podocarp rainforest. Reaching it via a dozen sharp switchbacks took every ounce of my energy at the end of a long day. But finally we rode into a clearing edged with a cluster of buildings that really did give it a wild west look. Best of all, we were able to get a beer in the saloon while we waited for the Cycle Journeys shuttle-bus.

[Approaching Cowboy Paradise] 

Once we’d been picked up, we were driven back over the route we’d just ridden, stopping a few times to pick up some other stray riders. We finally got back to Scenic Waterways just in time to go on a boat cruise that Gavin runs on Lake Mahinapua. We shared the cruise – and later dinner – with a whole new crop of guests, most of whom were cycling a day behind us.

[Scene from the boat cruise on Lake Mahinapua] 

The lake cruise and dinner showed us what wonders we’d missed the night before, and felt almost the perfect conclusion to our long day. But perfection came when Cindy showed us to the upgraded accommodation we would have for our second night. A large en-suite cabin might not have been a necessity for this pair of tired cyclists, but a blessing it certainly was.

West Coast Wilderness Trail: Day 1

There was a storm brewing, metaphorically at least. It seemed as though clouds were building on the horizon, lightning flickering in the distance. But we were on holidays at the western extremity of New Zealand’s South Island, and that storm was surely a long way off.

Now, just a few weeks later, I already think of those as the rosy days, the days of innocence: BC – before coronavirus. Back then our major concerns were the weather, and whether we’d be able to complete the 135km bike ride over four days.

[Stream rushing through flax, West Coast NZ] 

We were innocent in other ways too, having left our booking of the West Coast Wilderness Trail to the last minute. And that had run us into an accommodation log jam, with the popular Hokitika Wildfoods Festival happening at the same time. Fortunately, perhaps typically, the good people at Cycle Journeys found a way around our problem. And so we left Christchurch, taking the marvellously slow Tranzalpine train across the South Island to the notably wet west coast town of Greymouth.

On cue, as we arrived, it started raining. It pelted down all night, our trepidation rising with the water level. But somehow in the morning the sun shone, and as we sat on the shuttle taking us to Hokitika for a briefing and bike fitting, the west coast sparkled innocently.

A few weeks before we had discussed whether we’d both get e-bikes, or whether Lynne would hire one, and I’d go on a standard bike. Our late booking had made the decision for us, as by then there was only one e-bike available, and that was Lynne’s size. So she would go electric, and I would go “acoustic”, as we came to call the unplugged version.

[The start at Ross: 135km to go!] 

The trail starts in the small town of Ross, famous for its gold mining … and for its sandflies. Even as the two of us posed for a photo beneath the starting arch, those tiny adversaries inflicted their first bites. That propelled us into our saddles and off on the ride. Or at least as far as the first coffee shop, where we joined several other cyclists getting their late morning caffeine fix.

As well as mining gold, the west coast town had been a logging stronghold, and the cycle trail soon began to follow the line of an old forestry railway along the flat coastline between Ross and Hokitika. It was a gentle introduction, and with the easy trail passing through flax-rich bush, our legs quickly found that easy propulsive rhythm that is one of cycling’s soft thrills.

[Reminders of timber-getting near Ross] 

My thrills were perhaps harder-earned than Lynne’s, as I was learning that my leg engine was no match for her battery-boosted one. So as the kilometres went by, we stopped at some of the many bridges for both views and to give me a breather. We were heading towards Hokitika, but first, once we’d come to the end of the old rail line, we had to cross a road and ride to our lunch stop at the café beside the West Coast Treetop Walk.

[Lynne waits for me on the Totara River bridge] 

[The West Coast Treetop Walk] 

It was after lunch, as we were taking the lovely treetop walk, that part of the stormy outside world broke in. Lynne received a text from home telling her that a beautiful friend of ours had died. It wasn’t completely unexpected, as she had a rare and untreatable form of cancer. But foreknowledge of someone’s impending death does little to cushion the blow. High in the canopy of a stunning podocarp rainforest, we shed tears for our friend, and then prayed for her family. She was a vibrant, blithe spirited woman, gone far too soon at just 50. Afterwards we completed the walk at a slower pace. The elevated metal walkway rocked gently beneath us, adding to the sense that our world had become unsteady.

[In the forest near Lake Mahinapua] 

The rest of the first day’s ride offered us some balm, going partly through beautifully deep green rainforest. After just over 30km of riding, just a few km short of Hokitika, we rode up the hill to our accommodation at Scenic Waterways. We were met by our smiling host Gavin, who offered us a cold home-made lemon drink. Even though our day had been more emotionally than physically demanding, this hospitality was hugely appreciated.

[A tanin-stained stream near Scenic Waterways] 

Finding Fangorn

I’ve long been a Tolkien tragic. Since my teenage years I have probably read Tolkien’s trilogy more than ten times. Even though a few characters may have a dated, even stilted, feel to them, some of them still feel as real as people in my life. Heck, I even agreed to have “Gaffer” as my grandfather name!

So while my enthusiasm for The Lord of the Rings (LOTR) long pre-dates the films, and New Zealand’s rebirth as Middle Earth, when we lived for a few months in New Zealand, I couldn’t resist buying a New Zealand atlas that had the locations of many scenes featured in Peter Jackson’s film version of the trilogy.

[Welcome to "Middle Earth", near Mavora Lakes] 

That’s all background to a recent episode from our autumn 2018 visit to the South Island of New Zealand. And it’s part explanation for how we came to find ourselves at Mavora Lakes. You’d be forgiven for asking “Where?”, as even many Kiwis we spoke to didn’t know much about the place. If I said it was somewhere between the Thomson and Livingstone Mountains, a valley or two east of Te Anau, that might not help much either. But given that we were spending Easter at Kingston, on the far southern shore of Lake Wakatipu, and less than two hours from the lakes, we were keen to explore them.

[On the shores of North Mavora Lake] 

Mavora Lakes – there’s a South Mavora Lake and a North Mavora Lake – fill part of the glacier-carved Mararoa River valley, which runs roughly north/south out of the Livingstone Mountains. The lakes are not obscure to South Island trampers, campers and hunters, given the range of activities they have to offer. And since the area became a hotspot for crucial LOTR scenes, they have also become part of the fabric of Middle Earth.

A certain amount of determination was required to reach our destination. With 40km of gravel road to traverse – after a longish drive on sealed roads – there would have been cries of “when are we gonna get there?” had there been any children in the car. As we got closer the valley tightened, and we started to see swathes of deep green beech forest. Our trusty atlas had forewarned us that some of the scenes of Fangorn Forest had been filmed here. This included one in which Aragorn and some of the hobbits had come to the place where the Riders of Rohan had slaughtered and burned a band of orcs.

The landscape, with open, buff-coloured tussock butting up against closed beech forest, looked so familiar that it was more like visiting an historic battlefield than a film location. Lynne and I were caught up in imagining two of the hobbits, Merry and Pippin, crawling away from the battle and into the dubious safety of the forest. 

[A deadly fly agaric mushroom might not be all that lurks in this forest!] 

Not for the first time I reflected on the peculiar genius of New Zealand to take something wholly borrowed, and turn it into something that seems entirely native to it. Think of kiwi fruit, merino wool, even the Australian possum (whose fur is blended with merino - originally Spanish – to become “merino mink”).

We parked our car and put on our day-packs for a wander up the shore of North Mavora Lake. A keen breeze blew across the lake making wavelets that shushed on the shingle shore. It also shushed the sand flies, which only made an appearance any time the wind drew breath. Being more relaxed about the bities left us free to lift our eyes to the hills. And what hills! Bush-clad near the shore; steeply rising to the tree line, tussock-covered above that, except where rain, snow and incline had conspired to bring the slope down: the classic land slip that Kiwis deal with all the time, and the rest of us seldom see.

We had no particular plan, except to stretch our legs and to take in the wonders of a beautiful place. Although there was a track north through the forest, we chose to walk along the shingle shore, the better to take in the wider scene. A little over 6km later we were at the end of the forest, and well up the lake on what some call the Mavora Walkway. We’d seen the other end of that multi-day track some years back when we stayed at Greenstone Hut, on the Greenstone/Caples Track. As we stopped for lunch on a convenient log, I looked wistfully up lake towards where I guessed Carey’s Hut – one of four huts along the track – must be located. There’s always next time, I thought, with the time-honoured optimism of the ageing tramper/bushwalker. Right now there was justice to be done to the lunch that Lynne had somehow conjured from leftovers.

[Lunching by North Mavora Lake] 

We were near the place which had become Nen Hithoel in the film. This was the lake into which the Anduin River flowed, and marked the location of the breaking of the “fellowship” after Boromir’s attempt to take the ring. Frodo – and eventually Sam – had taken a boat across the lake to make their own way towards Mount Doom.

But today any chance of long, reflective tranquility was broken, not by a troop of orcs, but a convoy of dirt bikes, which buzzed by on both beach and track. The group was friendly, and perfectly within their rights, and we were reminded that such places are shared and enjoyed by widely diverse groups of people. For all its beauty, this place is not wilderness.

Returning to the car we reflected on what the place itself had seen over recent millennia. Its Gondwanan forests had survived numerous ice ages, at times huddling precariously above the glaciers that carved out the lakes; at others taking advantage of warmer, wetter eras to clothe whole swathes of the valley. They’d seen the Maori come, passing through here in search of food and their precious pounamu/greenstone; and the pakeha/white settlers chasing gold, clearing and burning vast areas of forest, and bringing sheep and cattle to graze the opened land.

[Beech forest, Mavora Lakes] 

 All of this is a vastly more complex, and often more marvellous story than the fictional one that drew us here over Easter. In part it is a tragedy, given how much forest has gone, and how many birds have succumbed to introduced pests. But it’s also a story that continues. And given how long “Fangorn” has lasted, it’s a story that’s still filled with hope.

A Hawkes Bay Break: Cruisy

Note to self: sleep is essential. Do NOT imagine you can do without it; that by catching a plane near midnight, flying towards the sunrise, and touching down as the sun comes up, you can simply dust yourself off and launch into the new day. Your body knows otherwise.

The time difference between Australia and New Zealand means we are playing out that exact scenario on a recent trip to the North Island. Despite our attempts to sleep during the 3 hour flight, we arrive in Zombie mode. Neither coffee, nor a rousing breakfast in a café full of All Black fans watching their team win (again), is enough to perk us up for the long drive up the island to the Hawkes Bay region.

[Some contented Hawkes Bay cattle] 

Many stops, many coffees, a snooze or two, and a disproportionate number of oddly-timed snack/meals later, we arrive at our rural accommodation in the heart of Hawkes Bay. Dragging our confused bodies with us, we do a hasty reconnoitre, eat a quick meal, and flop into bed around 9pm. Our muddled brains actually think it’s 10pm, thanks to a mix-up over daylight saving. And that feels more than late enough for bed, and the hope of a standard 8 hours of shut-eye.

Our bodies have other plans, and we wake to the sounds of unfamiliar birds and farm machinery fully 12 hours later. Not since university days has either of us slept the clock around. At first we don’t believe our timepieces, but our mobile phones – which seem to know these things automatically – confirm the time.

I open the curtain onto a scene from a child’s painting. A field of yellow flowers is set against a steep and vividly green hill, which is criss-crossed with animal tracks and dotted with placid grazing cattle. A lone white goat and perfect blue sky complete the scene. People told us this is a beautiful part of a beautiful country, and they haven’t exaggerated.

[Our morning view on a Hawkes Bay farm] 

But country isn’t just for staring at. A small shed hides the means of getting closer to it all: two bicycles. Not just any old bicycles, these are cruiser bikes. AND they even have names. We’re accustomed to 21 speed mountain bikes with hard seats and an attitude to match. “Molly” and “Cooper”, our resident cruiser bikes, have a more relaxed outlook on life. Built for comfort, not speed – and not for hills, let alone mountains – these bikes are just right for cruising along the near-level cycle trails that lace the region.

[Lynne cruises a cycle path aboard "Molly"] 

And so to the stop bank that separates us from the river. We’ve not heard the term “stop bank” before, but it’s immediately clear it’s essentially the same as a levee bank, protecting the surrounding land from floods; in this case from the Tutaekuri River. That's one of several rivers draining east from the Kaweka and Ruahine mountain ranges to the west; rivers whose outwash has created the fertile plains that are key to Hawkes Bay’s agricultural bounty.

As with so many New Zealand rivers, the Tutaekuri flaunts its snowy upland origins, flowing swift, grey/blue and braided through the lowlands. Doubling as our local cycle path, the stop bank leads us gently along the river, winding through pasture, forest and fields of apples, and alongside some of the vineyards for which Hawkes Bay is famous. We blow away the cobwebs before finding some very decent coffee in the township of Taradale.

[The Tutaekuri River near Taradale] 

We then try the cycle path on the other side of the river, which soon passes beneath the impressive Otatara Pä. This series of connected Maori forts on hillocks above the river has fearsome wooden palisades, and we learn later that it was a highly-prized and much fought-over site. Distressingly part of the site was lost in the 1970s and 80s when it was quarried for road metal. Today it’s an historic site managed by the Department of Conservation in consultation with Ngäti Paarau of Waiohiki Marae (local Maori).

[Part of the Otatara Pa] 

On our ride back upstream, we get to try out the three gears on the cruiser bikes. We learn that third gear = “cruisy”; second gear = “almost-cruisy”; and third gear = “still-quite-close-to-cruisy”. Fortunately there are no actual hills, so we are only mildly pink-faced by the time we reach the village of Puketapu. But as it has a famous pub, we decide we’re parched, and stop for an ale in the shade.

New Zealand may be famous for its adrenaline charged adventures, and we’ve had our share of those. But we're learning it also does the cruisy end of things very well. And right now we have no complaints about that.

Dreamwalking

Grounded: (adjective) sensible and down-to-earth; having one's feet on the ground; (verb) to confine (a child) to the house as a punishment. (Collins Dictionary)

For the past 6 weeks I’ve been grounded. In the aftermath of our Mt Anne “epic”, and the ankle injury I sustained there, I’ve had to be very sensible about how I put my feet on the ground. And it has involved enough confinement to make it feel like a punishment.

[Let me outa here! I need to walk!] 

The backstory can be found here Mt Anne Epic Part 2. But to put it simply, politely, I badly sprained my ankle. According to the physiotherapist I probably tore my soleus muscle. This lurks somewhere beneath the Achilles tendon, near quite a few other equally unpronounceable bits and bobs. And I didn’t confine the damage to that muscle. The harm from the initial twist spread to quite a few other unnamed parts, thanks to the steep, rough and hot 10 hour hobble back to the car. It all hurt, and I could barely walk for two days after getting home.

So while the summer variously sizzles and fizzles itself out, I’ve been slowly recuperating. It has involved more “thou shalt nots” than “thou shalts”. I can do some simple (and boring) physio exercises and I can wear an ankle support brace. But I can’t run, and I can’t walk anywhere too rough. Nor can I walk very far or carry much weight on my back. And that has meant no overnight bushwalks since early January.

So what does a passionate walker do, at the height of the walking season, when that activity is curtailed? For a start I dream of walking. I pore over maps, plotting and planning walks that I WILL DO when … I also walk vicariously, listening to friends talking about their trips, reading others’ accounts of their walks.

My dreamwalking is always being fed by books. But during my recent confinement, Tom Carment and Michael Wee’s “Seven Walks: Cape Leeuwin To Bundeena” has happily filled a void. As well as its beautiful and artful presentation, I am enjoying its spare, wry observations about bushwalking in Australia. I laughed, for instance, at Carment likening the randomly gathered walkers on the Overland Track to “the cast of their own six-day play.”

English poet Simon Armitage’s “Walking Home” is a delightful take on the long distance Pennine Way. Armitage walks from the Scottish border to his Yorkshire home, giving poetry readings each evening in return for his bed and board. It’s probably only the English weather that creates any semblance of adventure here. But this book is more about the characters and places Armitage meets along the way than it is about the walk itself.

“Tramping: A New Zealand History” by Shaun Barnett and Chris Maclean is a monumental – and beautifully illustrated – account of tramping in New Zealand. This is a book to dip into endlessly, whether to learn the origins of the word “tramp”; to hear of the unique place of huts in NZ walking; or to admire the feats of pioneers crossing the Southern Alps. I managed to bring the book back from New Zealand late last year as “hand luggage”. If you want to try the same, I’d suggest you do some arm strengthening exercises. This wonderful book weighs in at almost 2kg!

Despite this wealth of indirect experience, I've concluded that it’s only actual walking that is properly good for your body and soul. So last weekend I donned my boots – and my ankle brace - and fought off my growing cabin fever via an exploratory walk on the mountain. It involved some steep, rough slopes (don’t tell my physio!), but the reward was the discovery of two mountain huts I’d never been to. I survived the walk well enough to imagine that my next book just might be a bushwalker's log book!

[Log book in a hut on kunanyi/Mt Wellington] 

Abel Tasman Coast Track 3: Win Some, Lose Some

What a difference sun and warmth make! An afternoon of exposure to sun and a wood heater lifts our spirits and dries our gear. I hope it's doing the same to my camera. We share a pleasant night in Bark Bay Hut with three others, a young Malaysian man and a Spanish couple. In the morning they walk north to Awaroa, while we are going south to The Anchorage.

[Coastal Glimpses, Sandfly Bay: photo Lynne Grant] 

By now we’ve settled into the Abel Tasman pattern. You stay at a seaside hut, walk uphill in the morning, undulate a bit throughout the day, sneak a few views of the ever-varying coastline, pass through forests that change from wet and deep green to dry and straggly, before dropping down to the next coastal hut. None of the days is long.

But variations to the pattern are part of this walk’s charm. Today, towards the end of one of the undulations, we glimpse our destination in the distance. The Anchorage is at the far end of a convoluted embayment that we can only reach by crossing Torrent Bay.

[Above Torrent Bay, with The Anchorage in far left background]

Our first surprise is the settlement around the bay. Private land has been excised from the park, and more than a dozen “baches” are nestled into the forest around the bay. Quite a few are noticeably grander than the traditional weekend bach. There’s an exclusive lodge here too, made all the more desirable no doubt by being accessible only by boat. There are no roads anywhere near this beautifully tranquil bay.

We sticky-beak at a few houses, dream fleeting sea-change dreams, before finding the tidal flat we have to cross. We’ve aimed for low tide, to avoid the long detour we’d otherwise have to take. It’s a small moment of triumph when we see that we’ve almost exactly hit low tide. We hope this might mean we can walk right across dry-booted. This looks possible for the first couple of hundred metres, but then we reach a stream. It’s the Torrent River, one of the “torrents” after which the bay was named. At low tide it is a small sinuous creature winding a slow and shiny path across the flats. It’s only calf deep and a few metres wide, so we take off our boots, don crocs and wade across.

[Wading across Torrent River & tidal flats: photo Lynne Grant]

At the far end we climb over a short bushy isthmus then drop down to the beach that leads to Anchorage Hut. The beach is steeply sloped, golden-sanded, and busy. We’ve heard a few references to “The Anchorage Hilton”, built large because of the popularity of this beautiful bay. Opened just a year ago, it certainly is impressively spacious and comfortable. But it is still a hut, with the usual shared dining and bunk rooms and other typical DoC hut facilities.

[Anchorage Hut, aka the "Anchorage Hilton"]

Solar powered lights are probably the main novelty, unless you count the wryly humorous hut warden. Bill (not his real name) entertains the fifteen or so in the hut with droll Kiwi-style stories, variously tricking the naïve; bating the Aussies (us!); and generally teasing everyone else.

He helps to create a convivial atmosphere, and we’re soon exchanging stories with Danes, Poms, Swedes and Germans; the United Nations of hikers that typically peoples these Great Walks Huts. Happily my camera has started working again, so I snap a group shot before getting into a fun teasing chat with “Bill”.

 [Inside Anchorage Hut]

Australians and New Zealanders have a sibling affection that is strongly tinged with sibling rivalry. We exchange professional stories (I too work for a national park agency) and good-humouredly try to catch each other out. But eventually he pulls out his trump card. In the just completed rugby test New Zealand’s All Blacks have beaten Australia’s Wallabies by 29 to 28. That’s enough to shut me up. Lynne and I slink off to our bunk room, which we’re sharing with Brad. He happens to be the only New Zealander walker we meet on the track. We’re thankful he’s a non-gloating one!