By Lucy

Thursday started like any other day.

By that, I mean Nichola woke me up for the final time. It wasn’t even her alarm this time, it was her puttering around the room as she packed for a big hike. Granted, it was 8 and I should start to get ready, but I had no real reason to rush. I was just going 2 hours to Queenstown, grabbing a few things from Pak’n’Save, and then another 2 hours north to Aoraki. There was only about 1 hour of travel time that I’d be crossing new ground.

Packing my one bag was pretty easy; everything went back to where it was before. The added challenge this time was transporting food. There’s no grocery store in Aoraki, but I also wanted to try and keep my costs to a minimum by cooking at the hostels. Whatever I could bring with me would be a good starting point, but what to bring and what to toss?

I had my last 2 slices of bacon for breakfast. I packed some sugar into my old iron supplement bottle. I only need enough to make tea for a week, if that. Similarly, my orange pekoe went into an empty Metamucil bottle.

I packed my half-kilo of dry rice. It’s not much, but a bouillon cube and a cup of rice can be a meal. I grabbed 3 onions from what was left in the bag. Vegetables! My 4 packets of instant noodles. My eggs and zucchini.

I decided against bringing what was left in my cream. It was more than a week expired and I doubt the hot sun would be good for it. I found a bit of cheese left and threw it in my bag. Road snack.

Stripped the sheets from the bed and threw on new ones, just like any hostel. One last check.

Oh! I lost the little luggage lock. I checked under the couch cushions and couldn’t find it. It was probably buried at the bottom of my bag, and I wasn’t unpacking everything looking for it.

It took longer than expected to head out, as it always does. Everyone wanted a hug and a goodbye speech, which wasn’t as heartwarming as it sounds as I still resented the lot of them for not really including me. Toni gave me a speech about being interesting and quiet and invited me to come back. Probably not, but maybe.

I wouldn’t miss it here. I had things undone – Scott’s Creek, Greenstone – but I wanted to be gone more than I wanted to do them.

There is a spider web all over the left handlebar. I’m taking a spidery passenger with me.

Saffron snapped me a couple of a pictures of my bags all loaded up on the bike. It was a good day for a ride, sunny, warm, a bit of a breeze.

I made it maybe a kilometer down the road before I started regretting my choices. I had decided to throw all my food in my helmet bag, but it was not comfortable; not only was it heavy on my shoulder, it was conflicting with the suitcase lashed to the passenger seat and forcing me to sit very far forward on the bike. I pulled over when I got to the paved road and started unpacking things into my laundry bag. It would suck if I lost this by the side of the road, but at least food is replaceable.

One last ride down the winding road to Queenstown!

Disaster struck as I got close to Queenstown. One end of the food bag slipped out of the straps, fortunately the side that was sewn shut. The bag slide forward onto the seat, instead of sliding backwards and into the wheels! I pulled over soon as I was able and adjusted it. The first time I’ve come close to losing my luggage.

Last trip through Queenstown. At Pak’N’Save, I was just grabbing a couple of things. A new bottle of cream, another bottle of syrup. Some honey. I was on the fence about what else to grab… seasoning for my rice? Nah, I should eat up the instant noodles. I grabbed a box of microwave popcorn; my kryptonite is always late night snacking.

I ran into John. Serendipity? He asked if I had gotten my road bread and cookie, but I had not. I had gone to see Toni in the kitchen and she didn’t mention it, so I didn’t want to push.

I grabbed a bottle of wine too. I had a wicked headache. For the last week, I wanted nothing more than to get totally wasted. This wouldn’t be that, but at least it would take the edge off.

It took me more than an hour to get out of Queenstown, once all was said and done. Stupid stop-and-go traffic.

Now I was technically covering ground I had before as I headed towards Cromwell, but I had been so exhausted that day I didn’t recognize any of it. I was surprised I managed to make it around all those bends tired and wet as I was.

The road here follows the Kawarau river, which doubled as the river Anduin in the Lord of the Rings movies. Its got some nice twisties as you skirt the river gorge, the roiling water a beautiful turquoise as we hadn’t had any rain for a good long way. I passed the bridge where Stephen Colbert had gone bungie jumping. I laughed; the location is quite visible from the road, and it’s actually not that high. You could dive off the cliff and into the water and be fine. I was tempted to stop and do it, but I had groceries and I was broke; it probably cost a bit, and possibly was fully booked too.

I almost got into an accident here. Some tourist, not looking, started to pull into the parking lot, noticed me, and stopped, blocking my lane! I managed to swerve behind her.

I stopped a little way up the road at the Roaring Meg lookout. So named because the water roars here, especially when it floods. Here we are following ancient trails of the Maori; apparently there used to be a natural rock bridge that they’d use to cross the river (no points for guessing why it doesn’t exist anymore cough cough white people).

Cromwell is located in “central” Otago, insomuch as anything is central in a province that I doubt is even 100 kilometers across as the crow (or kea) flies. It is home to lots of orchards, and I was treated to the lovely smell of ripening orange and cherries hanging heavily on the vine; it’s peak harvest. Ah, the stuff you miss in a car!

I passed a large sculpture on private land of a man and a motorcycle. I also noticed a curious number of classic cars, including a classic truck towing an antique motorcycle. Was there some car show happening in Queenstown soon?

From Dunedin, I had taken the road from the south, but now I would take the road north. Here I would follow the long, straight flank of Lake Dunstan, just a regular sort of blue and not the neon teal of alpine lakes.

I stopped for a moment here to adjust my bags – again – and to open the vents on my jacket. The wind was quite warm and dry; in Canada we’d call it a Chinook. Still, I hadn’t missed the classic Canterbury gale-force winds.

It took me the better part of an hour to reach Lindis Pass. It’s a long, slow climb, and I had to keep kicking the bike down gears so I could ascend and was puttering along at 60. The road was mostly empty and the scenery was boring. I’d say it was the usual Otago scenery, windswept hills of brown grass. I stopped at the top of Lindis to stretch my legs and adjust my bags again.

After another 20 kilometers, I had reached Dunstan Downs, the first place I stayed the night when I left the estate. My heart was suddenly filled with longing. I knew the road back to the estate from here – I could just keep going and be home for dinner.

Home is where all your attempts to escape cease.

Ten minutes later, I was back in Omarama.

I gassed up and grabbed food. I was inexplicably exhausted; possibly my lack of sleep. They only had bar snacks, so I grabbed a ‘poutine’, but I was too tired to make myself eat much of it and ended up taking the rest to go.

The final push to Aoraki. I was slightly regretting it; I could have just stopped in Twizel tonight. But it’s not even another 100 clicks, why am I so tired?

As I turned off the main road onto the road that winds along Lake Pukaki, I started to perk up. In contrast to my first voyage, the weather today was gorgeous! I could clearly see the snow-covered peak of Aoraki rising above the crystal clear waters of the lake, easily dwarfing every mountain surrounding it. It had a perfect jaunty crown of clouds, the very image of its Maori name; Cloud-piercer.

As the mountain grew in front of me, I decided that the overpriced hostel had been worth this. 200$ was worth this view!

Aoraki village itself is a village in name only. It is entirely owned by the Department of Conservation; they just lease the land to the hotels. They run some rental homes and a school for the people who live here to work, basically just as a base to maintain the park, the trails, and research into the mountains and glaciers. It’s a tiny little loop, marked by the now-familiar green and yellow DoC signs.

I arrived slightly after 6. 350 clicks travelled today. The hostel itself is nice; they even have a sauna. The sheets, dishes and soaps are all the same brand as the lodge; if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it?

God, I hate unpacking. I’ve been on the road for several hours, I’m hot, tired and hungry, but I still have things to do before I can relax.

Everyone was in the kitchen cooking as I looked for a place to stash my food. The kitchen was nice; wide, spaces between each hob for containing your cooking supplies, lots of cubbies and fridges. I forgot I had booked a mixed room – it was the last one available – and was briefly startled when a man entered the room.

This location is too pretty to be real. I felt like I was in the Matrix. Ancient shale craigs, carved hundreds of thousands of years ago by snow, rain and the inevitable march of time. Hardy evergreens shooting up during the brief growing season.

It was a mountain, a real mountain, more vivid than any of my foggy childhood memories. I had childishly wondered how mountains could exist and the tops still be visible from the ground, and now I had my answer. Taller than the CN tower, taller than the Sleeping Giant…

The glaciers really caught my eye. The deep gouges in the snow where there had clearly been avalanches, the frozen boulders caught by extruding fingers of rock. I had wondered why the town was so far back from the mountain, and that was my answer. This was the minimum safe distance from an avalanche, the risk that was clearly never 0, even in the summer.

As I walked back out to the motorcycle to grab my last bag, an older man was walking out as well. He once-overed my jacket, “Are you on a motorbike?”.

I was exhausted. I gave him a wary look and debated giving him some dismissive answer, so I could drink my wine and go to bed, but I decided to take a chance. “Yeah, come on.”

We walked over to take a look at the bike. No comment was made about it being a 150. To the contrary, he started telling me about his son, who was a motorcycle mechanic and had souped up lots of tiny little things; you don’t need a license or registration to drive anything under 150cc, so you can do a lot of nonsense with a 140.

“Are you on a bike?” I asked.

“Nope.” He pointed to a tour van parked by the side of the road. I recognized it right away; he has passed me on the road at some point. He’s a tour guide, and he had just taken a group from Glenorchy, funnily enough. He hadn’t been to the lodge this time around, but he’s been there lots before and has a good opinion of it.

Once I finished unpacking, we met up again in the lounge. He offered me some of his dinner, but I was still too tired to eat. I gulped back 2 glasses of water and listened as he told his stories. He’s left a mark on the south island, all right, and so has his son. He showed me multiple news stories about his kid tearing up Christchurch on ridiculous homemade bikes and getting the cops called. He surprised me by guessing I was 30 or therabouts. He also showed me this website that connects you to car rental companies that will let you use the car for free in order to move cars to where they are wanted, which I will probably end up using in March. He basically uses his job as a tour guide to get free vacations, since his groups have to pay for his food and accommodation as well. Not a bad idea.

It was really good talking to him. He knew a lot about motorcycles, and he didn’t mind that I was somewhat a novice, and he admired my adventuring spirit.

We’d been talking for an hour when we realized we hadn’t actually exchanged names. His name is Richard. He insisted on giving me some food, so I had a can of rice pudding. I should eat something.

I excused myself around 8 to jump in the sauna. Sadly, no cold plunge pool, but now the sun had dipped behind the mountains it was cool enough outside to count. Then I cracked open the bottle of wine.

“Why is it the last Greymouth rally?”

“Oh, they keep making it more and more expensive to run.”

“They?”

“The government.”

“Why does everyone complain about the cost of rego?” I ask.

“Well, your rego for three months was, what, a little over 100? That’s the cost of the rego for a year for my car.”

Ah, it’s quadruple the price. Yeah, that is a bit much, like insurance being higher for bikes than cars in Canada. Why does governments hate bikers?

“Hey, Richard…” I looked into the glass. “There isn’t a lot of girls like me, is there?”

“Girls with bikes? It’s becoming more common, but…” His gaze softened as he realized my true meaning. “No, there isn’t.”

And he would know. It’s rare for me to feel alone, as an ache in my soul, but this was one of those times where I felt like no one would really ever understand me.

I was really tired. I had a couple of glasses and felt like nodding off, so I went to bed.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Richard asks.

“Hooker valley.”

“Don’t talk to strangers.” He says with a wink.

Hah. Why would I stop now?

This is the least soundproof hostel I had ever been in. I was in a top bunk, and I could hear people walking above me, people talking in the hall, doors slamming. It took a bit to get sound asleep.

A few hours later I was wide awake. I’m not sure what woke me up. I went out to the lounge – so nice to be able to do that without waking people up – and had the rest of my bottle of wine.

I tossed and turned for several hours. Apparently everyone in my room was moving out early, and I’m sure they were all trying to be quiet, but it’s hard to pack a bag quietly. By 8:30 I gave up and went to make breakfast. At least the kitchen was empty, although Richard had already left to take his group to breakfast.

When I crack open the bottle of cream for my morning tea, I discovered the vibration of the bike had turned it to butter. Oops! It still melted down when I put it in my tea, so I shrugged it off. Coffee with butter is common on the keto diet, they call it bulletproof coffee.

“I drew a card for you.” Paul says out of nowhere, sending me the 8th of swords. “You’re in your own way.”

Nothing new there. But still… how so this time? Probably what I kept turning over and over in my mind… do I come back for year two?

Onwards.

The hike I wanted to do was the Hooker valley hike, which takes you up to where Hooker glacier winds down from the top of Mount Aoraki and yes that is an unfortunate name. Supposedly it is named for a English botanist, William Hooker. It’s 2.5 kilometers away from the hostel.

Sure, 5 hour sleep, followed by a 2.5 km walk before I even start the hike. No biggie.

Actually, another hike caught my eye, the Sealy Tarns. Less populated, an elevation gain, closer to the Mueller glacier… pace yourself, Lucy!

I debated hitchhiking up the road. It wasn’t lacking for traffic; there was a steady flow, and by the time I reached the parking lot it was so full people were parking alongside the road. It was a nice walk, full sun, warm. It still felt unreal to be walking amongst these giant rocks.

At the trailhead was a sign for avalanche risk. Well, clearly there were avalanches because you could see the gouges in the glaciers, but I doubted they were a risk to us.

Not five minutes later, I kid you not, there was an avalanche. A small one high up on the mountain, but it came down with a sound like Zeus was throwing lightning bolts – regular lightning could not compare. It was over almost as soon as it began so I didn’t have time to get out my camera, but I doubt I could have gotten a quality video anyway.

The walk itself is well-maintained, wide with gravel. Not that stops yahoos from walking fully blocking it, to the point that I started shoulder-clocking people. Tourists ran the gamut from early 20’s in Lululemon leggings to little Chinese grandma’s wrapped up in several shawls and a sun umbrella.

At the beginning of the trail is a small sign for Freda’s Rock. What is Freda’s rock? Dunno.

There’s also a large monument for people lost on the mountain. Worth noting that Aoraki is quite a deadly mountain to climb, despite being quite a bit shorter than Everest. The ascent/death ratio is higher.

The scenery is nice. Scrubby trees and tussock grasses sprouted between boulders and shingle deposited by earlier avalanches and glaciers. The glaciers actually used to reach all the way to the far side of lake Pukaki, which is how the lakebed was carved out.

After about 20-30 minutes I got to the first swing bridge. There is a lovely lookout of the next kilometer of the hike, marred by all the tourists jockeying for perfect selfies. I snapped a quick picture and moved on.

The bridge itself made me nervous. There’s a larger sign saying “max 20 people”. Kay, but who’s counting? What happens when the 21st person gets on… it snaps like a twig? I presume the sign is there to stop people from clogging up the bridge for pictures of the alpine river below.

It wobbles terribly as you cross it, like a diving board. It reminds me of crossing the suspension bridge in Ouimet canyon with the Vagabond. He laughed at me being afraid, cuz he’s not afraid of anything. He’d laugh at me here, then start analyzing the construction of the bridge.

“How are you scared of heights? You’re a scaffolder.”

“Carpenter.”

“Apprentice.”

I give up and blow a raspberry.

I find the gravel sluices from the rocky craigs very interesting, especially as the sun comes over the mountain and throws them in sharp relief. At one point, a woman in a pink shirt stops to follow my gaze, curious what has my rapt attention. Rocks! They weren’t here 5 million years ago, isn’t that so cool?

You can hear the glaciers as well. The weight of the ice on itself, creaking and groaning and cracking, all the way down the mountain to where we were walking. Even over my headphones, not that I keep them that loud.

Another 20 minutes to the second bridge. Second verse, same as the first. I find that even once I’m back on solid ground I still feel it wobbling under my feet. That’s fun.

I stop at a lookout point and eat one of the granola bars the girls left behind. A couple of women stop and ask me to take a picture of them, and offer to take one in return. I hate it when people ask me to take photos, cuz I’ve had people try to trap me into taking the perfect photo. I am not a paid photographer! These women are all right, and it is nice to have some photos with me in it.

Another few minutes and I find a… not sure what to call it. I suppose it helps you orient where all the mountains are, but it’s faded, and also facing the wrong way. The names are all upside-down from the way you face when standing on the only platform there. There’s 3 people in their 70’s on the rock, joking about how long it takes them to climb down. They apologize and I dismiss it, just glad they are still getting out and doing things.

“Hey, maybe this young woman will be hiking when she’s 70. What do you think, girl?” The man asks me.

“Of course!” I say cheerfully. I won’t be alive at 70, but I will hike for as long as my condition allows. I would absolutely love to still be climbing rocks in my 70’s.

The next section is a boardwalk, for some reason. I walk with one of the ladies, who tells me her and the man are from Hokitika but their friend is visiting from England so they took her hiking.

As I reach the 3rd bridge, I find something else interesting in the rocks. One of the craigs has a sharp cut, like a large chunk of rock broke off too recently to have worn down. There’s a large boulder at the bottom of the mountain that’s the same red colour when all the others are grey. It’s easily twice as tall as me, maybe taller. What powerful forces nature has at its disposal!

An hour and a half, I reach Hooker Lake. There is a large seating area, but most people seem to prefer walking down to the lake’s edge. On the far side you can see the glacier, blue ice buried under a smokey layer of gravel and sand, like the ‘burg you get at the end of driveways. Icebergs dot the lake, and a sign warns that you shouldn’t swim because the water is only 3 degrees year-round. Hah! Canadians cut holes in ice to go for a swim, this is nothing.

I walk down to the lake, eat my other granola bar, and reapply my sunscreen. Did you know the UV index in New Zealand goes up to 14? Jeez. Some people strip down to their underwear and jump in the lake, including a well-built Chinese man in little blue shorts. Ahem.

It takes about an hour to walk back. The path is more empty; presumably most people are at the lake or not starting out this late. There’s even more cars stopped along the road now.

Time to walk back to the hostel. I notice a bird that looks like it is hovering in midair, white with black patches and a V shaped tail. How curious!

I barely start out when a van honks at me; Richard, dropping off his charges. A few minutes later he pulls over in front of me, going back the other way. I walk over and open the door. “I thought you said not to talk to strangers.”

“Fine, walk back to the hostel, then!” He says with a laugh.

I hop in. Might as well save my strength.

Once we’re back at the hostel, he offers me the same food he offered me for dinner the night before, a roast chicken dinner with potatoes and carrots and gravy. I planned to go to the Edmund Hillary centre out of boredom, but he mentions the DoC has a visitor’s centre/ museum that sounds much more interesting. It closes at 4:30, so I quickly refill my water bottle and head out.

The town is nice. There’s lots of broad, paved paths snaking through the town, probably for people to walk to work. It makes no sense to own a car here.

I like this museum, it’s pretty. There’s a plaque at the beginning about the name of the mountain, Aoraki, and how it’s tied to the origin story of the island. You’ve seen it here before; how Aoraki and his brothers were sailing around when their waka overturned, and when they climbed to the high side they turned to stone.

There’s a bit of the museum about mountaineering, which I mostly skipped. Not interesting in climbing mountains. Especially because most indigenous peoples wish white people would stop crawling all over their sacred mountains for giggles.

I like the parts about the weather on Aoraki. The wind isn’t necessarily that bad, although it has reached 300 kilometers an hour and blown huts clear off. The main problem is the moisture it carries from the ocean, same as the Rockies. They get 4000mm of rain annually in the village, but only 1500mm 20 clicks away in Glentanner. The weather changes on a dime.

Apparently the biggest the glacier has ever been reached all the way to Twizel, 85 kilometers long, 13 kilometers across and 1 deep. But it has receded mostly to where it currently is before humans reached the islands.

Since the mountains started growing, they’ve gained 25 kilometers but lost 20 of it, which is why the Southern Alps are so short compared to places like Everest, which are sheltered from heavier erosion. All the rock has just been travelling horizontally to make the south island. Could you imagine if it wasn’t, and there was just one massive mountain, tall as Everest, emerging from the ocean like a tower to the gods? Because the mountain range forces the ocean breeze to drop its moisture on the west coast, the west coast is rising faster than the east, and is “young” granite as opposed to old schist.

Maori call the glaciers “whenuahula” – snow land.

There’s some other things around, like a stuffed possum hanging out in the rafters or a mannequin of how ancient Maori mountaineers would have dressed.

My legs are screaming. Ok, that’s enough exploring for one day, before I render myself unable to ride tomorrow.

The gift shop distracts me. Merino gloves, soft and pretty colours. A rain suit that I could wear on the bike… 120$! A waterproof backpack that can fold up into the space of my wallet, a similar price. Foldable silicone dishes. Mountain climbing gear is also good for vagabonding around on a bike! Alas, it is beyond me.

I cave and buy a motorcycle patch of Aoraki and a decal to match, for my hard hat.

There’s an abandoned bathing suit in the sauna today, an itty bitty green bikini, top and bottom. No one comes to claim it in the hour I use the sauna.

The good thing about befriending a tour guide is that you get all the advice for free. I make myself a packet of noodles and listen to his advice on where to stay and where not to stay. We try to connect on Facebook – after all, he lives in Christchurch and him and his wife both ride – but Facebook won’t behave. We can’t see each other’s profiles. How odd.

I excuse myself to work on my blog, and he leaves to pick up his crew and take them to dinner. We don’t reconnect before I retire to bed.

I woke up at 7:30 on Saturday. I tried rolling over to go back to sleep, but other people were noisy in the hallway, so I gave up. Maybe Richard was still here and I could say goodbye. Every single bed in my room was occupied now; at least 3 people had arrived after I had gone to bed.

He was no longer there. As I wandered into the kitchen to make my buttery tea and breakfast, I found a gift in my cubby. 2 slices of bread, the fruit cup proffered last night, and a note with a phone number.

“Catch up sometime Lucy, safe riding.” 🙂

Aww! That’s sweet. I punch it into Whatsapp.

It was notably quieter today, despite the rooms being full. Everyone was sleeping in today. The eggs looked slightly funky. I still ate them – I’m basically immune to food poisoning – but I put the rest of the carton in the fridge free bin. Maybe 4 hours of riding in the hot sun isn’t good for eggs, but they’ll probably by fine if someone eats them out of the fridge. Plus, the carton was still covered in dried egg, and that would probably get funky today. 8$ for another carton of eggs isn’t the end of the world. I put some peanut butter on the two slices of bread; lunch for later.

I ate quickly and started to pack up. I emerged, blinking, into the morning sun. You could feel the impending rain, the air was heavy with moisture, and the sun streamed through light fog. As much as I wanted to stay, it was good I was heading out today. My luck wouldn’t last.

9 o’clock I headed out, watching Aoraki recede in the wing mirrors.

I could feel the humidity and the temperature change as I went along the glistening blue flank of lake Pukaki. The moisture dropped, then as I left Pukaki behind and headed out onto the plains the cool wind shifted to a warm one. The usual Canterbury gale picked up and pushed me around, not helping that there was lots of RV’s on the road, leaving turbulence in their wake. If I was on a sailboat, Chris would call it “dirty air”.

Stopped just for gas in Omarama.

Lindis Pass is a gentler incline from this direction. I didn’t end up having to kick my bike down to third to make the ascent.

I stopped to adjust my bags. I also realized I had been driving for an indeterminant amount of time with my left turn signal on. I must have thumbed it when I was hitting the horn as some daft tourists pulled out in front of me – I don’t know why, if they can’t see me or if they think “stupid biker”, but people have a predilection for jumping out in front of me so I have to slam on the breaks – and I couldn’t see the blinky light on my dash cuz the sun is directly overhead, reflecting off the chrome.

Around noon, I pulled into Wanaka. I had intentions of just stopping at the beach, having my sandwich and drink, and heading out again, but I pulled over at a place that made me curious, “Puzzle World”.

I went inside. They had cubbies for my stuff, and it was only 20 bucks to walk around their maze. They also had some sort of “Illusion Rooms”. but they seemed mostly aimed at kids. Well, so is the maze I suppose, but as long as the maze is challenging enough it could be fun for all ages! I unpacked my bags and changed into my walking shoes.

This place is hilariously disorienting. I just liked the vibe. The walls were decorated with M.C. Escher’s works. The bathroom had a fake-out; there were signs that said male or female, but both doors led to a large room decorated like a Roman latrine… for reasons. The actual bathroom doors were located inside. The toilets were clear acrylic with jelly beans.

I liked the little courtyard. I sat and slathered on some sunscreen, and had my sandwich. Then it was time to tackle the maze.

The sign says 30-60 minutes to complete, or more than 60 minutes for “challenging” yourself. But challenging just means finding the corners in a particular order. I decided to do the challenging one and was admittedly thrown for a loop as I kept finding dead ends. You’d think the large bridges would allow for easy tracing of the correct route, but whoever made the maze is clever and keeps hiding dead ends and wrong turns under the bridges. I also like the way the slats on the walls are stacked makes it hard to tell if there’s a turn ahead or not.

Of course, the combination of my intelligence and eidetic memory means it wasn’t long before I figured it out. *Spoiler*; the entrance for the yellow tower is on the farthest side of the maze, as the path follows the entire length of the bridge. Which just meant a lot of walking and backtracking. The green tower also lost me a bit. Blue and red were easy, as after you’ve already determined which path leads to yellow, the other one is obviously red. I finished the “challenging 60-90 minutes maze” in 30, plus time spent stopped in the towers to cool off and drink some water and laugh at the kids running shrieking around the maze.

Once I made it back to the courtyard, I was feeling a bit peckish. New Zealand has this peculiar lunch option called a cheese roll, which is literally a single piece of bread slathered with cheese sauce, rolled up and stuck into a sandwich press. It’s exactly as unimpressive as it sounds, but for 3$ when you just want something to stop your stomach grumbling, it does the job.

Onwards!

It was quite warm out now, especially in the full sun. I opened up the vents on my jacket.

I rolled into Wanaka, which, like Queenstown, is a popular weekend destination, and like Queenstown also has dreadful stop-and-go traffic. I rolled past the beach – one of the few proper sandy beaches on the south island – to a location called “that Wanaka tree”. It’s popular on social media for being pretty. I parked and stuck my hands in the water. It was nice. It was tempting to go for a swim, but I had delayed long enough and I had the most treacherous part of the road to go. I stopped and grabbed a carton of eggs, and gas.

I looked south to the mountains. Could I see Earnslaw from here? There’s nothing between Glenorchy and here but mountains, unpassable and uneconomical they are.

The first part of the drive (after you get through the fields) skirts Lake Hawea. Only a modest elevation gain of 200m.

About halfway up Lake Hawea (maybe 20 kilometers) is “the neck”, a thin spit of land that stops Hawea and Wanaka from being one lake. It’s not even 2 kilometers wide, although it started the twisties. A sign explicitly said “Motorcycle riders, next 20 kms, high crash area”. Gulp.

Both lakes are absolutely gorgeous, the perfect example of why I bought a motorcycle to travel. The road hugs both lakes closely, the road climbing only to drop into a steep turn that looks like it will dump you into the lake at the bottom, only to sudden turn. Creeks descended from their alpine thaws as waterfalls, which cut into the rockface next to and under the road, making for delightful little breaks from the constant trees. The road is cut under the rock face at points, and at others there is fencing and netting to stop rock falls from reaching the road… presumably with mixed success.

Service along these roads was good, but then there was lots of cell towers right along the road, powered by solar. Makes sense – lest someone get into trouble – but it was annoying that I had better service here than an hour out from Christchurch!

As I left the lakes behind, I was entering the mountains proper. The road followed the flood plain for the Makarora river, which is quite wide. The mountains above were even higher than the ones around Glenorchy. The wind, left with few options, was being forced down this canyon into my face and was chilling off slightly, although still warm enough to keep the vents on my jacket open.

Here I left even the river flats behind. The trees closed over the road like a green tunnel, their trunks covered in moss. These were probably ancient trees, just cut back enough to build the road. After a slight elevation gain of 100 meters, I stopped at a place called “Blue Pools” which promised bathrooms. It turns out Blue Pools is just the name of a hike. A small hike, doable in an hour, but I wasn’t leaving my eggs and cream to boil in the sun. I used the bathroom and moved on.

Ten minutes later, I reached “Fantail falls”. The falls were nice, the river was clear as glass and warm enough I could imagine bathing in it. Indeed, some people were wading around and splashing in it. But my time was limited by the hot sun overhead, and to be honest, I was starting to tire. I took my pictures and got back on the bike.

(I will say, if I had all the time in the world I’d love to go back and do the Brewster hike. It sounds amazing)

Now I had found the Haast river and had passed the pass. What a surprise! I assume I would have to coax my bike up a steep incline, but it turns out the way never climbs more than a couple hundred meters. You might question why more people don’t use it, including the ancient Maori, but consider how far south it is; 400 kilometers from Christchurch, when Arthur’s Pass is right there.

At one point it did get steep and windy, to the point that there was a “runaway vehicle ramp” at the bottom.

I stopped at the bridge called “the Gates of Haast”. I had to, it sounded like Moria! This is where the Main Divide is, where the plates grind together and make the Southern Alps. The progenitor of New Zealand.

Now I was drifting into exhaustion. The wind was only getting more ferocious, and my hands hurt from the grip required to keep it from ripping me off the bike. The drive was beautiful – the river flats for the Haast river are so gorgeous it is criminal they did not make it into any of the Lord of the Rings movies – but I could barely appreciate it, and I know my bike didn’t. The sound started to change; it was overheating. My bags kept listing and I was getting tired of stopping to adjust them, which is usually when something goes wrong and they fall off (although fortunately they did not).

Winding away down the river, under trees, past sheer rocky cliffs. I had to kick the bike down to third a few times for some sharp corners. Most of the drive I was alone, but Murphy’s law dictated that this would be the time when someone caught up and was annoyed that I couldn’t whip around corners as fast as them, and I was left with nowhere to pull over. When the road wasn’t just cut into the rock, the grass grew up right to the white line. Even a soft shoulder was out of the question.

Suddenly the mountains fells away and I knew I had reached the coast.

Here, the coast is about 15 kilometers away from the mountain. Haast itself is only 2 kilometers away.

I pulled into the first parking lot, which was my backpackers lodge for the next 2 nights. A kind old lady asked for my license plate number and informed me the gate for the parking lot closes at 10. Interesting.

The place was hot. The lounge/ kitchen are is nice, although there are no cubbies for food storage. My room is upstairs and the bathrooms downstairs. The room has 2 singles and one bunk bed, one single claimed by the woman who got here before me, and I claimed the other single. She was flopped on the bed, complaining about the heat and how tiring the drive was from Wanaka. Try doing it on a bike!

Then I made myself 2 packets of noodles and a bag of popcorn. My hands had bruises from the seams and pressure points in the gloves.

I type on my laptop for a bit. It seems like every guest besides me and my roommate is German. They talk about me, not knowing I understand them.

My roommate is Canadian. She complains about how long the drive from Queenstown was. Tell me you’re from southern Ontario without telling me you’re from southern Ontario. She’s from Stratford, going to Greymouth to work at the hostel, funnily enough. She thinks I’m American, apparently my accent has settled on Minnesotan. I blame Shirah.

I could see the sun set. It’s clear, not like those rainy days in Greymouth. I go outside around 9. It’s cold and the sandflies are out. Oh wait, it’s 20 clicks to the beach, because I have to go south a bit. Do I want to go for a dusk ride after riding all day?

I go back inside and grab my helmet.

“What if I just didn’t wear my gear?” I ask Paul. “Except my helmet.”

“A wild bikie appeared.” He replied jokingly.

The more time I spend on the bike, the more I develop a devil-may-care attitude, a sense of invincibility.

I have to open the gate, no big deal. I don’t bother with my boots, although I do put on my jacket. It’s cold. The walking shoes are a stupid choice – they won’t protect me if I fall, and they barely have any grip left as-is – but I don’t want to walk around in my boots. The Vagabond would go in his shoes. Probably just a hoodie too.

The path to the beach is a sandy road. I park on the pavement and walk down, maybe 500 meters. The sand gives way to pebbles. It smells fishy. The sea doesn’t usually smell fishy to me, but it’s been hot and stale for a couple of days. It reminds me of the smell of the mill, the black liquor, all salty and sweet with notes of overboiled cabbage.

The horizon is just barely concealed from me by a row of clouds. Rats.

Still, it’s nice here. The tide is going out, which always makes spectacular waves as the undertow trips them. The whitecaps are easily 5 feet, maybe taller. You could surf here. I inch closer and closer to the waves. Even if one catches me, the tide is going out. It’s unlikely to be able to take me away, and it won’t be catching up to me suddenly. I run away as a big wave chases me up the beach. This was worth it, even if I can’t watch the sun set. The sound and smell of the sea always sets me right at ease.

There’s a small rock out on the horizon, called Alhambra.

“Worshiping Hecate?” Paul asks.

“Hecate isn’t an ocean god.” I like Hermaeus Mora. Cthulu is sort of an ocean god. Or maybe Dagon. HP Lovecraft’s Dagon, cuz the ‘real’ Dagon was actually a god of grain. Archaeologists mistook a sheaf of wheat for a fish. Try Ta Poutini, the Maori god of the sea. Such as it is.

Would he miss me? No, Abzu is freshwater. Tiamat is salt water. Wrong place to ask.

What is the Adriatic like? How does it sound? What does it smell like?

I wish the Vagabond was here with me, watching the orange sky fade as the sun went below the horizon. Listening to the sea. Probably chasing me with a handful of water, or picking me up and threatening to throw me in. Would we ride on the same bike, or have two separate bikes? I imagine his face if he saw my dinky little 150. “You call that a bike?” Breaks into a big grin.

I wish you could see this, so you’d know I wanted you here.

It’s dark enough to need my headlights for once, the latest I’d ever been out on the bike. It feels naughty to be out so late, out without my gear. It’s going to be hard to sell the bike. The longer I own it, the more I want to ride it. 4 months, a slow burning addiction. I used to feel like I was a pretender wearing the mask of a biker before, but now the mask is my face.

This is who I am.