DAY 1

I arrive in Queenstown at 12:40pm. Toby and Helle pick me up. It’s my first time in New Zealand in 2 years. It’s frighteningly familiar, like slipping on a well-liked pair of jeans you left lying in some cupboard. It probably doesn’t help that I only slept an hour the night before.

After an iced coffee and some final packing we get on the road. It’s my first time on the back of a bike. I like the feeling of immediacy. No glass to look through, no metal to protect you. The world is right there, in your face. Going at 80, 90, 100 is an entirely new experience, a slap in the face. Passing the first car on the road is exhilarating, adrenaline courses through my veins. It would be a lie to say it’s not scary. But I get used to it.

Moving with the bike and knowing when to lean is a little strange at first, particularly in corners. You relinquish control to the driver and must trust that the lean isn’t too far, even if every nerve-ending tells you it definitely is.

The landscape we drive through is the same I’ve travelled before. Beautiful, yet to me it’s so familiar that I have to concentrate not to be dulled by it. This changes once we’re on the plains south of Queenstown. My sunglasses are polarised, which has a strange effect on the mountains. They dance in vivid technicolour, in synchronicity with our movements, the sky a strange ultramarine blue.

The wind is the master of this landscape and it never lets you forget it. The countryside looks tame but on a bike you’re merely a plaything for the wind. It toys with you like an unruly child playing with a new doll. It doesn’t know where your breaking point is. And one look at the sparsely scattered trees reminds: you’re not in control here. They grow at odd angles, forced into an unnatural slant by the winds.

The plains have suffered from a prolonged drought and the desert browns and muddy greens have a certain rough beauty. It’s refreshing and invigorating to be able to look further than the next block of apartment buildings.

We stop every hour and, on our third stop, Simon joins us, just before we go on gravel for the first time. The sandflies are out in force, even in this windswept country. Riding on gravel is infinitely more fun, if a lot slower. Toby and I have to learn to work together. Or, more accurately, I have to learn to read his intentions.

We ride along a power pylon maintenance road, called Borland Road, which leads us to Borland Pass and finally, Lake Manapouri. As I am to learn later, a lot of the tracks we visit are maintained to service New Zealand’s power grid. Thank God for wires. At the time I find the pylons annoying. They disturb the serenity of the forest, unsightly reminders of a world I want to forget, for the time being.

The smell of the trees is musty, comforting, familiar. They rush by, only the smell is constant. Every now and then I can see a clearing; the path hacked into the woods for the pylons. Just before the pass they disappear from sight. The forest opens at the pass and I’m speechless. The beauty of this place literally brings tears to my eyes. Cleughearn Pass is capped in snow and far below I can see the Green Lake.

Many adjectives can and have been used to describe the effect landscapes like this have on people. I feel that all of them cheapen and demean it in some form or another. This is a diary of sorts and I’ll describe what I saw, but bear in mind that descriptions are limited, and the only way to know it is to feel it yourself.

There’s a word in German: unbeugsam. Roughly, it translates as indomitable, insurmountable. It is the most fitting word I can think of to describe what I see and what I will come to see.

It’s tempting to think of places as “speaking” to you, of them being somehow intrinsically linked to you, and of imparting to you some wisdom or lesson. Which I think is a load of shite. A place like this wasn’t made for you, wasn’t created for you to learn the mysteries of life, wasn’t put in place for you to discover it. It exists entirely apart from you and will do so for a very long time.

There’s beauty in that.
 

DAY 2

It started raining last night when we cooked dinner under our makeshift shelter. We’re camped at the Southern arm of Lake Manapouri, which is believed to have been misnamed by early settlers, its original name being Roto-ua, meaning Rainy Lake. It’s fitting, since the area gets an annual rainfall of about 8,000 mm.

I wake up early, around 6am. The silence of the previous night has been replaced by the constant tapping of the rain and a waterfall that came back to life overnight. The sky is grey and the drizzle soaks everything. The trees have beards, the colours are muted. Fog and clouds hide the hills and forests, lending them a mythical air.

Packing up takes a little while. The tents are rolled up, wet as they are. The rest of our gear is relatively dry. The ride back is just as stunning as yesterday. Clouds slowly flow over the hills, the Grebe Valley stretches out below us, interspersed with waterways and small lakes. The utter loneliness of this place is enchanting.

Once we’re back on the road I get a first glimpse of real speed on a bike. Simon likes to overtake people. Fast. The adrenaline means I don’t really feel the cold until we stop at a cafe in Mossburn. Though I guess it’s really more of a convenience store, tourist shop, and cafe, all rolled into one. I only notice how cold I am once we’re inside and the adrenaline’s worn off. Hot chocolates and delicious venison pies with a sweet cranberry sauce, in addition to a gas heater bring back life to our limbs.

From Mossburn it’s a short ride to Garston, where our next off-road track starts: Nevis Road. While we head up to the pass I don’t lean into corners with Simon, with the result being a bit of swearing. I only figure out how much more difficult that made riding in the last two corners.

The view from the top hut is partly obscured by clouds, with intermittent patches of sun in the farmland below. There isn’t much in the way of vegetation up here. Yellowish bunches of Tussock grass and not much else. It’s desolate.

There’s no more rain but slowly the clouds envelop us, hiding more and more of the plains below. The silence is deafening. In the height of winter, snow swallows every noise and the fog has a similar effect. My ears are ringing, not used to having no input. I can hear the sound of my own blood, as though I’m holding a shell to my ear. The only thing that breaks the peace are my thoughts which seem loud enough to be heard.

We collect some firewood, using an old beam to break bigger pieces up and block one of the doors with a mattress to keep the heat in. The hut is well built, with insulation stuffed into the walls. We hang up our gear around the fire and cook pasta. A medley of deliciousness. Red wine rounds off the meal.

The simplicity of life on the road is addictive. Chores are enjoyable and there’s something to be said for life on limited means.
 

DAY 3

When I get up we’re still covered in clouds. The silence is insurmountable. Every word you speak into it gets swallowed up and forgotten immediately.

The fire went out overnight, but the warmth stuck around, at least for a while. Breakfast is bacon sandwiches. We head off late morning and I’m on the back of Simon’s bike again.

Once over the pass the cloud cover starts to lift. The sun comes out and reveals a plush, soft landscape in total contrast to what we’d seen at Lake Manapouri. The hills are gentle, weaving their way through the landscape, plush and green. There are small creeks cutting through the plushness, with clear mountain water. It’s easy to forget yourself when you’re drowning in sheer beauty. I feel reduced to a reactionary, not capable of much independent thought, apart from variations of amazement and wonder.

Every now and then I spot abandoned old stone huts, sometimes just walls, the roof having caved in, and strange lines cut into the hill. Simon tells me they are so-called water races, remnants of the gold-rush that once brought Chinese workers to this area. Parts of the valley show the remains of entire hillsides cut up and discarded in the search for the precious metal. It’s strange to think that all of this would have been achieved with manual labour; no heavy machinery, no engines. Just spades, shovels, and pick-axes.

There are several small rivers we have to cross as we make our way along the valley. Once the cloud is gone it gets hot quickly. I experience my first river crossing. I’d been told about river crossings before we started the trip and I expected them to be a little more dramatic than they turned out to be. Although they do get dramatic, later on this trip.

The difference in the landscape at the other end of Nevis Road is stark. A prairie painted in auburns, browns, and yellows. Green has been replaced by strange rock formations that evoke the deserts of Arizona. Yellowish Spaniard grass grows all over the place, with their cruel looking flowers, like medieval maces. At the summit we’re in the clouds again. I can barely see 10 meters ahead. The other side of the Nevis is the most challenging and most fun ride so far. Steep descents and tight corners put my legs to the test and I’m afraid to say they don’t fare so well.

Out of the clouds, in the distance are snow covered mountains, with a sprawling vista of Cromwell and the surrounding farmland sprawling out far below us. Greens, blues and gentle yellows come alive in the sunshine, small lakes and a river cut through the monotony of the vineyards and wheat fields. Simon takes a couple of fun shortcuts while we ride down.

At the bottoms of the descent we take a right and head into Hawksburn Road. This makes for even trickier riding, with big rocky patches, steep climbs, and grease-like patches of semi-dried mud. Simon nearly drops his bike twice, while Helle achieves front-runner status in the coveted who-drops-the-bike-the-most competition. First, second, and third prize are derision and Schadenfreude.

The ride along the plateau is enjoyable, but it becomes truly spectacular on the descent to Alexandra. Views that were partially obscured by hills on the way down from Nevis Road are now opening up in their full splendour. The whole valley spreads out before me, with mountains in the distance. Lakes, rivers, groups of trees, and the patchwork of farmland look as though meticulously painted by an obsessive artist with a penchant for miniaturisation. I get a little too excited about trying to film the ride down and lose my glove whilst trying to hold on to the bike and the camera at the same time. Helle kindly picks it up for me.

We eat lunch at a cafe in Alexandra. Every third car is an American muscle car of some description. It appears there was / is a meeting for petrolheads in one of the towns close by. After grocery shopping Helle literally loses her cool. Bike gear intensifies heat, as well as cold. There’s a little tension so it’s nice to get on the road again. The speed and immediacy of riding on bikes lets menial troubles slip away. The rest of the day turns into a blur.

The landscape we drive through is a bit of a mix between either end of Nevis Road. At least that’s what my notes say now while I’m writing this. The campsite is by an old stone hut. I’m surprised to see another tent pitched in the distance but we never make contact.

I’m a little overwhelmed with impressions and look for some loneliness, some space to let me process. I take around 15 minutes and let myself get distracted by my conscience, telling me I shouldn't sit around and help instead. Dinner is a stir-fry and a gorgeous sunset of pale pinks and gentle blues.
 

DAY 4

I get up early to try and catch the sunrise. The hills around us aren’t particularly tall but covered in thin clouds nonetheless. The sun doesn’t make it through the clouds. Instead they diffuse the light to a gentle, omnipresent pink sitting just above the crest of the hill to the west of the campsite.

After sleeping some more we have breakfast of ham and cheese sandwiches, Simon style. Which is to say fried. They’re a great start to any day.

Simon’s front tire has suffered a slow puncture and repairs are made. We ride the rest of Thomson Gorge, through the clouds, up and over. The sun’s shining again. Back on tar, the riding gets urgent. Missing the fun of riding gravel has to be compensated for and speed is the apparent heir to the throne. We ride towards and through Lindis Pass. Burnt gold and grey as far as the eye can see; bare rock and miles of tussock grass. Gone is any hint of green, any hint of welcome.

Omarama provides us with petrol and sandwiches. The next track we’re on is the hardest yet. Riding up to it the sky spells a foreboding message. Grey clouds, interspersed with blades of bright light, harsh to the point of hurting my eyes. Bare tree fingers reach into a storm brewing up above, framed by dry, golden grass. Farming machinery that should look imposing and mighty is reduced to a mere toy in comparison to the majesty of what I’m seeing.

Riding to the first ridge is easy, speedy even. Toby and I stop at the top gate. Burnt orange, steely greys, pastel pink, and hints of blue in the distance. Spots of light that appear on the plains far below are immediately chased by storm clouds. I’m barely a witness to this spectacle. The brutality, the forceful beauty of it is astounding. The question of spirituality comes up and I prefer to run from it.

No-one was ready for how heavy the riding would get. The way down the other side of the mountain is sweat-inducing for anyone suffering from problems with heights. Down in the valley the riding becomes A LOT trickier. The track is softened by rain, clay strips turning into traps for motorbikes. Huge ruts so deep that my foot pegs regularly hit the ground and there’s plenty of mud. We cross more streams and rivers than you could shake a stick at. It takes a lot of concentration to navigate terrain like this, especially with an additional 80kg on the back of a bike weighing in at 230kg. And it shows. Tempers start to flare when the going doesn’t get any easier. At the end of the track we still have another 5km to go, over a Grade 4 track. Out of 5. Needless to say Toby isn’t impressed.

Around 3km along the road, if you can call it that, turns into a river. Literally. Not a river crossing but the track literally is the river for about 100m. At this point I have got off the bike a lot of times to walk through particularly nasty crossings. The consequence is boots that consist of more water than boot. At the time I don’t notice the cold, adrenaline taking care of warmth and comfort. The challenge of it all excites me.

Luckily the hut is only another 500m from the river. And more, it includes an axe, firewood, a stove, and bunks with mattresses. In other words all the ingredients of a stew of happiness. I go for a swim in the creek and promptly forget that standing in cold water for a long time ruins circulation. I can’t feel my feet. It’s worth it though.

Dinner is pizza, cooked in a pan and it’s utterly delicious. Hot chocolate and brandy is a fabulous way to round out the evening.

The rain and clouds that look so miserable viewed from the inside of a dry hut transform this rough, forbidding landscape to an ever-changing assemblage of textures and shapes, of light and shadow, of stark contrast and indistinct hues. It overwhelms the senses with a distinct beauty all its own, leaves you feeling small and insignificant. A good spot for meditating I imagine. It’s easy to forget about banalities like personality here.

This landscape does not speak. It does not care. This severe melancholy is not easily ignored.
 

DAY 5

We aim to pack and leave the hut early. Outside the drizzle has continued overnight. The track is in worse condition than the day before and my feet are soaked within 5 minutes of leaving. Some of the ruts we went through yesterday are impossible to get through today. We take a few shortcuts and make most of the way back to the intersection unscathed. Simon has gone ahead and we nearly take the wrong road. When we get to the Homestead Hut, only 8km from where we started, it turns out that Simon has bent his front disc-brake. Tempers are anything but calm and after a short discussion we decide to wait out the shitty weather at the hut.

We go searching for firewood, which is all soaked. We get a little fire going nonetheless and meet a couple who are, judging by their accents, from Scandinavia. The guy kindly lends me his saw and axe. I spend the next 45 minutes chopping firewood. I notice again how satisfying it is to spend my time with menial tasks. I fill up as much of the wood bins as I can. Helle has made pikelets in the meantime and with the fire heating up the cabin and some food in our bellies the mood rises quickly.

Helle and Toby take a nap while Simon reads. We’ve hung our clothes on makeshift clotheslines and socks, boots, and gloves are happily steaming beside the fire. I grab Toby’s camera and attempt to take some photos. By now the drizzle has almost entirely stopped. The sun even shows its face every now and then. When it starts raining again I build a somewhat waterproof case for the camera out of a plastic bag. The photos turn out shit. I can’t quite put my finger on why it’s so difficult to get a decent photo on this trip. Perhaps it’s the scale of the places we go through. Perhaps it’s poor composition. Whatever it is, it’s infinitely frustrating.

I ride a motorbike for the first time and it’s exhilarating. I thought I enjoyed sitting on the back immensely but it’s nothing in comparison to riding myself. The start is a bit sketchy: being used to a nimble racing bike, it feels cumbersome. Toby and I go for a short ride. By the gate I ride Toby’s bike for a little bit, which is a little overwhelming at first. It’s exponentially more powerful than Helle’s bike.

By dinnertime the rain has stopped and we head out to a bridge not far from the hut. It’s in disrepair and heads to nowhere. Clouds cover the top of the Hawkdun range. The light starts to diffuse as the sun starts to set. Slivers of yellowish light cut through the blanket of dark grey above us. Once again I’m in awe. Orange and deep red light starts to light up the clouds in unexpected places. The shallow river below us slowly meanders its way through the valley. I’m spellbound. It’s strange to try to have a conversation about anything here. Everything I could say feels trivial.

The Hawkdun Range rises steeply before us, up to 2088m at Mt St. Bathans. As the temperature drops clouds pour slowly over the range. A thin line of deep, saturated red frames the horizon. Everything else is shades of grey; dark, forlorn, forbidding. The loneliness has sharp teeth and claws its way through my consciousness until it drowns out everything else.

Loneliness gets a bad rep, and as such we try to avoid it. I submit myself to it fully right now, welcome it, drown in it. As a result I feel a freedom that is so intense it blocks out everything else. I soar above the world for this moment, utterly disconnected from my usual reality. It’s curious that when it stops it leaves me feeling sheepish, as though the intensity of the experience is somehow improper.
 

DAY 6

We have an early start the next morning. Even though the experience of riding myself is more entertaining, I missed more of the landscape. Concentrating on the slippery track every now and then I glance around and am shocked to find myself surrounded by eye-candy.

We run into a herd of cows being driven towards us by a farmer. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, half the herd turns around and runs back while the others try to get past us. Simon is the only one decisive enough to overtake them. We all try not to scare them. Wrong tactic it turns out. There’s something amusing about the frightened stupidity of cows.

We stop for a quick lunch in Naseby and meet a most curious character. He’s an avid collector. Not of anything in particular, but of everything. His house has been converted into a museum, displaying everything from old soap boxes to toy cars. In one corner I find a blow-up Zimmer frame. There’s a model train set running in endless circles on the table in the middle of the room and he shows us his cars out the back. Delightfully strange man.

The weather is grey and somehow non, neither here nor there. We feel the first drops of rain and decide to carry on.

Once we hit the gravel on the way to Danseys Pass the rain is getting heavier. The road has small lumps of clay all along it which in this weather turn into death traps. The road climbs slowly but steadily and I learn more about how to work with Toby, especially from a couple of close calls. Once we slide on the back wheel around the entire corner. It’s nice to have something to concentrate on. It makes me forget about the fact that I’m soaked and cold.

We stop in Kurow for a Merino pie and get supplies for the next leg of the trip, the Hakateramea. At last census Kurow had 312 inhabitants, which makes the existence of a french deli and specialist butcher all the more incongruous. We buy some cinnamon bacon and pork farcé, which is pork belly with bread crumbs and spices. In the adjoining shop we eat our pies, have hot chocolates and try to get hold of a farmer we’re hoping to stay with on our way through the Hakateramea. The butcher, as well as a couple of other locals know of them and tell us to head straight there. We take their advice and by the time we get to their farm everyone is miserable, soaked and ready to turn in for the day. Luckily we’re able to stay in the shearing shed of the farm. There’s a large table, a stove, and a gas heater. Perfectly luxurious.

We make a warm salad of lamb & veggies and it’s delicious. Although we could have eaten bread with butter and still it would have been the most delicious thing we’d ever eaten. After a day’s ride, any food is spectacular.

Our clothes and all our gear is spread out all over the kitchen in an explosion of trying to get our gear dry. The rain is heavy and shows no sign of easing up. I record the sound on the tin roof for a little while and get annoyed at Toby at some point. One doesn’t spend this much time in such close proximity without needing a pressure release now and then.

Toby and I choose to sleep in the kitchen, partly due to the intense smell of sheep in the shed, and partly because we don’t want to disturb the others in the morning. We’ve decided to get up at the crack of dawn and head up to the Hakataramea pass to catch the sunrise, praying that the weather will be good to us.
 

DAY 7

I wake up the first time at around 4am. I can hear the rain on the roof and am sorely disappointed. I had really hoped for some sun. When I get up at 5am I figure out it was just the river in the distance. It’s swelled considerably overnight, cacophonous as it makes its way along the valley. I can vaguely make out a subtle lightening of the sky in the distance. The sky is almost clear of clouds, the moon and stars are out, and the air smells clean and fresh, cleansed after a heavy rainfall. It’s surprisingly cold, considering it’s the height of summer. The horses on the paddock get curious when we come outside, smelling or hearing us from 300m away. Slowly they make their way towards us, until they decide we’re either not a threat or terribly boring.

We pack. A coffee and a cigarette later and we’re on our way. It’s 6:15am and by now the sun is throwing orange light at the few remaining clouds in the sky. The grass is covered in dew, lighting up when the sunlight hits it. I imagine the sound of millions of tiny sparkling bells welcoming the morning.

This is the first day since we left the Nevis that we’ve had sunshine and it’s glorious. While Toby and I make our way slowly up the road we’re still in the shade. It’s cold, brisk, and utterly entrancing. The river is beside us, carrying crystal clear mountain water and the sun slowly starts to creep over the horizon behind us. Every now and then a blinding shaft of light hits us with startling intensity.

At the pass we can see Mt. Cook and the New Zealand Alps rising up from a valley that looks like a desert. Deep browns and dirty yellows mingle with greys and blacks. The sun has reached the point where it illuminates the snow on the peaks in the distance. There’s a strong wind blowing, cold, biting, and glorious.

Toby and I start wandering off in separate directions, each of us caught up in the moment. Evidently neither of us thinks much about the other, not willing to forego the experience for talking. I climb a hill bathed in early sunlight. From afar the vegetation looks sparse and neat but it’s surprisingly difficult to make my way to the top. Spaniard and Matagouri both have long, nasty spikes that you’d do well to avoid. By the time I get to the top of the hill I’m winded. High altitude and general unfitness. Pure joy washes over me. I watch the sun rise slowly while thin clouds slowly creep over the pass, engulfing the pass and temporarily diffusing the light so it seems omnidirectional.

After an hour or so we meet back at the bike and attempt to make some coffee. I don’t know if it’s the wind but the cooker won’t start so on we go. We leave the pass behind us and descend into an alpine desert. Everything looks either burnt or washed out by the intense sun. Once we’re off gravel Toby opens up the throttle and the landscape whizzes by in a blur. High winds knock us about a fair bit and we eat the road down to Lake Tekapo in no time.

Lake Tekapo has one of the clearest night skies in the world due to its incredibly clean air. Down by the lake the wind has died down considerably and most of the lake is undisturbed except for small breezes roughing up the water. We stop briefly and have a cigarette. We decide that we’ll ride alongside the lake to the end of the road.

The colour of the lake is unlike anything I’ve seen before. It’s so vivid, so blue that I think I’m looking at a cheesy postcard and the photographer has set the saturation far too high. The transition of blues goes from dark blue through turquoise to bright, icy glacier water. The air is so clean here that the mountains across from us look like they’ve been computer generated.

Along the way we pass some panicked sheep who’ve escaped their paddocks. One of them gets so scared that it blindly jumps off the road and straight into a metal gate. Befuddled it turns around and levels an accusing glare at us.

At the end of the road we make coffee and relax a bit. We’re supposed to meet Helle and Simon in Fairlie for lunch. Along the way we get battered by high winds, going fast along a straight, narrow road. It’s nerve-wracking for me to the point where I have to ask Toby to slow down. Fairlie is like a lot of small towns in New Zealand. A quick lunch with the obligatory chat to other bikers and we’re on the road once again.

The ride to Glenfalloch is uneventful, hot and boring. A herd of sheep blocks the way a short way into the dirt road that would lead us to the farm. Once there, we’re told that the road through the pass is blocked because of a logging crew. Simon doesn’t believe them but we turn around anyway and look for a campsite. We find one a short distance from the river. There’s an Italian man who’s set up close to us. He’s on a solo trip through NZ and likes to fish.

The river is too fast to swim in and it is the colour of anthracite on the edges and a steely light blue in the middle. We make dinner and are in bed before sundown.
 

DAY 8

The first part of the day is nothing remarkable. A long, boring ride to Hammer Springs that I don’t need to talk about. We have lunch and stock up on supplies before heading a short distance out of town and up to Edward’s Pass trail. The road is steep with plenty of blind corners. The forest blocks the view back into the valley most of the way. Just before the top we stop and the landscape spreads out far beneath us. I find it surprising, time and time again, how much further everything seems when you’re on top looking down.

The trail we ride along is stunning, nerve-wracking and immensely enjoyable. There’s a small plateau that rises fifty metres or so. Along the top I marvel at everything. The mountains are jagged, some of their faces have slid halfway down, revealing a medley of grey rock and gravel beneath. Juxtaposed with the burnt yellow grass around us, it makes for a harsh, beautiful contrast. It is sobering. I can actually see the passage of time and the enormous forces at work that created the mountains and valleys around us.

The way down on the other side of the plateau is terrifying and fun in equal measures. It looks innocent enough at the top but the corners are so tight in some places that the road appears to go into nowhere. The road isn’t so much gravel as it is dried mud, with long, deep gashes cut into it. The bike slides around and I think it’s safe to say that both Toby and I have our hands full trying not to court disaster. It’s exhilarating. After a day spent riding along the highway in all it’s grey monotony, having to concentrate so much, for so long, is a very welcome wake-up call. There’s a couple of near-disasters but in the end we make it to the hut with no incident.

We’re at the end of the track with a fast running river beside us and a bridge that appears to go straight into the face of the hill on the other side. Upon closer inspection there’s a thin bike trail that you could probably ride a mountain bike along. There’s storm clouds gathering and it feels like it might rain.

After dinner and a decidedly immodest amount of wine we decide to sleep outside on the bridge. Toby twists his ankle on the way down to the bridge. We roll into our sleeping bags and cover ourselves with tarpaulins, to protect ourselves from the dew. The moon is out, shining through the ragged clouds and the endlessly rushing sound of the river beneath soon puts me to sleep. I awake at some point in the night and get a mild scare. There’s a strangely graceful animal walking slowly along the bridge cables above me. At first I think it’s a wild cat but it turns out to be a possum.
 

DAY 9

I wake up at 4am and lie awake for the next two hours before the mosquitoes eating my face finally convince me to get up. Toby is already awake with coffee and a badly sprained ankle.

When Helle and Simon wake up we have breakfast followed by an endless discussion about how to get out of Edward’s Pass before the forecast bad weather locks us in. If the track we rode to get here was difficult, it will be nearly impossible with a sprained ankle, in the rain. Toby is annoyed because he feels patronised, Simon is concerned about the prospect of getting stuck with no supplies, Helle is annoyed at Toby’s obstinate attitude and I’m not sure what to make of the situation. Suffice it to say the mood is anything but ideal. We finally decide that Simon will ride Toby’s bike, fully loaded, to the start of the track, where he’ll dump the gear and come back to pick up Toby. Helle will ride the Suzuki and I’ll try to ride Toby’s bike. Which I’m excited about. And also shitting myself. The BMW is considerably heavier and harder to manoeuvre than the Suzuki.

With a few hick-ups I manage to make it safely to the end. There’s one particularly hairy crossing where I stall the engine about 20 times. I went into it too slowly and get the fear as a result. Sweaty and shaking afterwards I decide to throw caution to the wind and trust my gut. Which turns out to be the right thing to do.

At the top of the plateau there’s a small track that leads off to the right. An extremely steep rise follows. I jump onto the back of Simon’s bike and he races up the hill. Helle follows and just about makes it to the top. Right at the end she drops her bike and gets annoyed. The reason we’ve decided to go up here are four cascading pools that some madman, armed with a helicopter and a bunch of concrete, built by the side of a small stream. There’s piping that leads from a hot spring upriver into the pools. The cascading of the pools means that the top one is hottest, at around 40 degrees, and as you descend the pools get cooler. It’s utterly bizarre to be sitting in hot pools this far out in the wilderness.

I wash in the cold river afterwards and we make our way back to the start of the track.

Toby gets back on the BMW and we make it to a small river with a farmhouse, where we have sandwiches in the sun. Shortly after we make our way along the Rainbow, where I go on the back of Simon’s bike. He likes to point things out and explain things as we ride, which is nice. It forges a connection to what I’m seeing. The scale of this place is breathtaking. The size of everything around me renders me insignificant. Simon rides considerably faster than Helle and Toby and we take a detour to Lake Tennyson. The wind is strong up here and despite the heat of the sun it’s not warm. The lake is framed by tussock grass, yellow and parched, contrasting against the vivid blue of the lake. There’s a small hut with an info placard that tells of the early settlers of this place.

We continue on to the hut, expecting to find the others there. They’re not so after a brief discussion Simon turns back around while I wait at the little road that leads to the hut. Not long after everyone arrives. The hut has a splendid view over the valley and mountains in the distance. So does the toilet. According to Simon the most beautiful place in the world to take a shit.

Storm clouds threaten bad weather, far off in the distance. The sunlight is speckled by clouds and spots of light move quickly over the landscape, like searchlights. A herd of cows is being driven to a farm on the other side of the valley, calves frantically calling for their mothers. One in particular is freaked out enough to keep running back and forth, going from cow to cow in search of its mum.

I set up my tent. The others want to sleep on the veranda of the hut. The sunset is glorious and takes a long time. Burnt orange with the clouds still looming in the distance. Brilliant, soft light illuminates the grass and the wind is still strong, although we’re far more sheltered than at Lake Tennyson. We’re exhausted and head to sleep straight after dinner.
 

DAY 10

We get up early to catch the sunrise up at the pass. A truck with a horse on the back comes roaring past. It’s quiet otherwise. Patches of golden light slowly start to appear around us. I get sleepy and go back to the hut to get some more sleep. By the time I get up Toby is slightly worried that we won’t make it to Titirangi Bay.

Eventually we get under way and ride through more stunning terrain. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. There comes a point when you’re full up to the brim and the prospect of seeing more becomes exhausting. There are small waterways crisscrossing the road, making their way down to join the river far below us. Towards the end of the Rainbow we go through a steep gorge, with the river roaring alongside us. There’s more vegetation here, old trees and bush, which is easy on the eyes. After spending so much time looking at greys, yellows and the parched country that we just went through, it’s nice to see some greenery. Either side of the river the cliffs rise a hundred meters. The trees have beards of green moss hanging off their branches.

Not long before the end of the Rainbow we stop for lunch at a bridge spanning a narrow ravine with a sheer drop of thirty or forty metres. We drop rocks over the railing, successively trying to find bigger and bigger rocks. Soon enough we’re fed and ready to keep going. The rest of the ride is uneventful and once back on the highway we whizz through flat farmland and past vineyards. Nothing to feast my eye on. The weather’s hot and dry and when Toby and I stop to get some cigarettes and have a drink the heat is unbearable. Better to get back on the bike and keep going. At least the headwind cools us down a little.

After what is by far the sorest ride I’ve had, we end up in Havelock and stop for a beer and some fries. It’s nice to stretch my legs but we soon get back on the bikes to make our way to Titirangi Bay, along Queen Charlotte Drive. It’s a narrow, extremely windy road that must be the dream of any motorcyclist. Toby certainly loves it. As do I, but my legs start to cramp, which dampens my enjoyment slightly. Right around halfway there’s a sign warning us that the road ahead will be curvy. The person who decided to put it there is either an idiot or has a very antagonistic sense of humour. We lean into the corners enough to scrape the centre-stand on the tarmac several times.

At the end of Queen Charlotte Drive we get to the settlement of Paradise, where the road changes back to gravel. The track meanders through native bush, the sun only coming through the leaves here and there. You’d never guess it’s so close to the ocean.

We ride for around twenty minutes or so until, so suddenly I get startled, the shrubbery is gone and I’m looking out over the Marlborough Sounds and Cook Strait. The view sends shivers over my arms and spine. It is indescribably beautiful. As we arrive Helle and Simon speed off, keen to get to the campground. We stop to breathe it all in. And have some, I feel, well deserved wine. Unfortunately it’s on Simon’s bike.

I am overcome by a profound sense of gratitude. It brings tears to my eyes, this spectacle. The isolation up here is total, uncompromising as it washes over me.