You Can Only Get Wet Once

Most hostels keep a free food shelf in the fridge for things people leave behind, and the night before I’d eyed up four eggs in a carton, earmarked for breakfast. I went through at six to boil them for dippy eggs, only to find somebody had beaten me to it. Dang nabbit.

I set out into a drizzly morning with just fifteen miles to cover to catch Eal up in Franz Josef, including three short but reasonably steep passes that warmed me up nicely. I found him by nine, coffee in hand — he’d spent the past few days convinced I was ahead of him rather than behind, and had been racing to catch up each day without realising it. We’d be spending the afternoon on a guided hike up Fox Glacier, and in preparing we layered up with a few extra bicycle layers on top of the trousers, jacket, boots and crampons the company provided. It turned out to be a clear, sunny day, and the extra gear stayed in my pack the whole time.

A short fifteen-minute walk through the valley brought us to the terminus of the glacier, and stepping onto the ice was an extraordinary experience. We hiked further up, taking in its features close-up, and the few hours we spent up there flew by — I genuinely didn’t want to leave. A phenomenal place.

Cold out!

Town of Fox Glacier

Making our way to the terminus of the glacier.

“Do these cramp-on my style?” …tumbleweed.

Our guide was called Bryan Andersen, how funny!

Leaving Fox Glacier the next day, conditions were still bright, but it wasn’t going to last. When the rain arrived it came cold, heavy and relentless. There is absolutely nothing — nothing at all — along the seventy-five miles between Fox and Haast. Our snack stops were taken standing in the pouring rain, water trickling off the front of my helmet, and the only respite from the downpour came in a small shelter at a lookout, where I spent a few minutes reading the information boards on local seabirds and finished off the rest of my cookies. It’s not wise to hang around too long once you’re cold and wet, so I got moving sharpish to keep my body temperature up.

I kept myself as rigid as I could to avoid feeling my wet, crinkling coat and sodden lycra against my skin any more than necessary. On the downhills the rain felt like standing under a cold shower jet, with no way to wipe my face dry, so I just blinked and blinked. We finally reached Haast and our accommodation for the night, best described as a converted community centre, with a decent stock of firewood and every sock, shoe and item of cycling kit laid out to dry. I was simply relieved that eight hours of riding in the rain was over. It had taken me somewhere new mentally that day — I wouldn’t call it real adversity, but I know now that I can cope with a full day in those conditions, even if camping was never on the cards given the state of our tents and clothes. Good job New Zealand is set up so well for backpackers.

Wet pup.

Lost cow is lost!

Pruned.

The weather apparently hadn’t read my script for the following morning. Yesterday’s rain was still coming down, and the puddles had grown into lakes. Determined to keep dry feet for once, I resorted to the plastic-bag-over-socks technique — funny, in hindsight, given we’d spent all evening carefully drying everything out only for it to be soaked again within seconds of setting off.

There would be nothing at all again today between our start and end points. The early riding traced upriver, nothing too taxing, with one small shelter before we crossed at the ominously named Gates of Haast, where I ducked out of the rain for a moment to eat a couple of bananas. From there the climbing began, steep and winding, one of the rare stretches on this trip where I had to stand on the pedals for the whole climb. It levelled out nicely near the top of the pass, and in the end wasn’t too long. I stopped briefly to chat with some trampers about bicycle touring, then got moving again, conscious of being wet and cold with a downhill still ahead.

The rain finally eased for the last ten miles into Makarora, little more than a scatter of farms and a small holiday village where we’d be staying, the buildings all triangular and slightly eccentric. I found a bed in one of the dorms and was already showered and sipping Earl Grey by the time Eal arrived, looking exactly as I must have not long before — shivering, bewildered, spent. We got the fire going without any kindling, which felt like a small triumph, and with nobody else due to arrive that evening, we had the whole dorm block to ourselves.

Determined to keep my socks dry today.

Poor Brooks is not supposed to get wet.

The cycling gods finally showed us some mercy for the ride to Queenstown — clear skies and strong, gusting tailwinds. The first forty miles to Wanaka were probably the easiest I’ve ever ridden, the wind pushing us over the hills and along the straights at real speed. Wanaka turned out to be a beautiful, outdoorsy town right on its own lake. Eal caught up with me over lunch, and we set out into the afternoon together, climbing the Crown Range as the temperature soared.

The landscape, the heat and the narrow road up the Crown Range reminded me of the Columbia River Gorge. From the top the view stretched for miles, Queenstown visible far below in its valley by the lake. The descent was made properly terrifying by the low guard rails along the cliff edge — the strong winds and tight hairpins kept pulling me toward the drop.

Six miles from Queenstown we picked up an off-road bike path into town, a welcome break from the traffic of Highway 6. This is the south island’s main draw for backpackers, hikers, thrill-seekers and pub crawlers alike — everyone we’d met so far had either been here or was heading here. Sat in the middle of several epic mountain ranges, we’d given ourselves a few days to see what all the fuss was about.

Off-road trail to QT