Heaps of Wow Part One

My friend Justin was right, I should have named my blog "heaps of wow." But no, I had to have something pithy. Oh well, next trip, Justin gets to name the blog.

Bicycle assembly stands in the Auckland airport are a wonderful thing. If one exits the glass doors of the terminal, one will find Park Tool assembly clamps bolted to the wall. It made my life easy.

Camping for free among grazing sheep at a scenic reserve seven kilometers away from the airport is also a wonderful thing. It also made my life easy.

I skipped Auckland. I've seen plenty of cities on my trip. Also, making my way in and out of cities is not fun. It takes forever, I have to dodge traffic, and I choke on exhaust. So I just blew out of town the next day for some scenic riding along the north coast of the north island. Rolling hills and vineyards dominate the landscape, and I was never very far from a roadside fruit and veggie stand.

Back in Oz, one of my rear rack dropout braze-ons separated from my frame. So one side of my rack was dangling free. I jammed a piece of wood into the frame, and somehow this managed to support my rack for 130k. After visiting my first campsite near the Coromandel Peninsula, the other braze-on broke, and my rack and bags fell onto the rear tire. Luckily it could be fixed by lashing some sticks to the frame and rack with hemp twine. The white doves were curious about my predicament, and they helped my hot head cool down a bit.

Heading back onto the coast road with my bandaged bike, I realized I was out of shape. All that time hiking in Tassie made my cycling muscles wither a bit. Some of the steepest hills on my NZ travels were found here. It was hot, and it was humid, and I suffered. I had to stop every few hundred meters after crawling up a few more switchbacks with my head pounding hard and drips of sweat raining from my face.

I wasn't finding free camping when I needed it, and many of the forests were closed due to logging operations. I know everybody has to put bread on the table, but it is such a shame to see clear-cutting. Where there is no clear-cutting, most of the hills are covered with non-native pine tree plantations. Some of them are even planted in perfect rows, awaiting the day they will be razed. Log trucks are a common sight on the roads. They would blow past me carrying the smell of freshly sawn wood.

The road south toward the center of the island was hot and full of trucks. In the coming days I would find long days in the saddle. Small roadside ice cream shops and organic fruit stands would be my rest stops. On the way to Rotorua, I ran out of water and had to drink some from a stream. Parched and clutching my water bottles, I slipped on the slippery rocks near the stream, adding bruises to my already sore ass and hands. Arriving in Rotorua, I was cooked. My head felt hot, and I ate too much for dinner which made me feel terrible. On the bright side, there was to be no giardia attack from the stream water.

There were so many tourist buses and stupid billboards showing tourists doing stupid things, that I decided to bypass Rotorua. I did stop at a geothermal area south of town, only to find that they charged 27 bucks just to walk around in an area of nature. I guess it wasn't enough to have a glittering shop full of useless trinkets and souvenirs. Bah humbug! I settled for a bubbling pool of mud near the highway that was free to walk up to. It was actually quite nice. Bubbles of gas were coming from somewhere deep in the earth, surfacing in the steaming tan goo going Blap! Blap! Sploosh!

Somewhere south of there, I took a shower without getting off my bike. Damn it felt good. Despite my truck-shower, arriving in Lake Taupo, I was cooked. I had some fish and chips served to me by an angry oriental lady. Damn it tasted good. It was so fresh. I found a shady spot at a caravan park near the lake. The owner convinced me to go jump in the cold lake. He said, "You'll feel like a new man." He was right. It erased the lingering hot pounding in my head, and I sat on the volcanic stone beach feeling completely refreshed. The park turned out to be the best non-free night of the trip, as I met Jenny and Peter, a couple from England travelling around in a camper van. They gave me delicious cumin bread, red wine, and got me all excited about hiking. It was kind of sad to say goodbye to them in the morning. I kind of didn't want to. They were so kind and good.

The next day, arriving at the Mangahuia DOC site near the Tongariro National Park, I was cooked. The swimming hole in the river was ice-cold though, and I splashed water on myself which made me feel less cooked. I spent three nights and two days in the park. It was the highlight of the whole north island.

Day 1


There are two huge active volcanoes in the park, and I set off in the morning for the highest one, Mt. Ruapehu. This is where Mordor was set in The Lord of the Rings movies. It is a towering edifice rimmed with snow, and void of plants. Powerful forces have made strange colors and twisted the rock into unearthly formations. Scrambling up boulder-gardens past sculpted ice and towering waterfalls, I climbed. Boots crunched over snow fields, then sank into soft pumice sloping skyward. Toward the ridgeline that points to the summit, winds increased with the ascent. On the ridge, a man is running as if escaping something. I soon found out. Winds arcing over the ridge are enough to lean into, and seem to be growing in strength. Seeking relative shelter perched on the leeward side of the pumice ridge, I didn't want to give up yet. Each meter up, the wind howled with more fury. Another quick scramble up the soft slope to the next solid outcropping of lava rock. A little shelter, catch my breath and go again into the wind. Squinting eyes toward the next outcropping, bits of pumice stinging my face. Climbing up a bigger section of lava rock and daring to peer over to the windward side was like being hit in the face with a hard pillow. 'No thanks, that's too much." I said. Ruapehu wins and I start to hurry down. Winds are much stronger on the pumice ridge now. Trying to stand up and run, my legs are blown out from under me. Bits of pumice in the air now feel like hot needles in my face. Must cross to the windward side to get down. I think to myself, "People have done harder things," and I go for it. The wind hits my legs and my arms plunge into the pumice again. Not yet. One more rest on the leeward side. "No, it's not stronger than me." Teeth clenched and cheeks flapping, planting feet in the puffy ground and leaning forward, the ridge is crested, and I run like I'm fleeing a beast down the soft, 45-degree slope with a jet of grey dust behind me. It's easy to run down the soft slope, and it feels a bit like floating as I descend into the calm valley. There I meet another defeated hiker. "I just got my ass kicked." I said. "Just too windy" he says in a German accent.


Back at the swimming hole, splashing the clear water on my face again, I watched the flakes of pumice drift down the stream. It felt like well deserved relaxation at the swimming hole. The sun hit the water and created hypnotic, undulating, honeycomb patterns of reflected light on the rock walls above the stream. The air was calm, and seeds drifted in the sun above the water. Such peace to contrast such violence.


In the carpark, I meet Raphael #2 from Israel who had locked his keys in his car. I gave him one of my spare spokes, and he used it with success to pop a lock open. We sat and talked and he made spiced coffee. He had a calm manner of speaking, and I found him quite pleasing to talk to. With him was Alex from Germany. Alex shared some of the awe of his travels around New Zealand. He said that sometimes he couldn't believe what he saw was real, and described the surreal sight of the turquoise rivers of the south island.

Day 2



Another day, and another volcano to climb. This one is a perfect cinder cone (it can be seen in the above picture from the summit of Ruapehu). It was also the setting for Mt. Doom in The Lord of the Rings. I hiked through a valley of lava flows to the base of the cone. From there, it's straight up a 45-degree slope of pumice and fields of lava chunks that make low-pitched hollow clicks under my shoes. The softness of the pumice saps the energy from my legs, and the climb felt endless. I passed an active steam vent near the summit where I photographed some miniature plants and beetles that thrive in the moist warmth. The final bit of climbing ends at the rim of a crater stained blood-red. I spent over an hour there exploring the rim and climbing down near the inky center. At one moment, the earth must have tremored, as it sent a few rocks tumbling down into the mouth of the crater. The trip down was another floating run. What seemed like a mile of soft slope stretched below my feet, ending right at the valley floor. It was almost effortless to lift each foot and descend onto the next with a puffing crunch. Occasionally, I would slip and fall backwards into the spikey lava rocks, offering a little blood to the volcano. When I reached the valley floor, I was covered in ghoulish grey dust. I dumped a mound of it out of each shoe, and slapped clouds of it from my clothing. On the way back to my bike, I stopped at a waterfall in the valley where the water is stained orange, and an eden of lush plants grow in the mist.


Back at the swimming hole to wash the pumice from my skin again. I found Raphael and Alex there, and we all relaxed and stared at the honeycomb light for a long time. An older Swiss fellow with dreadlocks and big grey beard came down to join us with his hang. A hang is a metal instrument shaped like a UFO with dimples in the top. It is played by tapping the fingers and thumbs on the dimples, an it sounds like strings being plucked. He played his hang masterfully, accompanied by the sound of the water. We all stared off into space. We were all free.


The next day, I bid Raphael and Alex farewell, and I headed for the train station nearby. For whatever reason, I was not looking forward to riding the second half of the distance south to Wellington, and the train was only sixty bucks (30 U.S. bucks). I met an annoying American lady from Huntington Beach at the train station. She was on a solo, whirlwind, sightseeing trip of New Zealand, and was feeling quite empowered and quite chatty. I didn't want to listen to her, but I did anyway. I guess I'm a glutton for punishment.


The train was spectacular. I sat near a huge glass window and watched the landscape flash by. It's a commuter train, but they have an announcer telling the passengers about all the interesting things passing the windows. After a while, I figured out that I could go outside between the luggage car and the first passenger car. I stood there in the rushing air for the last couple hours before arriving in chilly Wellington. Over the noise of the train engine, I talked with a girl who was off to have a five month outdoor course in the south island. She was going to do big hikes, kayaking trips, climbing, and who knows what else. I admired her courage for taking off right after high school to do something so big.


Wellington is a great city, and I had a lot of good times there. I found a cheap bed and breakfast with free internet and free laundry. The owner was really strange though. I went to the free Te Papa museum, to the botanic gardens where I sat in the "fragrant garden," to a hip cafe to eat a delicious burger, and to a "Turkish restaurant" where I talked to the Iraqi owner about politics and world affairs. He wanted me to go to the south island to get hash for him. I told him I didn't have time, and that it would be hard to make runs on my bike. I strolled along the wharf looking at art, through the old cemetery on the hill, and around the civic square where a big metal ball is suspended above the sidewalk. I also met up with Alex again for two nights of beer and good times. We ate Indian food and cheap pizza. We went bar hopping and met a Scottish guy with a rugby jersey who bought us drinks. It was Thursday, but it was like a big party on the streets due to an upcoming rugby tournament. Our evening of craziness was terminated by the theft of our jackets. We had left them for a moment, and they were gone. Somewhere, someone is enjoying my fancy hiking jacket.


For some reason, it felt like the end of something. The next morning, painful as it was to get out of bed and onto a pitching ship, was to be the beginning of a whole new chapter of adventure.


Stay tuned for Heaps of Wow Part Two.