Heaps of Wow Part Två

I missed breakfast, and the strange owner of the B&B mocked me for it. I was indeed hungover, much deserving of a snide comment, but I had also received a touch of something from the Iraqi's kebabs, which resulted in a bilious upchucking wake-up call. The B&B owner noticed my trembling sickness and decided to change the tune. "Take care brotha. You're a good man." He said. I told him I had a great stay, and I pulled a stiff leg over my saddle for a slow ride to the pier.

I had given up on riding during my time in Wellington. My money was running out, and as much as I wanted to see the splendors of the south island, I didn't want to come home with a credit card bill. I had joined WWOOF and signed up to work at a vineyard in Marborough training young vines for a month. I planned to just ride straight there, work for room and board, and then fly away from New Zealand. It saddened me to be so close to the natural wonders of the south and give up on them. It saddened me to give up on riding. Having to buy a cheap raincoat with my credit card also saddened me.

I slept on a wooden bench for an hour near the pier as people walked by along the wharf and stared. The sounds of their jabberings turned hollow with waves of sleep. "We could do that honey! Ride around with all that stuff! Harharhar." "Tpfff! Speak for yourself dear."
"Dad! Dad! Why is that bike so biiiiiig?"
"Check out this foo." "Shit yo."
I stiffly awoke, rubbed my puffy eyes, and rode through the groups of elaborately costumed rugby fans streaming toward a stadium. There was a group of teletubies, kings, knights, bumblebees, and togas. A group of eight fellows dressed as care-bears strode confidently with their morning beer buzzes. "We care!" one of them arbitrarily proclaimed. I however, did not care. I just wanted to get on and off the ferry that would take me to the south island.

As I stood with a drawn face and waited for the boarding call, a cute girl with a beaming smile bounced over to me with her boyfriend in tow. "Hi. It's so great to meet other bikers! Where have you been so far?" Her kindness brought me out of my murk, and soon we were sharing our cycling experiences. Shortly thereafter, another girl arrived at our circle, greeting the three of us with a Swedish accent. By the time we boarded the ship, we were all friends. I suggested we all ride together as a merry bunch, and so, my plans changed. No more vineyard. I would ride and try to live as cheaply as possible. Luc and Torrey are from Indiana, and Mikaela is from Göteborg. I was happy to have good company.

The ship was huge and heavy with a belly full of cars, trucks, and buses. Unfortunately, the waves were also huge, and the bulk of the ship slowly rose, fell, rolled, pitched and lurched. The motions were soft, muffled by the tonnage of the vessel, but my stomach resisted them as if the whole earth was moving in some unnatural way. It's like being dizzy. Everything is moving, but your brain doesn't think it should be. I sat out in the fresh air clutching a bottle of orange juice with white knuckles trying to imagine the motion of the ship, the waves pushing against the hull, and tell my brain that it was real. Somehow, I managed to hold onto what little was in my stomach for the three hour trip. I was glad to feel the ship bump against the huge pads on the pier as we reached the south island.

So there we were, a merry group riding together westward in the sun. We made it to Nelson, and stayed there for a couple days to plan a group walk along the Abel Tasman Coastal Track. There is a huge beach there, and Mikaela and I basked in the sun, ate fresh peaches, bread, yogurt, and tomatoes. The sun felt good, but left it's burning mark on my stomach and back in strange patters. I was to be lobster-red for the next week.

After a swim in the waves, we were talking, and I was looking at the horizon. A long, sleek, dark shape rocketed out of the water, thrashed in the air, and splashed back out of view. I paused, shocked for a long moment. "Okay. I just saw a shark leap out of the water." It was not a dolphin, as had a vertical tailfin. I looked around at the people swimming. Hmm, should I tell them? I elected to not be an alarmist, but rather to keep my eyes peeled for a while. It was unnerving to get back into the water and wash off the sand.

Northward we rode with our goal and our Abel Tasman hiking passes. We passed a sign. Yes, it felt good. It felt good to be on the bike instead of working in a field. It felt good to be with good people. It felt good to have uncharted territory ahead and the promise of rainforest trails and golden beaches.

Torrey lived in Norway for a spell, and Mikaela also knows Norwegian. For a while, both girls rode behind Luc and I singing Norwegian songs. It felt good. I was fortunate. I was experiencing the real reason for travel, and the creation of bright memories.

I was realizing something, something that John Steinbeck felt when he wrote The Grapes of Wrath.
"...one time he went out in the wilderness to find his own soul, an' he foun' that he didn' have no soul that was his'n. Says he foun' he jus' got a little piece of a great big soul. Says a wilderness ain't no good, 'cause his little piece of a soul wasn't no good 'less it was was with the rest, an' was whole."

The beaches and bays just kept getting more spectacular as we walked north along the coast. The rain swells the roots and leaves of the forest, and the sand is orange and gold. The tides are dramatic, and we had to plan our two camping locations and walking times based on when we could cross bays at low tide. As we walked the low-tide crossings, we were traversing a place that would be a meter or two under water within a few hours. The advance and retreat of the water reshapes the sand twice a day in undulating wavy dunes. Crabs dove into sandholes, and our feet crunched over vast banks of seashells. We cooked dinner on the beach and ran into the waves. I tried to see how long I could run flat out before the water brought my legs to a halt. It sprayed up and cooled my face. I let myself fall and listened to the gurgling of bubbles around my ears. The hissing of the waves turned inside-out into a muffled rumble. If I push all the air out of my lungs, I sink, even in the salty ocean. I sank and came to rest in the calm below the waves and listened to the blue oblivion.

Luc could be a hand model. He's got the skills, and he demonstrated them by showing some fine aquatic specimens. The sea star felt tingly as it wiggled it's tentacles against the skin of a palm. It was nice. The jelly-like creature that sent a spike into Torrey's foot and drew blood was not so nice. Luckily we were in New Zealand where there are almost no venomous creatures, so there was nothing to worry about. The jelly-thing still gave me the willies though.

That night we sat and watched the tide come in as darkness fell. The great volume of the bay was filled within a few hours. "It's like watching the creation of the world." Mikaela said. The air grew cold and the fog was a dark grey above the black hills and the few soft lights shining in the cabins of sailboats. In the dark water, we saw a few soft electric green dots appear briefly. It was not a trick of the mind. Mikaela ran her fingers through the water, and a trail of electroluminescence lit up behind each finger. She threw up a handful of water, and the resulting splash lit up like a dim burst of sparks. The bay was full of electroluminescent algae that glows momentarily when subjected to kinetic energy. I scooped up a handful of water and thumped the back of my hand. Particles of algae lit up an erie green and faded away like miniature fireflies. We stayed up late playing with the surreal phenomenon. It was dreamlike and truly bizarre. I was happy.

We had a day of rain hiking along the last stretch of the track. New Zealand seems to be the land of coincidences, as everyone seems to have some bizarre meeting with someone they know from home or from their travels. As we waited for our water taxi, I ran into Peter and Jenny again. We were hundreds of miles from where we first met, and on a different island. What are the odds? It was so nice to see them again and hear their kind voices.

After we completed our three-day hike, Luc and Torrey stayed behind to do some kayaking, and Mikaela and I headed for the northern tip of the south island. Jenny and Peter told us of a bizarre beach up there, so we took their advice. We had our first soaking on the descent of a huge climb called Takaka hill. As we dropped 2500 feet in 5 miles, the rain came pouring down. That night would be one of many rainy nights to come eating dinner together crammed into my tiny tent. It was one of the good dinners though, as we had fresh veggies to dice up and put on pasta.

The beach near the northernmost point is rugged and unique to any other I have seen. Huge rock arches are endlessly created and destroyed by the waves, and the rocks at the shore hide a plethora of deep caves and crevices. Sand dunes the color of the moon stretch several hundred meters from the water, and a big freshwater stream carves through them toward the sea. We ran down the dunes leaping from the tops and bathing our feet in the warm sand. The silvery sand exhibited different dessert textures in different areas of the beach and dunes. Some splattered like pudding, some was like walking on chocolate cake, some was like creme brulee, and some was like meringue. In one place, small holes opened up in the surface of the sand around each footstep. We ventured into one of the caves. It took us deep under a mountain of rock. Inside, the sound of the ocean had almost disappeared, and fresh water dripped from the ceiling.

Leaving the beach behind, we headed for Takaka hill again, as there is only one road in and out of the north tip. This time it was brutally hot as we ascended the 5 mile hill. We found an ice cold stream and stopped. It wasn't very big, but somehow Mikaela managed to get her whole body in the water. I chickened out and settled for dipping my shirt in the water and putting it on wet. We felt good for having made it to the top, and we stopped at a lookout where we knew there was a plumb tree. The tree required a little shaking, but a few delicious plums dropped for us. We also picked a couple handfulls of wild blackberries there. The descent from there was 17 miles of speed and switchbacks. It made me happy.

The next day was brutal. We were on our way to the west coast. We rode 120k and climbed another high pass. Our reward was a rest day at a place called Lake Rotaroa, a long glacial lake with high mountains as the backdrop. It was peaceful there except for the sandflies. A sandfly looks like a fruitfly, but it bites hard and leaves a red welt with a deep itch. I think mosquito bites itch at the surface, but sandfly bites seem to itch deep in the flesh. As we arrived at the lake, the sandflies descended on us and inserted their probosci in scores. They went up our pants, so we tucked our pants in our socks. They went up our shirts, so we tucked our shirts in our pants. They try to go in the ears, in the nose, and they bite the eyebrows and the lips. When nature calls, they drift in under the bathroom door and bite you in the ass. They wait around the zipper of your tent and zoom in as soon as it is opened. On the bright side, they are easy to kill, and they can't see at night, so they all disappear as soon as darkness comes.

On the jetty of the lake we met a local man originally from Scotland, and we philosophized with him about why humans need other humans. He told us about the time when he was a hunter in the nearby hills and he lived in a cabin by himself for weeks at a time. He said he was quite happy to be by himself for long periods of time, yet he seemed to enjoy our company very much, as he talked our ears off for hours. As we were leaving the campsite, he came down the road to send us off. "Just be careful out there." He said. "One time I saw this truck, he must have been doin' about seventy around a corner and was takin' the branches off the treetops. I don't know what he'd've done if there'd been a car pulled off the side. Holy mother McGinty! He'd've wiped it half way inta next century."

And so we hit the road. It was a fruitful road, and Mikaela here is showing off the free roadside fruit harvest for the day. Little yellow plums, sweet red plums, blackberries, and tart little apples were abundant. One yellow plum tree was almost killing itself. Half of its branches were touching the ground.

In the next days we saw so many beautiful and surreal places that I'm sure I will miss many in this post. Our luck with good weather ended as we reached the west coast at Westport. Our last dry night was spent at a free, hidden, and secluded campsite on Cape Foulwind. There was nothing foul about it as far as we could tell. We cooked dinner near the rocks where big waves were crashing, and the lighthouse blinked in the grey sky above us.

Westport is kind of crummy, especially in the rain. The morning was to be the beginning of four days of rain. After that we'd have spotty rain for another four. We took care of business in Westport, and we were finally leaving and about 5k away when Mikaela's rack broke. So back to crummy Westport for a new rack.

Down the west coast and through rain squalls coming in from the cold sea. The west coast is awesome. Mostly untouched, prehistoric-looking rainforest covers the land. It's very sparsely populated, and there is only one, narrow main road that runs along it. At one lunch spot, we explored a rugged beach where huge waves boiled onto the sand. There were many strange objects to be found there. A polished blue and purple piece of abalone shaped like a wave, mussel shells with seaweed attached that looks like a punk mohawk, and strange perforated driftwood.

Onward to a place called Pancake Rocks. These are Dr. Seuss-like rock formations that exist in only one place along the coast. There was a blowhole there. The incoming waves are funneled in, and sometimes produce a big thump of bass that felt good in my chest.

Everything was damp by now. Things were a little brighter when we ran into Luc and Torrey again just north of Greymouth. We took another rest day camping near a lake that was formed by retreating ancient glaciers. The campsite has a little trail loop that winds through the lush rainforest, so when I needed to go use the facilities, I took the long way and strolled slowly through the green. Everything seems to be covered in green. Plants on top of plants. Trees covered in small vines with tiny ferns growing out from between. Bell birds whistled and dragon flies hummed like floating ball-point pens under the dripping canopy of tall treeferns. At night, green and blue frogs croaked softly in a nearby pond.

Heading seaward from camp, the dark green forest ends abruptly after about 700 meters, and we walked out over some sand dunes covered in windblown grass where penguins frequent. The beach is aloof, and strewn with thousands of broken-up trees that have floated for years on the waves. The sand stretches into the distance in both directions. The waves are big, and breaking violently half a mile out to sea. This produced a constant rumbling roar of such depth and power as I have ever heard. The waves were churning up strips of foam. The brown foam collected in softball-sized wads, tumbling and bouncing up the beach and collecting in great mounds that twitched and undulated in the wind. I picked up a stick and dropped it into a foam mound. It instantly disappeared a foot down with a dull puff of sound, and the surface of the foam sealed it's brown crust over the top.

I sat motionless on a smooth tree trunk and watched the waves peaking high, then turning inward and advancing like dirty, plowed up snow. Soon, the peaks of the waves disappeared in a grey wall below an ominous cloud. Walking back, I pictured my laundry hanging back at camp, warmed by the sun and surely dry by now. The ominous cloud would be there before me. The fat, cold riandrops were now hitting my back and would soon be soaking into the rest of my dry clothes.

Ice cream is a wonderful thing. The ice cream in New Zealand is incredibly good, not to mention cheap. My favorite flavor is called "hokey pokey." It is a lucious creamy vanilla with little crunchy balls of carmelized sugar mixed in. We stopped for ice cream once a day, and the fatty treat kept the legs turning happily for long stretches. This was to be the last ice cream we would find on the west coast though. I guess the ice cream trucks don't go any farther south. We stood in a brief ray of sun and savored the creaminess.

Near the next campsite, there was a mountainous glacial moraine wall covered in rainforest with waves crashing at its base and tiny waterfalls tricking from its top. Behind that, the snow-capped mountains stood. They were the original resting place of the huge, scraped boulders embedded in the beach sand. Huge rivers of compressed ice must have covered the whole island long ago, and here, the evidence of their power was dramatic. What could make it better? A long sunset shining metallic gold through the wave mist perhaps? Where else can you stand on a beach listening to cicadas in rainforest and watch craggy pinnacles of snow turn from pink to cold grey?

Some of the glaciers still exist, crawling down from the desolate peaks to almost touch the rainforest. We went up to one called Fox Glacier to view its terminal face. These things facinate me. It's a solid, dense mass, but it behaves almost like a liquid as it flows down its valley. Everything in it's path is ever so slowly crushed, shattered, smothered, or scraped. Such awesome power. We walked up toward the face, keeping a respectful distance, and found a nice place to sit and stare at it. I was hoping to see a big chunk of ice collapse off, or at least to hear some loud popping from the belly of the beast, but there was to be no glacier action for our visit, and after a long wait, the cold wind drove us back to the bikes.

Unfortunately, one of Luc's spokes broke on his rear wheel, and the tire was rubbing on the frame. There was no bike shop for another 300k, so we had to part ways with Luc and Torrey again so they could take a bus onward.

Mikaela and I decided to have a couple of long days in the saddle so we might have a chance to hike in Mt. Aspiring National Park on the other side of the mountains. It ended up being the right decision. On the way over the mountains, we were to meet more good people and see still more splendor. Hasst Pass is brutally steep, at about 15% for four kilometers. I was passing through the "Gates of Haast" and struggling up the first section of it when a smiling man on the roadside ran up to take my photo. "Would you like a coffee? For energy?" He said in a french accent. His wife made delicious french espresso for us. He told us that he rides a road bike in the mountains around Toulouse. "You know the Tour de France? Very good! Very good!" He said. "This is...ah...very hard? No?"
"It's extremely steep." I said.
"Ah, but when you get to the top, it's all...Ahhhh!" He leaned back with a big grin, turning his head from side to side and making a motion as if twirling a big mustache.
"Exactly like that!" I said, chuckling.
Bidding our french philanthropists au'voir, we headed up the rest of the brutal steepness with smiles and caffeine buzzes.

That afternoon we set up camp near a glacial river. I was so filthy. I hadn't paid for accommodation for three weeks, and the past week had been too rainy and cold for bathing in lakes and rivers. I had to get in the frigid water. It was painful, but refreshing to be clean after getting out. I failed to change into dry clothes quickly enough, and the passengers of a passing car on the bridge had a good view of my gleaming white butt.

Nightfall down near the river created yet another wondrous show of color. Sitting and letting my mind drift to the sight of postcard displays of nature had become part of the daily routine.

The next day brought a surreal sight at a break stop. We found a waterfall by the roadside where the exposed riverbed is covered by rock stacks. I made one of my own complete with a googly-eyed, pointy-nosed oval head on top of a rectangular rock torso.

My time in New Zealand was nearing its end, so what better way to end it than with a bang. Mt. Aspiring National Park was just that. We had to pay the price for it as we rode in along a 30 kilometer washboard gravel road. Occasionally, my bike would shudder so violently that I would almost come to a complete stop with battered wrists, panniers flapping, bolts loosening, and helmet jiggling every which way. I definitely had the wrong bike for the type of touring I wanted to do. That was obvious. The glacial-cut valley we were riding into erased all frustration from my mind with displays of sunlight and grandeur.

We camped by a river, and I hid my panniers in the bushes the next morning before setting off with a three-day backpack. From the trailhead, we walked 9k up the valley across green cow paddocks. The big brutes stared at us as we walked with glassy eyes and jaws continuously chewing.

There are four huts in the valley leading up to the high ridge below the summit of Mt. Aspiring. We pitched tents near the first hut for two nights. A day hike took us halfway to the second hut through a valley of enormous waterfalls and hanging glaciers. Mt. Aspiring made me salivate. The desire to climb it flooded into my head with every sighting of its triangular peak. I had to settle for a second day hike to a place called the Pylon, a ridge of slate and bizarre plants 5000 feet above the valley floor, but still another 5000 feet below the summit of Aspiring. The view from the top was unreal. When we arrived at the Pylon, we were in the clouds. As the sun rose higher, it began to clear, revealing a panorama of white peaks and glaciers. Dart Glacier was visible in a distant valley, and it popped loudly a few times with a powerful echo. We sat in the warm sun at the top for nearly four hours, but it seemed like a very short time. It was a peaceful end to a long journey.