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One last perfect latte before I hit the road. A bus from Wanaka to
Queenstown in the pouring rain. Beautiful mountains, if only I could
see them. The Remarkables. Good names for mountains. Or teen
superheroes.

My plan for the stopover in Queenstown was to sit somewhere and read a
book. Unfortunately, it was pouring, so I couldn’t sit outside, and
the cafes were packed. So I wandered from expensive shop to expensive
shop, looking at tourist crap, books and swimwear, not wanting to buy
any of it. Queenstown is like Breckenridge, full of lots of ways to
spend your money, all of them expensive, most of them ridiculous or
boring or both.

The clouds started breaking up as we reached Te Anau, the major
tourist center for the Fiordland National Park. I started getting
optimistic that I wouldn’t have to kayak in the rain.

My motorcamp-hostel was just down the lake path from the Wilderness
Centre with a bunch of native birds. It was sunny and the birds were
beautiful. Keas, parakeets, native ducks and that one blue black
parrot I can’t remember the name of (takahe). Fun, but not so exciting as
seeing them in the wild. And the one odd bird that kept hopping
sideways back and forth across the doorway to the other cage. It was
such a peculiar OCD kind of motion that I filmed it.

There was a guy on the bus from Queenstown who had a Harvard
sweatshirt. I was nosy enough to want to know if he went there, but
failed to ask on the bus. But then he was staying at my hostel, but I
didn’t get around to asking him there. But then I saw him walking down
the high street, so I finally asked him. He just bought it as a
tourist. No bonding over four years spent in Cambridge.

An early morning bike ride along Lake Wanaka. Gravel, but doable on my
bike.

Toast with olive oil and salt, plus a latte made with loving care with
locally roasted beans. Becca becca becca.

Poked around on the internet. Did laundry. Harnessed solar and wind
power by hanging it out to dry in the sun and very strong wind.

Glowered at the patch of clouds covering the Rob Roy glacier all
day. We were forced to take a short hike over the mountain behind
Rowan’s house instead. Certainly pleasant.

Lamb on the barbie with new potatoes from the garden. Lovely.

Watched Rowan’s slideshow of photos from Milford Sound in winter as
well as other places he’s been (Ireland and Norway).

Sun still shining, tent dry when I got up. Packed up, planned to get
breakfast at the orchard cafe of yesterday less than 100 m away. Rain
started pounding down about 10 minutes after I’d sat down. I killed
about an hour there, watching the worst of it pass.

There was a killer headwind all day. At some point I realized that I
had stood out on the deck of the ferry through the Cook Strait as
training for the notorious headwinds of the South Island. It was a
good thing. Six hours of headwinds start to drive you mad.

There were tantalizing bits of blue clouds. There was a sign on a
shack in the middle of nowhere that said BOSE. The mountains and the
plains reminded me of Wyoming. One of the mountains looked just like
the Tetons.

I took an apple break, and as I was starting up again, I noticed I had
a flat tire on the same trailer wheel as yesterday. So I made myself
comfortable, and began the lengthy process of changing it. I faced
away from the headwind, pulled out the tubes, decided maybe I’d put an
old one on yesterday accidentally, still patched the minor defect in
the best tube, cut up the current tube as a boot, since I’d definitely
ridden a long time on the flat trailer wheel, and the tire wasn’t
great. It was like doing an arts and crafts project with my little
Gerber tool. Luckily the bead on the tire had been loosened enough
that I could get it off and on by myself.

When I turned around to face forward again the clouds had all blown
away and I had a beautiful view of the mountains behind Wanaka. I
still had 20 km to go, but the snow on the mountains was shining in
the sun.

Rowan had invited me to stay with him after reading “Biking with
Death” on crazyguyonabike.com, and I gratefully accepted. He’s right,
Wanaka is a beautiful little town. Like one of the smaller, more
expensive ski towns in Colorado, but not totally focused on the
tourist dollar. A wee bit more diversified.

Rowan also does yoga, so we went to his normal class. It was great to
stretch after four days on a bike. Then back home for homemade pizza
and a Guinness. Plus, Rowan’s special treat, a Magnum Mini. I have
loved Magnums ever since Belgium. They’re a high quality ice cream on
a stick treat.

I was woken by the meh-ing of sheep. Contrary to what some ambient
musicians might lead you to believe, it’s not actually that
soothing. Perhaps the sheep were too close.

The red deer on one side of the rail were spooked by me
immediately. The sheep on the other side kept their heads down mowing
the lawn efficiently. I saw a field full of multi-point stags. It was
impressive, even to me, who has no idea how long it takes for a stag
to grow a full rack of antlers.

No breakfast until Alexandra. Frustrating internet. I biked along the
road to Clyde, though the rail trail continued. I had been warned
about the hill out of Clyde, and it was an effort for some period of
time. I was passed by a road biker, who said, “And I thought I had it
tough.” We chatted a while on the side of the road, but the traffic
noise was loud. He was biking while the rest of the family drove, but
he was more out of shape than he’d thought.

It started raining as I rolled up and down the hills along the
lake. Wet wet wet. I pulled into Cromwell hoping for a hostel. But
first a cafe attached to an orchard. Hot apricot juice. So good. No
hostels. I went to the motor camp, preparing myself to pay $50 for a
cabin instead of struggling to set up a tent in the rain for $30. But
they gave me the individual price for a tent site of $15, and it
wasn’t raining when I got there, so I decided to be cheap. Worked out
great. No rain that night.

After dinner I was standing around chatting with a guy about my bike,
and noticed I had a flat on one trailer tire. Pain in the ass. When I
got a flat biking with Victor I ended up getting him to break the
bead, because it’s really hard. I buckled down and tried myself. No
luck. A guy in the cabin near by came to offer assistance, which I
accepted gratefully. I think he was a bit surprised how hard it was. I
think his tire changing experience was from cars, since he commented
how short the tire irons were, and that they were plastic. Anyway,
finally got that changed. No more new trailer tubes. Hope I don’t get
another flat.

A nice morning to bike out with a dry tent. I went 8 km to Ranfurly,
and kept going to the next town for breakfast. The next town,
Wedderburns, was barely more than a pub and a hotel. The pub owner was
happy to make me an iced latte to my American specifications (no
sweetness added) and a smoked chicken breast salad. I chatted with the
owner and the various people stopping in for a coffee or a pint. One
of them had been on the first oil rig barged into the Mackensie Delta
by Inuvik, back when Inuvik was just a First People’s trading post. He
had also been to Brownwood, having worked on the oil rigs in the Gulf,
and had a friend from Brownwood.

After Wedderburns it was 3.5 km uphill, and downhill all the
rest. Downhill was nice. Much faster.

When I got to the next town I stopped for a ginger beer. There were
two other Bike Fridays and a third bike parked outside the store. I
found out that one of the Bike Fridays had been lost by the
airline. And because multiple airlines were involved it looked
unlikely it would ever be recovered. Which is shocking. They were
finding it rough going on the trail with their slightly skinnier
tires, and were going to change to the road. They had been going
uphill longer than I had, I think.

I then started chatting with a guy on a mountain bike who was carrying
his gear on his back. He was going around taking the bus long
distances, and using his mountain bike on shorter day trips in
places. I think that if I wanted to bike in NZ again that’s what I
would do. The interesting rides are on gravel, basically. And less
traffic. I told him my next dream ride was from Durango to Moab via
huts. He sounded interested.

After the ginger beer break was the interesting part of the rail
trail. Tunnels and bridges through a beautiful gorge. The tunnels
aren’t actually much fun on a bike, because you’re supposed to
dismount through them. I didn’t for the first one, but it was so dark,
and I didn’t have my light out that I decided to do it for the
rest. And actually, the bridges aren’t much fun either, because they
are the original rail ties filled in with two-by-fours and very
uneven. Bump bump bump. But the gorge is beautiful.

I stopped in Ophir for the night, since there was a nice hostel listed
claiming tent sites. And they had them. And it was beautiful, with trees
and a flower garden. It was full, but everyone was at a wedding, so it
was empty all evening. The wedding guests were not the people at the
pub on my way into Ophir, luckily. That was a bachelor party on a bus,
like the previous night. One of the guys decided to run out into the
street to chase after me. I think he was disconcerted when I slowed
down to turn down the street he was on. He left me alone, in fact.

When the wedding guests returned, they weren’t obnoxiously loud,
considering drunken wedding parties I have known. One of them said,
“Hey look at that comet!” which almost dragged me out of bed, but I
assumed I would have plenty of other times to see it. Sad.

So much for feeling smug that I didn’t have to pack up my tent
yesterday while it was still wet. Today it was actually raining while
I packed it, meaning I had better find an alternative to camping
tonight.

I caught the tourist train from the Dunedin train station (of
yesterday’s poetry fame) up through a beautiful gorge to Middlemarch,
the beginning of the Central Otago rail trail. The train passed a
number of sights, including some guys working with a pile of
sheepskins at the Chamois Factory, a racetrack complete with a few
horses out for a morning trot, and a paddock with a horse and foal running
around for the sheer joy of it (I like to assume). The conductor kept
up a running commentary through the whole ride, and mentioned the
paddocks were owned by a trainer who had won the Melbourne Cup.

The actual Taieri Gorge reminded me of southwestern Wisconsin. I
think the rock outcroppings are a similar kind of stone, some kind of
schist.

I got lunch in Middlemarch and headed out along the rail trail. It’s
easy to see why the normal route only goes as far as Pukerangi, since
that’s just after the dramatic gorge. Once past it, there are just
interesting rock formations, and past Middlemarch, the railbed just
goes along the base of the, uh, mountains? In Denver they would be low
foothills. The clouds hung low over them, making me wonder if the
claim by the railroad clerk that it was always sunny inland was going
to be a bit optimistic.

The scenery was beautiful, but I realized I had packed away my camera
in my trailer instead of my handlebar bag, and it was a very tight
packing job. I decided not to disturb it. And Becca, I have to
confess, I let you down. I didn’t get photos of the herd of sheep
parading up the rail trail in front of me. Lots of sheep. They looked
a bit grotty from behind, though. They were being shifted from one
field to another when I came around the bend, so I paused to wait and
then followed along behind. Unfortunately, they gamboled at a slower
speed than I biked, so I caught up, and then they started running. It
was kind of sad to see them panicking and stampeding, but not have the
sense to run to the sides of the track. Not smart, those sheep.

It never actually rained, and it was fairly sunny with ominous clouds
when I pulled into Waipiata, where there was theoretically a farm
hostel. I stopped at the local pub, and was greeted by members of a
bachelor party on a booze bus tour of some of the pubs along the Ale
Trail. I was offered directions to the hostel, and a phone to call to
see if they had space. Unfortunately, they just had a twin room at
$40, which is different than having a shared room bed at $20, as
advertised. The pub owner said he could give me a tent outside, but
the pub was loud, it was Friday, and it seemed less than
ideal. Another woman offered a room at $45 to start or a shower for
$5, if I was going to camp at the domain camping, but my tent was so
wet, I waffled. And stood outside making no decision, but generally
gathering my strength to head 10 km up the road to the bigger town
that also had a backpackers. And then the woman (a blond Rizzo) came
out and offered me a campervan for $20. Plus the use of the shower and
kitchen in the house. Perfect. Solitude. And a space to set up my tent
to get it dry over the night.

Why has no one mentioned Comet McNaught anywhere I have been reading?
It was so bright last night that even in my bleary-eyed state, I
stared at the light-polluted sky past the security lights and said, is
that a comet? That doesn’t look like a cloud, Magellenic or
otherwise. I finally tracked it down online and am pissed I didn’t
know about it earlier. Geoff, aren’t you supposed to be keeping your
friends informed of this sort of thing?

The wind kicked up at 4am. Violent gusts to wake me up. The
temperature dropped from about 20 at midnight to 14 or so. Rain at
6am. I finally woke up at 9:15am.

I was in a dreary mood until I sat down with a latte and a brioche and
noticed that the coffeehouse had a bookshelf to browse. I picked up
“the nature of things: poetry from the New Zealand landscape” and
relaxed as I reviewed the NZ terrain I had already passed through, and
anticipated the high country yet to come. Some of the poems were spot
on. Elizabeth Smither’s “The Sea Question”, Dinah Hawken’s “Talking to
a Tree Fern”, and James K. Baxter’s “High Country Weather”. The last
had the lines:

Upon the upland road
Ride easy, stranger:
Surrender to the sky
Your heart of anger.

A fitting way to start Robbie Burns’ birthday.

I caught the annoucement and readings of the winners of the Annual
Robbie Burns Poetry Contest in front of the Robbie Burns statue in The
Octagon. (No main square in Dunedin, these people take their geometry
seriously.) The subject this year was the Dunedin Train Station, as
it was 100 years old this year. Next year it will be teeth, or
dentistry, in honor of the school of dentistry in Dunedin turning
100.

There were three categories, doggerel (the winner was only minimally
comic), a work by a published poet, and a work by an unpublished
poet. All of them were very informative and historical. The
non-doggerel pieces both had some nice imagery. But I really wanted
some humor.

After the readings the crowd was served a wee dram and some haggis on
a cracker. So civilized, to be able to serve a random crowd a bit of
Scotch at noon on a weekday. We toasted Robbie Burns’ birthday, and
the band played a very droning version of Happy Birthday. It’s not a
song best done on bagpipe, I have to say. The last note was sounded by
a seagull and the squawk fit in well with the bagpipes honks.

The master of ceremonies announced that due to the annual poetry
contest more attention was being paid to Robbie Burns’ birthday, and
the club was again able to “honour Robbie Burns in the old manner”
which I really hoped involved a raising of the kilts, but
unfortunately seemed to just mean laying some flowers at the statue’s
feet. How bland for poor Robbie.

As the band played on, I decided it was time to go to the art museum,
as the weather was still rather grey. There were some nice pieces and
some blah pieces, but when I was through I felt rather melancholy. Art
museums do that to me. I think it has to do with the struggle to
understand what is being communicated. Feeling as though someone has
something important to say that I just can’t understand, either
because of my obtuseness or their muddling.

I think President Bush, fils, has been reading
Candide. I was struck by one passage this morning.

“Tout cela était indispensable,” répliquait le docteur borgne, “et les
malheurs particuliers font le bien géneral, de sorte que plus il y a
de malheurs particuliers et plus tout est bien.”

“…the more specific instances of evil that exist, the more
everything in general is good.”

I failed to take advantage of the beautiful weather today. I tried to
book myself on a penguin and sea lion tour, but got no
response. Should have been more persistant. The weather was perfect at
dusk, when the penguins are most active.

Instead it was a laundry and grocery day.

I am so ready to begin biking again. I hope my body can take it.

The wind came slamming in from the southwest this morning just as the
sun came up. I’m finally dialled in to how the southerly winds are
cold and often wet (Antarctica), and the northerly winds are warm
(Australia). I left my campsite to come to town wondering if my tent
would still be there when I returned.

Disappointment abounds. The official Robbie Burns supper is being held
on Saturday. I’m leaving Friday morning on the tourist train that has
spectacular scenery and connects to the Otago Rail Trail. Even if I
weren’t booked on that train, I don’t think I’d want to spend that
much longer in Dunedin. I guess I’ll have to track down an unofficial
one.

I made an attempt to bike the steepest road in the world, and failed
miserably. I think I made it about 10 meters up the steepish part,
which wasn’t even the steepest part. Two things threw me: I didn’t
have my handlebar bag on, so it was too easy to pull the front wheel
off the pavement, and, I stood up to pedal, which made my cadence
jerkier. I’m contemplating trying again tomorrow with actual bike
clothing (not jeans tantalizingly close to the chain) and without a
backpack full of books and laptop, and with my handlebar bag. I
probably still won’t make it all the way up, but it would be nice to
have a better attempt.

In addition, I was a total scaredy cat, and didn’t bike down. A local
resident doing yardwork told me I should, everyone does, but I used my
brakes as an excuse. But it was just an excuse. I looked at the hill
and felt how far away from home I was. I didn’t want to end up with a
broken neck all by myself. In retrospect, I have to wonder why biking
down the road with buses, logging trucks and campervans doesn’t freak
me out in the same way. Odd, I thought I didn’t mind natural risks,
only man-made risks.

I went to the outdoors store and bought some spray-on water repellant
for my tent. I’m heading towards the “We(s)t Coast” and decided it was
time. Hopefully it will cure before I have to pack up my tent on
Thursday morning. Hopefully it won’t rain before then, either. I think
I need to get a sheet of black plastic from the hardware store (where
can I find some Tyvek?) to replace my groundcloth, too. The bottom of
my tent ends up wet where things are laying on it most mornings.

Oh, and the guy at the outdoors store had never heard of Robbie Burns’
birthday celebration. Lame.

Today I traded in an assortment of murder mysteries and SF for two
books: Candide (en francais) (if only I knew how to transcribe
laughing in French so I could make a Simpsons reference here) and
Margaret Atwood’s The Blind Assassin. I felt so damn literary.

Hopefully the waterproofing on my tent is dry so that I can open it up
for some trail mix and my guidebook. I have to track down the
yellow-eyed penguins.

Today the nice old Kiwi man sitting next to me on the bus from
Christchurch to Dunedin sent me on my way telling me to give my vote
to Hillary Clinton. I told him I would. (I was being courteous, and
possibly not even lying. Too early to tell.) He had also advised me
not to miss Doubtful Sound, good advice to hear, since I was planning
on seeing it rather than Milford Sound, if I had to choose.

The weather also finally warmed up. Over 20 degrees Celsius even when
cloudy. It was brilliantly sunny when I headed to the bus
station. I kicked myself for wasting a sunny day on the bus.

Note to travellers: the Southern Link bus is not a good bus for
tourists. It’s a good bus for locals. It does home pickups, and it
took over 7 hours to get from Christchurch to Dunedin, when other
buses are scheduled for 5 hours.

Dunedin means City on the Hill or something. Odd, considering the city
centre is very much on the flat. Many of the suburbs are on the
surrounding hills. I believe that technically they aren’t suburbs,
they’re part of the city proper, since apparently Dunedin is the
largest city by area in NZ.

Speaking of hills, apparently the steepest street in the world is
here, clocking in at a mean grade of 38 percent. I’m trying to work up
the energy to ride it.