Biking The Queen Charlotte

So way back on the last weekend in November, we did this epic bike ride. At first, Scott really wanted to write the post about it. Then life, work, visitors, holidays, and bikes happened, and he never got around to it. And I've been putting off writing about it because it was such an incredible and ridiculous excursion that I don't really know how to put it into words.

Anyways. Here goes.

The Queen Charlotte is a 71km long walking track in the Marlborough Sounds, located on the northern tip of the south island of NZ. It is a ridiculously popular walking track because of the beautiful tree fern lined views of aquamarine bays and crystal clear water. Because it is so popular, it is closed to mountain bikers from Dec 1 to Feb 28. So we went on November 30.

The track is neither flat nor straight. It requires a water taxi to take you and your bike out to Ship Cove, the furthest point out, from which you will ride back towards civilization. The bike taxi drops off your overnight gear to the hostel of your choice. There are many along the way as many people hiking it take 4-5 days.

The sounds are like little wiggly, arthritic fingers extending out into the water, so the path is constantly twisting, diving and gaining elevation as you go. We rode it in two days, 50km (!) the first day, and 21 km the second day. For perspective, here's the Strava map from our ride:

Day 1, Ship Cove to Portage Bay

Day 2, Portage Bay to Umungata Bay

And for more perspective:

We started way above the green dot, ending at the checkered dot.

So we left for our adventure after work at 5pm on Friday night. After a 5 hour drive, we (sleepily) ended up in Picton and crashed out for a short night's sleep. Bright and early Saturday we woke up and headed down to the ferry terminal. Unfortunately for us, and the next 12 hours of my life, it was an overcast, windy, soon to be rainy Saturday.

Getting the bikes ready to go on the water taxi.

Ominous view from the boat...

The boat ride was 45 minutes of the choppiest, gnarliest boating I've ever experienced. Deep down all of us knew we were in for a hell of a ride, but no one felt the need to point out the obvious.

Before we arrived at Ship Cove, the water taxi stopped at a closer point to drop off and pick up a few hikers (cheaters and quitters). Then we headed out to the furthest drop spot.

Unloading from the bike taxi, in desolation rainforest.

Scott ready to tackle the climb.

Wheelies are the best way to start the day (also look at what the wind is doing to the water!!!)

The 6 of us, oblivious of what is about to happen to us.

I was warned that the track started with a climb. I was also warned that most people walk it, so I was prepared to do just that. Unfortunately, the rest of the crew are fit and furious dudes, so they all took off at a sprint, leaving me in the dust… er, mud. 

The climb went forever, and ever, and then when it finally flattened out, you went 'round a bend and it began climbing some more. It felt like forever.

Ok, it was actually only a mile. And on Strava reflection, it was actually only about 800 feet, but damn it sure went straight up and was so muddy. Oh, and by the way, it began to rain.

Forcing a smile at the top of the climb.

So we had finally come to a descent (ok we'd only been at this for an hour). I strapped on my kneepads and enjoyed what I didn't realize would be the only dry-ish descent of the day. It was slippery and muddy, but enjoyable. 

Let me also point out that I had my Garmin on my handlebars for a constant reminder of how far we'd gone. I knew we had 50km to do on day one, and I was a bit worried that after 8k I was super tired, and it was raining. 

Then it rained harder.

We had descended all the way back down to sea level (and apparently a beautiful cove, but we couldn't see a thing in the rain). So we climbed again, 700 feet this time, apparently closer to the meanest, angriest storm cloud around. Massive torrential rain drops started assaulting my face and body. By the time we had gone 15km, I was soaked through. My shoes had miniature oceans inside them, with waves crashing from toe to heel with each pedal stroke. My gloves were saturated, my hair dripping, my jacket completely pointless in water repelling. We won't even talk about my chamois.

15km down, 35km to go. Things were looking grim.

Andy pretending this is fun.

The guys waiting for me on the bridge. That is water on the bridge. 

Soaked. Through.

The trail became a river. Sometimes a creek, sometimes a deluge. In some areas, the water and mud combined to create a swamp trail nearly as deep as my pedals. We descended and climbed, descended and climbed. Around 25km in, I had given up on pretending to have fun. This was also around the time Andy's bike broke and he had to keep his brake lever attached with a shaved branch. This was when I found my sandwich had gotten practically soaked through with rainwater (and gluten-free bread disintegrates in water…) 

Around 30km I had a hysterical laughing fit because the whole thing began to seem so ridiculous. Why were we doing this?

One of the "epic" views I had been so excited to see...

Soaked, muddy, freezing, not entertained. 20km to go.

Around this time my brain gave up. I think it accepted the fact that my body was nuts and it had no power to stop this madness. Every climb that came up (and there were many) no longer felt like a personal insult. I glared at it, pedaled or pushed, and just kept going.

Around the 35km point it stopped raining. It sprinkled lightly for awhile, and then stopped. We took this as a good omen and stopped for a moment to eat the last of our soggy food, to wring out our gloves and take in the stormy view. We also met a mama and baby Weka, a native NZ bird that kind of reminded me of a little brown chicken.

Dirt freckles and the first smile in many hours.

Mama Weka.

This was our last real rest, and the last time I saw the guys (except for Scott). They too had had enough, and I think decided to pedal as fast as possible to the hostel we had booked for the night. After 40km, fast just wasn't in my vocabulary. But then a miraculous thing happened. 

The sun came out.

Scott enjoying a berm on the final descent.

The final descent of day one was approximately 1000 feet of vertical drop. Completely my kind of mountain biking. Unfortunately for me though, I was so damn tired, I could barely hold on. It was all I could do to keep my shaking quads and achy hands going. 

After 9 hours straight of riding mountain bikes, we got to Portage Bay and our hostel. Which was on top of another hill. Seriously.

That evening the sun came out and warmed us as we drank beer and ate fish and chips on the deck of a fancy hotel. It was like the whole thing had never happened, and we were just enjoying the end of a summer day.

Acting like it was beautiful the whole time.

Scott and I booked our hostel much later than Andy and the gang. So while their proprietor was washing and drying their cycling clothes, packing them a lunch for the following day, and drying their shoes and helmets for them…. Scott and I found a portable heater and set all of our clothes, shoes, helmets, packs, etc in front of it in an effort to dry it in 10 hours and possibly burn the house down. This was after we used the garden hose to literally spray each other off like wet labradors, which is probably what we smelled like. I have never, ever deserved a shower more than that night. I slept like I was dead.

The next morning was everything that the day before wasn't. Sunny. Hot. Beautiful. Scott and I had a less than amazing breakfast of oatmeal and peanut butter on toast while the guys gorged themselves on pancakes and bacon and who knows what at the fancy hostel. (Hey, we saved like $200 bucks! That totally would have been worth spending, but whatever.)

View from the superior hostel.

We got a leisurely 10:30am start on day 2. Which, of course, started with a long, steep, gnarly climb. Despite the beautiful weather and stunning views, I wanted to cry. My legs felt completely powerless, my hands were aching, and I was still so sleepy. I was getting no credit for my 50km mud slog the day before! I was expected to just bounce back and do it all again!

1,200 feet (in the first 3km!) of climbing seemed to adjust my attitude however (or beat me back in to submission), and I found myself just surrendering to the numb limbs and beauty of the ride.

I can't imagine how phenomenal the first day would have been if we had had weather like we did on Sunday. The riding would have been faster without the mud slog, but I would have been stopping every 5 minutes to ooh and aah over the views and take way too many pictures. I'm glad the good weather was on the second day as well, because it ended the trip on a positive note.

Lee and Dave

Anyways, after the initial climb, we climbed 3 more smaller peaks but with a general downward descent. I should also point out that up until this point I actually found the trail quite boring. Wide, with few technical sections or fun downhills. Being a walking track, most of the cool stuff is taken out as it is not that cool to hike. Anyways, half way through day two, we got one really fun descent!

Dunno where I'm going?

We had lunch and sunned ourselves after about 15km. At this point all of the climbs were behind us, and I was promised a fun, flowy, ferny descent to the end. I found myself with the most energy I'd had on the whole trip at this point, which is either because I was so relieved that I was probably going to live, or because I'm tougher than I thought and was ready for more. But probably the first one.

Riding through the ferns.

Never forget to look up.

It wasn't long, and then we made it. We popped out into the sun, just about 1:30 pm and laid down on the grass. I took off my shoes, socks, gloves, helmet, and pack, and felt warm and dry for the first time in 2 days. And relieved. And thankful that I did it. And happy, because I proved to myself that I was just a little tougher than I thought.

We cruised back to Picton on the water taxi, enjoying the sun and sitting. Sitting down can be a beautiful thing. If you've earned it. Which we clearly had. 

We also earned these.

Nutcrackers: Not just creepy Christmas decorations!

Nutcrackers are evil. Whether you're referring to the downright scary wooden statue that haunts every perfectly good Christmas, the kitchen utensil that is frequently responsible for ER visits, or the torture device that is a requirement for backcountry snow adventures in New Zealand.

Oh, you haven't heard of the last one? Neither had I until I moved to this little island on the bottom of the planet and people started asking me if I'd ever used a nutcracker. To go skiing. Nope, I prefer my ski fields (no "resorts" here!) with chair lifts and smooth landings, thankyouverymuch. Too bad, I found out. If one is lucky, one will get to use a T-bar tow lift- the equivalent to a Cadillac chair lift in New Zealand. The rest of the time: Nutcrackers.

For the Americans, I will elaborate. A nutcracker is a metal device, which hinges shut, much like the tool for cracking nuts. Instead of a nut in the teeth of the cracker, it's the tow rope. The tow rope is connected to pulleys, which will tow you up the hill. The nutcracker is your handle on the rope, and is connected to a belt around your waist. This is a nutcracker in use:

via

This is how you wear it (while snowboarding, or posing in the lodge like this stud):

via

You have to be ambidextrous with both your hands and feet to be able to use this thing. There is hand switching and rope holding that has to happen. While you're balancing on your skis or board. And all hand switching and nut cracking and such must happen before you get to the first pulley or your glove/finger/hand will go through the pulley and a) effectively dump you on your butt and off the tow rope with b) a very sore digit. Are you confused yet?

The most ridiculous part is you have to get the nutcracker hooked on to the tow rope while it is moving. So, if you're me, you hold on to the rope and start moving uphill with your left hand. And then you try to flip the nutcracker around the rope and close it singlehandedly with the right. Then, if you're me, you try to switch hands by holding it with both, then letting go with the right. Again, this all must happen before you get to the first pulley, or your hand(s) will go through.

The beast your nutcracker must pass through but your hands/body must avoid:

via

Also, if you have awesome friends like mine, you'll hear lots of stories about how last year some girl got all of her hair ripped out by the pulley. Or you'll be there to hear the real-life account of how your other half ended up suspended upside down hanging by his snowboard. All of this makes the whole adventure seem really alluring, let me tell you. Anyways, here's a photo of the awkwardness that is getting on the moving tow rope whilst trying to nut-crack:

via

See how she's holding on for dear life with her right hand while she flips and grips with her left? So much coordination.

So, this weekend we traveled up to Mount Olympus in a group of about 10. Luckily, there were more novice skiers/snowboarders than veterans. Sure, Scott and I have both been snowboarding for over a decade, but the nutcrackers put us in the novice group. Lets just say, by the end of the weekend, we probably could have stacked the empty beer bottles farther than I made it up the tow rope.

The annoying thing was that there was a first tow rope one had to conquer just to get to the lodge. I heard horror stories just about getting up the Access Tow! But then, when my turn came- I did it! I had some help (ie: someone stopped the tow rope so a few of us could hop on) but I made it first try. I was very proud. And that's the best it ever got for me.

Here's a map of Mount Olympus:

We were staying at the Top Hut Lodge, located in the center. The Main Tow and Top Tow are the only tow ropes up the mountain. Can you imagine? A resort in the States with only one real lift? I admit, at first I was a bit skeptical about the whole thing. Not many runs for 2 full days of snowboarding. It may get a bit boring...

Well, worry not, my friends. I never got half way up the Main Tow. I fell off about where Molly's Bump crosses the Main Tow every time. It was so frustrating. I've never had much of an ego about my snowboarding skills, but whatever shred of confidence I had got shattered. Over and over and over. After about 4 hours of getting beat up by the rope and the pulleys and the icy snow, I'd had enough. Scott and I actually hiked from the lodge up to the traversing run below Rum Rock (upper right corner of map.) The descent after the hike was the most snowboarding we got in all day.

It wasn't all bad though (everything about the nutcrackers is bad, but the weekend was not all bad). There was plenty of IPA and cider and whiskey to help us mend our battered bodies and souls. The whole set up was a lot like grown-up ski camp- and the cooks made absolutely delicious lunch and dinner for us. The mountains down here are quite unique and beautiful. And we got to experience the whole thing with friends. So all in all, it was good. Except for the snowboarding. That was bad.

The drive up to Mount Olympus was kind of an experience in itself. Remember a few weeks ago when I wrote about our trip to Mt. Hutt? That access road has nothing on Olympus. That may as well be a 4-lane freeway. When you start the final ascent to the Olympus ski field, you actually have to radio up to ensure no cars are coming down. It's a pretty sweet road.

The start of the drive: so stunning and under-represented by my out-the-window photography skills.

Access road gets steeper, the rocks get bigger, and the views get more epic.

Nearly there. No passing lane!

This is the road. And the parking lot. Looks a lot like Tahoe, right? Where's the valet?

The above photo is taken from the road. The tow rope on the left is the access tow that I mastered on my first try. You can't really see the main tow (which is above, and to the left), but it's not important anyways because I only ever got up the one in this photo. The lodge we stayed in is pictured in the top left corner. Pretty sweet, perched up on the rock. Yes, you had to tow your bags and things up the rope tow. Yes, I had someone else do that part for me...

The next day we skipped another $70 mental and physical beating, and chose to just explore a bit on the way home. We cruised down the mountain...

Yes, that is the road.

... and we checked out Lake Coleridge, about half an hour inland on a dirt road. There's lots of dirt roads that go deep into the mountains here. We agreed that we need to get out on them more.

For some perspective:

"A" is Mount Olympus. The linear looking lake just to the south west is Lake Coleridge. If the roads were paved, it would probably be a 15 minute drive. After checking out the lake we made our way back to Christchurch, had a pie, and fell deeply asleep.

A bit of countryside on the way home.

So the casualties from this weekend included (but were probably not limited to):

- 2 finger/pulley interactions (thankfully not mine) resulting in whiskey drinking
- 1 body/rope tow interaction as mentioned earlier, resulting in whiskey drinking
- 1 absolutely shredded pair of gloves (from the rope), resulting in Scott needing a new pair to replace his vintage 1998 Dakines.
- 2 ripped jackets (again, rope tow)
- ZERO cars going off the road
-  and 8 smashed egos from watching 2 of our friends (and a lot of kids) completely master the nutcrackers, resulting in 8 smashed people by about 8pm!