Patagonia: somewhere in the middle of nowhere

As I sat hunched up in a culvert pipe under the road as a storm raged above I did start to question what I was doing with my life

A few days earlier I'd left the town of Punta Arenas suffering the same doubts and fears as I had leaving Ushuaia. Home, family and friends seemed further away than ever before and that lunchtime before I set off I had entered Shackleton's Bar in the town to skype my father who was getting ready to celebrate his 70th birthday. The ache of not being there dug deep and I fought back tears as I left the town on another overcast and windy day. 

I pitched early just 20km out of town, sheltered among lenga beech trees laced with the whispy green tufts of Old Man's Beard lichen and tried to address my melancholy. I smiled to myself knowing the party would be in full swing now, my dad would view the Happy Birthday video message I'd sent him -recorded a few days before while sleeping in a ditch waiting for the boat to take me across the Magellan Strait from Porvenir to Punta Arenas. He would hate me to be miserable: he's one of the most positive people I know battling and beating cancer with a constant smile on his face and I draw so much strength from that. 

The next day I felt a bit brighter choosing to leave the busy highway to take a gravel road which looped alongside a narrow channel between the mainland and Riesco Island. Short of water I spied an estancia and cycled up the rocky track. A rotund farmer in a corn blue cable knit jumper peered through thick lensed glasses as I held up my water bottles with a feeble cry of "agua, por favor", left his sheep and showed me the way to his front door through a clutter of ochre-coloured outbuildings. 

A wonderful smell of freshly baked tortas fritas hit me as I entered the dimly lit kitchen where his wife, wrapped in a chocolate brown shawl, was piling them up in a metal container. I started filling my water bottles from their sink and after a brief conversation between man and wife I watched with delight as 9 of these delicious, doughy greasy calorie laden cakes were put in a carrier bag and handed to me. Resisting the urge to embrace her I thanked them profusely, got on my bicycle and left thinking how these would last me a few days and make a nice change from my bland diet of pasta and oats. 7km later I could no longer resist and I dropped my bicycle on a steep slope of gravel and prickly shrubs on the road verge, took out the bag and ate the lot. 

It was the car horn of a concerned pick-up truck driver that woke me up and in the cloud of dust that accompanies any vehicle driving on these dusty, stoney tracks I sat up abruptly, confused at first where I was, then raised my arm sheepishly and waved to indicate that this heap of dishevelement with a bloated belly on the side of the road was not a corpse just a very greedy sleeping cyclist. I looked at my watch and realised I'd been asleep for more than 2 hours. 40km and 9 tortas fritas was enough excitement for one day so spied a small dip in the land some 2 metres away, pitched my tent, cooked some pasta and fell back to sleep not before removing the vicious thistles that had attached themselves in a rather uncomfortable place

The following day I felt sluggish as I rode towards Seno Skyring, a rough ride through undulating countryside and I visited another estancia, this one named Rio Verde on the shoreline of the Sound, for more water where I encountered two delightful men. They didn’t wish to give me the water they drank from the river as feared my European stomach would not cope- despite me insisting otherwise- instead giving me 3 litres of rainwater they’d collected in a tub.

 I learned the history of the area from these men- it had been an important passage before the Panama Canal had been created, boats navigating this narrow sound from atlantic to pacific- while a puppy chewed on my trainer before running back to his siblings with the duct tape, that had covered the hole in my shoe, in his mouth. 

Warmed and invigorated by the encounter with these 2 jovial gentlemen I left and finally rejoined the asphalt highway leading to Puerto Natales and some 10km later found a gravel track where I made camp on the side of the road in a small hollow in this flat and windswept terrain, finding some rocks to place over the tent pegs as the wind gathered in force.

And so it was that the next 2 days were spent being battered, buffeted and beaten into submission by the wind. After sheltering in my culvert pipe under the road for an hour waiting for the hail to stop I cautiously extracted myself and stood up, my chin level with the road just as a tour bus went past, vacant faces staring down at me so I smiled and waved as if it was a totally normal place for me to be.“, Alice, did you see that? A woman just popped out from underneath the road”..”Bill, yes I’m sure she did. Just like those giant birds you said you’ve just seen..”

The nandus, wonderful lumbering digitally remastered sparrows. So thrilled I was when I first saw these flightless birds ruffling and puffing out their ballerina feather tutus and sprinting across the pampa grasslands.

As my speed decreased and having covered only 14km in the last 2 hours I realised the wind had won for the day. My knees screamed out with the pain of trying to pedal against the wind. Cycling into gale force winds depletes you of energy and if you’re not careful can start draining you of any joy you’ve ever felt away from you. Clouds raced across the sky like a timelapse video, I spied a bus shelter and decided to make that my home for the night.

An uncomfortable night as windows rattled threateningly, the small shelter creaked and trembled as the wind raged on and on. 

 I set off at sunrise, the wind had eased and I pedaled hard to keep warm on this icy morning. The early start paid off and I reached Puerto Natales 100km away and only became victim to the wind again for the last 40km which took me over 4 hours

While resting in the town, writing blogs, answering emails, doing laundry, having showers though still camping- this time in the garden of a hostel- I debated whether to visit Torres del Paine national park. I wanted to go to see these glorious mountains yet the admission charge was 5 days budget for me, never mind the extortionate cost of camping once there and the hoards of people trudging the well worn paths. I’ve become selfish with my views, I want to absorb them alone, to be camped alone and not in a festival environment. So I headed off taking the gravel road towards the entrance of the park, found a lake, pitched my tent right on the edge on a craggy outcrop and spent one afternoon and morning sitting in my tent absorbing the view and saw noone for 2 days.

I then retraced my route and took another gravel road towards the border of Argentina, a jewel of a ride encountering only more guanacos, gauchos, horses and cows

After another night sleeping in a ditch I left Chile and began the 7km uphill to the top of the pass to Argentina. 

Friends and family know I'm uncomfortable being the centre of attention and I can only look on with admiration at those who stand in front of crowds thriving on the faces looking at them expectantly. Arriving at the border post two bus loads of tourists were there and as I cycled towards them, cameras snapped and videos were taken. I dismounted and suddenly I was surrounded by a crowd of people: Are you on your own? Incredible. Marvellous, can I have a photo taken with you? Where are you from? Where did you start? How many punctures? You're cycling this on a single speed?. Oh you have a Rohloff hub. Is it the same bike. That saddle looks uncomfortable. How many km have you done. How did you get to China. what was Iran like. How long have you been away.. How many km do you do a day. Hope you don’t mind my husband vidoeing this. .Are you going to write a book. You seem so happy. What made you do this. You lost your job?  Where do you sleep? In a ditch? Oh you are so brave. Don’t you get scared? Has anything bad happened? Does your bicycle have a name? In South Africa they speak English too.

Huh?

The last statement threw everyone. Was this my first heckler?

Oh are you from South Africa? I asked

No, I’m from Germany. Why?

Oh sorry I thought you mentioned south africa?

Yes. they also speak English there, and Canada too but you are speaking English English right?

Er, yes, I’m from England.

My answer seemed to satisfy him and he told me he liked my English.

A gentile American lady took me by the arm, shooing the gathering away – “come on this lady needs to get her passport stamped” and I thanked her and the crowd and stood in a small queue and tried hard to suppress a grin as I spotted a man hiding behind a signpost videoing me. I overheard a group of ladies discussing my journey "she seems so happy doesn't she" and they were right. It wasn’t the attention I’d just received, it was the elation I’d felt those last few days, an elation I’d felt for 2 years now

The absolute beauty of cycling is you see so much: the wide expanse of sky, the endless windscorched terrain,

 icebergs that have broken away from glaciers floating on aquamarine lakes,

  birds pulling fresh carrion off the road, armadillos scurrying among rocks,

guanacos leaping over fences and bounding up steep tufted hillsides, foxes fixing their eyes on you as you cycle towards them

horses tossing their heads challenging you for right of way as condors sweep the sky above

You see miles of absolute nothingness, unable to comprehend that the next village is sometimes 8 days away. Mountain ranges loom up in front of you, and for 90km you have this view.

 You feel every drop of rain, every breath of wind, every sting of hail, your fingers ache with cold, your clothing crisp with dried sweat, you are covered in dust and grime and go for days without washing.

You squeeze your tent into low tunnels under the road, sleep in ditches, derelict buildings, among trees or push your bike across a wide open steppe some 2km from the road and pitch your tent somewhere in the middle of nowhere. 

 You treasure the brief moments of interaction, the beep of a horn, a thumbs up, a flash of headlights, a smile, a wave, motorcyclists who pass you then do a u-turn and present you with their mascot (a koala bear) as you’re struggling up a mountain pass at sunset, gauchos reining in their horses giving a gentle nod to you as they throw their lassoo over an errant cow. 

You feel the joyful relief when you ran out of water 2 hours ago yet then see a stream and fill your bottles and splash water on your face. And as your stove splutters and the fuel has gone, the pasta bag is empty and you eat your porridge that morning with cold water you know you need to reach the next town that night. 

The joy of arriving, to see a shop, to have a shower, to make new friends and share conversations. Yet the tug of the road and getting closer to home returns and you pack your panniers, say goodbyes and head off to tackle the next stage of your journey. 

And you pitch your tent that night, weary and dusty, prime your stove and get the pasta on to boil, eat and then finally relax in your 1m² square home;the leaves of the tree you are beneath become your wallpaper as a cold moonlight beams down on your tent and your television set is the display of stars that you stare at from the awning.  The volume control is left to the mood of the wind, your air conditioning also as you turn off the television by zipping up the tent and violent gusts blow under the awning and filter through the mesh inner accompanied with a cloud of dust and grit. 

Yet your heating is a Sigg bottle filled with hot water, stuffed down a silk liner under 2 sleeping bags and you lie there and think of home yet all the sights you have seen and people you have met and realise, despite your tiredness, you have never felt more alive.

I am now back in Chile, tackling the Carretera Austral and tales of this journey will be posted soon

Tierra del Fuego: Guanacos, Gauchos and Gravel

I felt a gnawing emptiness within me as I left the sanctuary of the campsite perched high up on the hill of Ushuaia overlooking the frigid waters of the Beagle Channel, surrounded by mountains whose peaks just a week earlier had been bare with a postcard prettiness about them, yet now seemed menacing, daubed in snow, shafts of light piercing them through a squally sky. I was not meant to feel like this. I was leaving the 'end of the world' and a whole continent and another 12,000km lay ahead of me, I had to be up for the challenge yet all I felt was dread and apathy. 

I struggled with my thoughts as I made my way to the waterfront to take the obligatory photograph of Ushuaia's 'fin del mundo' sign. Cruise ship passengers in pastel jumpsuits and large sunglasses swept past me in a fleeting cloud of duty free perfume, jewelled knuckles clutching garishly expensive handbags, spare hands frantically patting down stiff lacquered hair as the Fuegian wind raged. In a hustle of people I felt so very alone and this isolation and loneliness crept up on me and before I knew it I was engulfed: no-one smiled at me, no-one spoke to me yet why should they? I made no eye contact: I was sullen, detached, afraid. What was I expecting? champagne corks popping, beatific faces, lingering embraces and encouraging words as I set off to cycle my 4th continent?

Evidently I did . 

As I left the crowd and cycled to the outskirts of Ushuaia along a littered highway lined with drab and dusty container yards, trucks thundering past sucking me in then spitting me out on to the gravel shoulder my mood suddenly changed from an unexpected source..

I got a wolf whistle.

I turned my head with a scowl and saw a parted slime of black hair yet beneath it the widest milky white smile stretching the length of the continent ahead of me. Bon Voyage he seemed to say or the Spanish equivalent. His enthusiasm, his stance of wide open arms in his leather jacket above adidas tracksuit bottoms billowing in the wind as he continued with a "bello", and simply his recognition that I was on a journey and the only way I could possibly go was north brought a smile to my face. I nodded an acknowledgement turned to face the road and vowed not to let any doubt or weakness infiltrate my mind again.

The sky cleared, the container yards dispersed, the rubbish diminished, the street dogs retreated and this was my view as I began the gradual ascent up Garibaldi Pass

Two hours later I was back to silent cursing: it had started to rain and as I ascended the rain became sleet. Fingers cold and wet in useless powerstretch gloves, goretex trainers with holes in squelched. I'd left Ushuaia late afternoon aiming to just cycle the mountain pass and then to find a camp at Lake Escondido at its base. I finally reached the lake after a bitterly cold downhill, saw a dirt track, turned into it and found a small clearing to pitch my tent, cook pasta and collect my thoughts.

First some waterproofing was required, unable to afford new trainers the next best option is ziplock sandwich bags! I have also since purchased a pair of waterproof gloves much to the amusement of an austrian guy Michi whom I met the other day as I proudly showed him my pair of rubber washing up gloves

The next day I rose at a late hour the rain had ceased but the wind still raged and I  began my ride to Tolhuin where I'd heard not only was there a bakery but also they let cyclists stay there for free.

After feasting on empanadas, churros and buying 8 baguettes I set off the next day to begin the cycle ride across Tierra del Fuego. Echoes of warnings filled my mind, "your toughest challenge yet", "say a prayer to the wind gods", "it's going to be tough but if there's anyone who can do it it's you"..  it was maybe this that I was scared of that day I left Ushuaia. not just the wind but the expectations and my own fear of failure. I know I will never give up this journey until I have completed my circumnavigation. I'm not trying to prove anything to anyone else nor in fact to myself, I just feel a compulsive need to complete this journey in the way I have intended: to embrace the hardship/the wild camping, to live frugally, to face, manage and contain my own fears yet at the same time to raise my eyes, appreciate and absorb the environment I am in. With head semi-sorted I scurried north east with a side wind buffeting and reached the atlantic coast. Insignificant to write but for me a milestone.

I finally found the unpaved road I wished to take. A few cyclists go this way but most opt for a wee bit more asphalt up to San Sebastián and then a westerly traverse to Porvenir. The route I took headed west before the town of Rio Grande and wiggles its way through a pampa landscape and what a delight it was, over 300km of pure unadulterated gravel! 8 km in on a bumpy dirt track I decided 100km was enough for the day and pitched my tent on the side of the road

Something rather bizarre happened. the notorious westerly wind eased and I woke to only a gentle flapping of my outer fly tent at sunrise.I packed up quickly, not believing my luck and started the long slog to the border with Chile. How can I describe the early morning sight of gauchos heading off for the day

and how to describe the grace of the guanacos leaping over fences out of my path until curiosity got the better of them

All my fears and negativity dispelled as I headed off down this dusty, washboard track, breathing in the emptiness, vastness and beauty.

I cycled hard I cycled long and reached the border post to cross into Chile.

 I have had many interesting border crossings on this journey. Croatia I was told I was crazy, Romania I received a marriage proposal, leaving Serbia I got into a spot of bother, entering Tajikistan I had a good conversation/interview about English literature starting of course with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,  Uzbekistan I was bitten on my bottom by a dog, leaving Tajikistan I got invited back into the 'checkpoint' and was asked by the lecherous guard while I was seated on a bunkbed with a soldier snoring above me if he could have my email address..

Yet this checkpoint was special. It was only the pathetic yapping from a measly hound that led me to the door of the argentinian border post at the end of the dirt track. I knocked on the door and was welcomed in to a stifingly hot wood burner heated hut by a bleary eyed officer. He studied the inside page of my passport at length and then looked at the outer. For some reason the British passport confuses everyone. So many times they stare at it and then have to ask "where are you from?" The Gaelic bit on the inner pages confuses them too and I had to turn to the page of my photo so my name was not recorded as "Cead-siubhail" It would be a lot easier if we simply replace "European Union United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland" with "Manchester United".

He mentioned "river" (rio) with some concern. I nodded and said in my best Spanish "si.. no problem"

I had heard there was a river crossing but for some reason I wasn't expecting it to be on the actual border crossing between Argentina and Chile. What a way to leave a country and enter another. Shoes and socks off, teva sandals on, trouser legs rolled up, bike unloaded. push, lose control of bike in current of river, gain control, focus, leave safely in mud on other side, wade back across pick up 4 bags and carry across river, go back to retrieve other 2 bags plus a spare sleeping bag as summer tent resulting in frozen Jilly, and camera that had been filming the event on what is now a bipod of a tripod after the leg fell off, put cold wet feet into socks and shoes, reload bike, drag up over rocks, find dirt track, cycle to Chile, wake up man in shack, he runs across dirt track and wakes up another man who is about 17 years old. 17 year old in shorts, leggings and plastic shoes and an endearing bedhead runs across to meet me,stamps passport while I'm seated in their kitchen. They offer to fill my water bottles, we shake hands say good bye and then I'm off.

I cycled for another half hour and saw some beech trees and pulled my bike across the thorny earth and pitched for the night.

It was then I heard the sound. I listened hard, my heart with cliche, pounding, I strained to hear more and it overwhelmed me, despite two years of wild camping I have never heard this sound to such an intense extent, a sound that words fail me to describe, impossible to grasp and comprehend and it moved me to tears. I gasped for air then relaxed into it. it drew me in, it wasn't cloying, it wasn't frightening, it wasn't sinister, it was simply the sound of absolute silence..

How do I describe such silence? I can only imagine it to feeling you are the last living thing on earth. A silence so silent it grabs your ears and screams into them the sound of absolutely nothing. Maybe it was the effect of low ominous cloud, pressing down on me, sandwiching me in amidst a landscape of wind beaten grassland and the occasional scattering of gnarled trees, twisted, contorted, scorched, bleached, battered and smoothed by sun and wind,  looking like bodies in the throes of jumping from high buildings captured through a lense, limbs scattered, uncontrolled, awaiting their fate while clawing at the sky yet frozen in time. And Time stood still and so did the sound of Nothing.

However during this stillness I examined the ground I was on and realised I was camped among cow pats so made my own barricade after a few encounters on this journey with animals tripping over my tent in the middle of the night

I woke to a fiery sunrise. Tierra del Fuego - the land of fire, the name given by Ferdinand Magallene - the first European to visit this island in 1520 - as he spied from his ship a coastline lit by fires from the aborginals who built them to keep warm in this harsh unforgiving land.

My legs started to feel the pain as I continued my journey west that morning where I hoped to reach the Magellan strait coastline. Relentless up and down, wheels spinning on loose rocks as I pounded uphill and skidding on scree as I clattered down. I entered the tiny coastal village of Cameron after an 8 hour day and camped in the churchyard next to a steam engine

I found no-one in the village the next day to get water from, even the horse that had been lazily grazing at the entrance had moved on. The day was bleak cold and windy and I began to struggle as I headed north, following the coastline of the steely grey Magellan strait, stopping off at an Estancia (ranch) to fill my water bottles. 3 gauchos in oversized berets stood sucking on cigarettes next to their tethered horses with sheepskin saddles, calling out to their dogs in a cloud of dust and sheep.  The gravel became deeper, the track more rutted, the wind whipped at me, the view monotonous. I finally reached the junction with the road that most people take and stopped to chat to 2 cyclists on their way to Ushuaia, coming to the end of their journey while mine had just begun. I watched as they cycled off and I was back on my own again

Of course cycling across Tierra del Fuego is not complete until you have taken the obligatory photo of the Fuegian tree and a rather dodgy looking person in a variety of bandanas

That night I pitched on the side of the road, the wind dropped and I listened again to the silence as the sun set.

My final day of cycling (I reached Porvenir only to find I'd missed the boat to Punta Arenas so spent the next 2 nights sleeping in a ditch just outside the town as couldn't afford the accommodation) through Tierra del Fuego was simply stunning. Steep roads, the startling blue of the Magellan strait revealing itself as the sun scattered the clouds, flamingos flapping on salt lakes, weather beaten fisherman's huts of tin on deserted coastline. The stark beauty of the southern mountains loomed up in the distance like giant icebergs on the water. 

Having run out of water again I entered an estancia and chatted to the delightful owner - Alex- who, thankfully, spoke English. I told him how envious I was of him living here, how incredibly magical I'd found this island -as I bent down to fill my bottles with the tannin rich water from the outside tap- how it had captured, scared, threatened and enthralled me . His eyes were the calm steel grey of yesterday's sea under a thatch of salt and peppered hair and above a thick black moustache. "We love it here" he said, picking up his grandchild dressed all in red so they can find him in the yellow landscape when he wanders off, "no mobile phone signal, no distractions" He looked intently at me as if we were sharing a special secret and in a few words encompassed all I'd felt while crossing Tierra del Fuego "You can hear the silence"

Flamingo Rat Pack 

Last time I attempted a drop like this was the kamikaze red run on skis!

Sheer gravel joy

New Zealand: the Pinball Cyclist

Rather than one of my usual tales about a Honey Seller's bottom or a near mental breakdown in China  I thought it may be a pleasant change to try and sum up almost 6000km of a journey through New Zealand in one blog post with a few pretty pictures and a few words.

Looking at my map on Social Hiking one may wonder if I had no clue where I was heading in New Zealand and I can safely say yep, one is absolutely right! I sometimes feel a bit inadequate when I've peeked at other cyclist's blogs and seen magnificent spreadsheets detailing their plans filling me with admiration.. and fear! Yet I decided to not let it bother me and as I had a few months to explore this country while waiting for extortionate air fares to South America to lower I set off with a view to get to the south island and well.. just go where the wind took me.

What I learnt very quickly is that there is a reason people 'plan'. Planning would have been good for Tajikistan - arriving to cycle up to 4655m in the Pamirs at the beginning of winter could have been avoided with foresight yet  it did turn out to be a great adventure despite having to get rescued 35km before the border with Kyrgyzstan. Cycling across China in winter was another error yet I survived and have the nerve damage in my feet to prove it. When people plan their route in the South Island of New Zealand they do a mostly clockwise route because of the prevailing wind. I didn't know that as I hadn't planned and set off west then east then west and then anti-clockwise and wondered why almost every cycle tourer I saw was heading in the opposite direction.

Enough of my waffling and let's get to the photos..

After Marlborough Sounds and Nelson Lakes I headed to the east coast where at Ohau, north of Kaikoura there is a marvellous spot where you can watch seal pups playing in a stream and under a waterfall while their mothers are out at sea doing the shopping. The Kiwis have got it right when it comes to nature, no entrance fees, no fences just simply educating people to keep their distance, observe, respect and enjoy

Seal pup Ohau stream

In Kaikoura there is another seal colony on the peninsula

Kaikoura

I headed from there to Christchurch stopping en route to photograph the invasive though picturesque broom covering the countryside. Another non endemic species that has rendered farmland useless . I spoke to a weary man in a small rural village who removed his cap revealing a mahogany conker like head and wiped his forehead. "25 years I've been fighting to contain this pest" he sighed after I'd questioned him about it,

The devastation from Christchurch's 2011 earthquake brought unexpected tears to my eyes and I'm sure anyone who also has had no previous connection to the city who entered it has felt the same. Maybe it was not just the gaping emptiness of some streets, defined only by a few flowers in memory of lives lost stuffed into caged barriers in front of piles of rubble but the combination of that with the vibrant Re:Start 'container' city. My cycle to see my central asian cycling buddy Lee and his girlfriend Liz in Sumner some 13km away brought further emotion.This small seaside town had been badly affected by the earthquake and it was with a solemn air that I cycled past the donated containers of the company I used to work for protecting the traffic and people below as abandoned homes teetered precariously on crumbling cliffs

A few days rest and being totally spoilt by Lee and Liz I was off to the west coast via Arthur's Pass with my friends meeting me there a couple of days later.

wild camp en route

Kea: the notoriously mischievous alpine parrot

From there I continued west, taking the back roads and finding one of my most perfect wild camps by Lake Brunner. Wanting to see so much I headed further inland up Buller Gorge then retraced my tyre marks to finally join the west coast not before being invited to have a cup of billy tea -flavoured with the delicate taste of Manouka leaves - and 5 griddled scones from some bearded miners

It was at this point I became obsessed with the 'end of the road' and did a 200km detour to the northern most point of the west coast you can reach by road which is at Kohahai and the start of one of New Zealand's great walks, the Heaphy Track. I spent my days there as Miss Crusoe building fires and cooking trout thanks to a man who gave me his catch, going for walks, reading and sheltering in my tent during squally days. As ever new NZ's wildlife played a part with a weka bird that became a permanent resident in my awning and a dormouse that sheltered in my tent whenever it rained.

 View from my 'castaway' tent at Kohaihai Point after a storm

End of the roads are fine on the way there, you just get on with the bluff you have to cycle up and over to get there and the headwind you face. on the way back it is soul destroying especially when the wind swings around and you face another headwind.

I continued down the west coast stopping off before Franz Josef glacier where I was rewarded with the glorious view of the magnificent southern alps highest peaks and invited by Kieran - who was building on the DOC campsite and had the same passion for nature and mountains as me - to dinner in the workman's hut. A feast of sausages, bacon and sweet potato was prepared and of course a few beers.. and wine and brandy consumed as we shared climbing dreams.

Lake Mapourika

At Fox Glacier I stayed with David, a friend I'd met in Whakapapa on the north island. More hospitality and beers but some brisk hikes in stormy skies to the seal colony at Gillespies Beach and a walk in what I can only describe as an enchanted wood with glow worms at night, gnarly branches, serpentine roots. A rainforest at the base of a glacier.

It was shortly after this that my obsession with penguins began and so I started my mission to cycle down every track leading to a beach where the Fjordland Crested Penguin may be. I searched, I backtracked, I waited patiently at dusk on deserted beaches and windy points yet nothing. Reading that they also hung out at another end of the road in a remarkable and isolated place called Jacksons Bay with a population of permanent residents reaching the staggering total of two I decided to head there. After nearly drowning in a wild camp in this area where the average annual rainfall is an incredible 8m I arrived battered and drenched at Jacksons Bay. It was with admiration and respect that I visited the atmospheric cemetery tucked off the side of the road in a wet forest of trees, crumbling tombstones and rusted wrought iron, interred beneath me and steeped in history were the early pioneers that fought to sustain a livelihood in this unforgiving environment.  As I left there and made my way to the official end of the west coast road the sky lightened the sun came out and I discovered the marvellous Craypot shack serving delicious fish and chips.

drying out after a flooded night at the 'end of the road' Jacksons Bay

"so.. the penguins.." I began after splurging 2 day's budget and feasting on the best fish and chips outside of Aldeburgh.
"Oh they left 5 days ago"
What? They just packed their bags and left saying 'see you next year?'
Apparently so.
My disappointment was short-lived having met Pete and Laurie two mountaineers forced to abandon their plans due to the adverse weather and we decided to join together for a wild camp taking a gravel track I'd seen, followed by a 3km trek through the bush leading to a wonderfully isolated and deserted Lake Ellery where we pitched for the night and built a fire.We shared stories of our mountaineering escpades, whisky and a bottle of wine in this peaceful location.

The next day I nearly drowned again, the wind swung round and I can only describe my cycling experience that day as cycling through a car wash. The next day the sun came out for my ascent of Haast Pass yet en route I met a lovely German couple, Isolde and Andreas. They had wine, I had couscous, they had a hotel booked for the night, I built a fire. They stayed. A lovely spontaneous encounter. Thanks to Konrad Wines for providing the wine..

Fond farewells and I cycled up and over Haast Pass to the incredibly scenic Lake Wanaka and next to it Lake Hawea

Camp at Lake Wanaka

Lake Hawea

From Wanaka I climbed Roys Peak at 1578m with views over Lake Wanaka and Mount Aspiring

View from the summit of Roy's Peak

Then it was back on the bike for my journey to Queenstown via the Crown Range, this being the highest  mountain road pass in New Zealand

Before the descent. The Crown Range mountain pass

with an exhilarating descent

Queenstown was not my cup of tea but afforded more glorious views and I hiked up Ben Lomond at 1748m on an overcast day for what turned out to be just a closer look at the clouds. I'd heard about a gravel track leading from Walters Peak to Te Anau, a remote route the start of which could be accessed by taking a steam boat across Queenstown's lake. As I left the hustle and clutter of Queenstown behind I felt my smile return and for 2 incredible days I rode on a dirt track meeting only a farmer who helped me herd the cows that were blocking my path

Camp on the shore of Mavora Lakes

On the 700m altitude plateau

It was now nearing Christmas time and I was prepared to spend it alone having decorated my bicycle with tinsel and a Christmas stocking but when on Facebook I'd mentioned my failed search for penguins a couple I'd met on the North Island -and who were now running a lodge in Martins Bay another remote location at the end of the Hollyford Track - came to the rescue and invited me for Christmas dinner.. and there may be penguins. It was to be another end of the road ride yet the 100km of the picturesque Milford Road which I took at a leisurely place was worth every turn of the pedal

Festive cycling

Leaving my bicycle at the historic and quirky Gunn's Camp and thanks to my hosts I hitched a ride on the supply helicopter over Milford Sound and arrived in the stunning Martin's Bay where I had one of the most memorable and fun Christmas Eve's. A huge thanks to Nico and Steff for their outstanding hospitality, kindness and for making this possible.

an alternative to Santa's sleigh

The penguins at Martins Bay had also gone away for Christmas but I was not going to finish my search just yet. On Boxing Day Johnny the boat man eased my return journey to Gunns Camp with an adrenaline filled traverse of the lake where I joined the path for a 30km hike back to my bicycle.

I cycled the 100km back from the end of the road and joined forces with Werner a Belgian motorcyclist I'd met at Gunns Camp. We explored the Doubtful Sound and then headed south to the Catlins where I'd heard that there were definitely penguins to be seen with a stop-off at Slope Point, the South Island's southernmost point (Bluff is where most people end their north - south journey but Slope Point is further south and an exhilarating ride to reach it)

Finally at Curio Bay we watched at dusk as the Yellow-Eyed Penguins returned from a day at sea to their nesting young. It was an absolute privilege to be so close to nature in such an unspoilt environment. the location could not have been more atmospheric as this was also the site of a petrified forest of some 180 million years old. 

It was a sad farewell to Werner and I was back on my own battling an awful headwind. I finally reached the town of Dunedin where I decided to take a steam train through a gorge and to join the Otago Central Rail Trail a delightful ride on gravel following the old rail road now only for hikers and cyclists.

 Of course it would have been more delightful had I not started cycling in the middle of the 18th Severe Weather Warning I had cycled in during my time in New Zealand. And of course, every other cyclist was going in the opposite direction to me with big smiles and a cheery wave as they sped past me at 35kmh to my measley 7kmh. As I ptiched one windy night I watched in dismay as my tent bag was sucked up by the wind and went on its own journey east. I clambered down a grassy slope and found a safe camp next to a river out of the wind. The next day as I lugged my bike up the slope there was my tent bag! Thrilled by this boomerang return I slid back down the slope to pack up my tent only to discover the wind had blown it into the river and it was only thanks to a gorse bush that my tent is not freezing its pegs off in antarctica. The next night I camped in a hut

Despite the adverse weather which reached gusts of 120kmh the trail was worth it for the tranquility and more outstanding views.

Finishing the trail I headed towards Crowmwell and then I think my 9th mountain pass of my New Zealand cycle over Lindis Pass and then down to the incredible blue waters of Lake Pukaki and later Lake Tekapo taking in a wild camp much to the surprise of the Merino sheep who wandered past the next morning

The impossible blue of Lake Tekapo

Next stop was Mount Cook Village, another dead end road to climb up on foot to the Mueller Hut and onwards to Mount Ollivier. In just 3 hours of steep climbing you can be in the heart of the magnificent southern alps. The Mueller Hut has an interesting tale of the mischievous and highly intelligent Kea alpine parrot pictured earlier. Observing from a rock a Kea had watched how to open and close the hut door and one night as 2 climbers retired to the empty bunks for a 4am start to ascend Mount Sealy the Kea slid the bolt from the outside and locked the climbers in! after much jostling the climbers eventually got out but it was too late for them to ascend the mountain that day. Beautiful story.

A quick scramble up the rocks took you to the summit of Mt Ollivier, just short of 2000m which was Sir Edmund Hillary's first peak.

With a heavy heart and a vow to return to climb Mt Cook one day I left the area to begin my cycle ride back to Christchurch to collect some gear I'd left at my friend Lee's and to say my goodbyes. Huge thanks to Lee and Liz for the laughs, conversation and jam jars of wine.

There was just one more route I knew I had to do before I departed and that was the Molesworth Road, sold to me in an instant when I heard it was remote, 4-5 days of gravel and steep steep climbs. I started cycling up Lewis Pass and took a right to Hamner Springs. My first attempt at the route resulted in me breaking into tears on the side of the road 2km up Jacks Pass. A recurring stomach bug I'd had since I poisoned myself near Nelson had taken over my mind and body again. I yearned for the lovely note and gift left outside my tent after my 72 hours of delirium from a fellow brit when the poisoning first took hold

Yet instead I took myself to the chemist who prescribed..marshmallows!

The next afternoon after self diagnosing the night before- refraining from a marshmallow binge- and opening antibiotics I'd carried for 24500km I set off again and 4 days later I'd completed possibly my favourite ride in the whole of the country and coined it with the phrase "If you haven't cycled the Molesworth Road you haven't cycled New Zealand". It was tough, it was isolated, it was perfect.

I arrived dusty and dirty in Blenheim, home to the world famous Marlborough wines and Sauvignon Blanc and reached the sanctuary of a hostel my friend Bloeme whom I'd met in a small town in Laos some 9 months earlier was running. A feast was prepared and wine tasting in the form of buying 5 bottles of wine as I was too tired to cycle around the vineyards was a fitting end to an incredible journey around New Zealand. Another farewell to dear friends and wonderful hospitality and then it was a short cycle ride to the ferry the next day and a bus to auckland as I'd run out of time.

A rather battered bicycle was put in the skilled hands of Frank Clavis of Velomaster, a legend, a talented former track rider and bike builder and now making his own range of touring bikes. A gentleman who had helped me immensely when I first arrived on his doorstep some months ealier suffering a spoke break catastrophe.

New sprocket. Old sprocket

Then it was sadly time to leave this incredible country to start a new challenge in South America. I cycled to the airport where I was reunited with another legend named Colin. When I'd arrived at the airport some 5 months earlier I'd got chatting to Colin, an airport shuttle driver, who ended up offering to look after a suitcase I'd carried my gear in on the flight and my bicycle box. He and his wife Nora contacted me regularly throughout my journey in New Zealand: checking if I was ok and sending their warm regards. It was with regret that I never got to stay at their home in Hamilton yet eternal thanks to a wonderful couple and, as they have not yet visited the South Island and were wanting to see my photos, I dedicate this blog post to them

Colin