How do you see your position in the universe? What makes you feel really small? And how does that feel?
Poulter Valley
Wayne dropped me off on the side of Arthur’s Pass highway at the entrance to the Waimakariri River Valley with my bike and gear in a pile at 7am as he sped off in an attempt to make it to work by 9am. Standing there at the entrance to a huge valley with my gear in disarray I felt a deep insecurity. Due to hiding at the hostel from the rain for many days, followed by the huge day on the Paparoa track with Dan and Wayne I hadn’t had my little mobile home fully assembled for some time. Did I forget anything at the hostel I wondered? Do I have enough food? I was headed for the Poulter Valley — an off the beaten track rare bicycle legal trail into Arthur’s Pass National Park.
As I pedaled the initial several hours of gravel road to the trailhead I felt dwarfed by the vast valley through which I travelled. Something about being dropped here, as opposed to pedaling here under my own power, left me feeling small and vulnerable. Once I reached the trailhead for the entry to the Poulter Valley I encountered my first obstacle — a gate over which my bike must be lifted. A theme of this trip is the decreased upper body strength I have experienced with age. Recent experience told me that I was not lifting my fully loaded bike over this fence. I got busy removing bags and water bottles to lighten the bike and still barely managed too heave it over the fence. Following all my gear I clambered over and reassembled my bike and started to pedal. Three minutes later: another gate. Oh please don’t let this be a pattern!
Fortunately that was the last gate for awhile, but that doesn’t mean the path was easy. There was some bush-whacking and lots of steep pushing up double track. There was walking across blown out rocky riverbeds entering the Poulter River from the West. Crossing streams and occasionally lifting the bike. One of my strengths on the bike is eating regularly to power forward motion, but for some reason that day I had no appetite at all. About four hours into my ride I started forcing sugary candies into my mouth to sneak in at least a few calories for the furnace. I realized I hadn’t packed very many sugary snacks, so I sure hoped I started feeling better soon. I also hoped that I wasn’t sick with anything contagious since I was on my way to camp in a communal hut. The route description promised that once I hit the National Park boundary the track would improve. Fortunately this ended up being true, though that boundary came with yet another fence! And a head wind.
Finally I was at the first hut, which was far enough for me! I prefer the newer huts such as the Casey Hut with their large windows, and consequently good light, as well as, a general state of cleanliness. There were already two women at the hut who had stayed the previous night as well. For some reason their conversation turned to a case of norovirus that had swept through one of the busy great walk huts — I kept quiet about my stomach issues and used extra hand sanitizer that day (which it turns out does not kill norovirus — good old soap and water is required!). By the end of the day my appetite had returned. I am definitely susceptible to stress induced gastrointestinal issues and maybe my morning stomach discomfort had been due to my psychological discomfort.
The next morning I left my overnight gear at the hut and headed out on a day trip to see the Poulter Hut and hike to Lake Minchin. I was on the (metaphorical!) fence as to whether to go completely bike free or ride to the end of the bike legal trail and then commence walking, but some hut mates convinced me that it was a fairly long haul to the lake and the trail to the bike border (pictured above) was fairly easy. Leaving the hut I was immediately pushing my bike up steep difficult single track, carrying it over trees, and across numerous streams with steep banks, at times floundering around looking for the track. What were those women talking about?! Was I missing something? Finally the trail became obvious and flattened to double track without too many swampy areas to navigate and I cruised to the point where I would leave my bike for the rest of the day.
Shortly after I commenced walking the enjoyable trail abruptly ended in the riverbed (shown below). My digital maps that I had downloaded in advance showed that I should cross the river early on and then continue up the far side until I found the trail in to the hut. Walking on river rocks like this, especially in the lightweight sneakers I wear, is quite arduous. I stumbled and fumbled and crossed the river. I was feeling very small again. Instead of heading confidently up river on one side or the other, I was struggling with fear that I would miss the trail on the far side and end up lost. I looked behind me and carefully memorized the appearance of the location where I had entered the river bed and would need to return to the exact spot to regain the trail and retrieve my bike on the return trip. I was also carrying a GPS unit marking my current track and I could follow it back if my navigation skills failed me.
In retrospect it makes no sense why I was so worried about my ability to navigate and even if I didn’t find what I was looking for, I could just return to Casey Hut. I continued to over-rely on my technology. The track I had on my device showed it to be out of the river and up in the bush a hundred yards. While I didn’t want to bush-bash for a trail that possibly didn’t exist, I also didn’t want to river walk if there was a perfectly good trail that nearby, so I pushed uphill through the forest until I convinced myself there was no trail and then made my way back to the river. More time and energy wasted. I was feeling defeated and my self-confidence was low. Do I have the skills to be out here by myself? Am I putting myself and therefore possibly others at risk? Should I stick to the heavier use trails?
Once back on the river rocks I collected myself and reminded myself I had other resources with me, such as a different topographic map on my phone that might show the trail location. As I squatted down to dig my phone out of my backpack I finally spied an orange trail marker way ahead, just barely within the limits of my vision. YAHOO I yelled and threw both of my hands in the air; there’s the trail! No guessing. The reassurance of a trail marker (technically referred to as a confidence badge) was all I needed for a complete mental reset. Relief flooded over me and I continued up the river, but this time with confidence. Quickly I was at the Poulter Hut and then following the steep narrow trail to Lake Minchin. Fortunately this trail was easy to follow and I was no longer plagued by self-doubt.
Lake Minchin is a beautiful little alpine lake that I only shared with the vocal birds. After a nice break and a small lunch, plus a look at my more detailed map to see which side of the river it suggested I walk on during my return trip, I was ready to go. This time when I got to the river bed I immediately crossed and found a mixture of more secure ground and river rocks to walk on that took me back to my exit spot quite quickly. In retrospect I should have trusted my skills more. I have been traveling in the backcountry for 25 years now and while I do not consider myself an expert map and land reader, I am competent. I think feeling so far away from everything in such huge valleys took its toll on my confidence.
I still had one more obstacle in my day. The initial track out from the Casey Hut that morning had been very unpleasant with a bike. Could I find a more graceful way back to the hut? My sore and tired feet were happy to be back on the bike and then I saw a sign “mountain bike route to Casey Hut”! Yes, this must be the better way back to the hut, I must have ended up on the hiking trail earlier. I followed this double track which dumped me in a bunch of river braids and swampy areas over and over again. Really? OK, am I taking the mostly unrideable rocky riverbed all the way back to the hut? It was quite miserable and looked unlikely. Whereas heading inland I saw a ridiculously steep, but very short and well worn double track. OK, that way it is. Following that track immediately dumped me back on to the “trail” I had taken from the hut that morning and I continued to flounder around looking for the best stream crossings and places to push my bike through the bushes. All I could do was laugh at this point. Eventually I was back at Casey Hut and very happy to be out of my wet shoes and heating up some afternoon coffee.
The ride out went much more quickly than the ride in, for which I was very grateful!
Lake Tekapo and Macaulay Valley
I had one additional outing planned that involved the most unknowns and thus also made me nervous, but this time the nerves were mostly due to a big river crossing that could become impassible during certain seasons and following heavy rain. Many huts and regions are not accessible by bicycles in New Zealand, but the two valleys north of Lake Tekapo, Macaulay and Godley, are 4×4 vehicle access with huts deep in the mountains. If vehicles can go, bicycles can go! Being high season also meant that I would probably see some drivers out there, which added a safety element. The only problem was that rain was forecast several days out. I definitely had time to do the reportedly easier to access Macaulay Hut, but didn’t know if I dared try and tack on the Godley Valley — honestly the valley I was more interested in getting deep into, up close and personal with glaciers. I packed my bike up with four days of food, the most I can fit without resorting to filling my backpack and decided to take it day by day.
The view above is my approach along Lake Tekapo. The snowy valley in the center is the Godley Valley and off to the right of the mountain on the right is the Macaulay Valley. On the long pedal out to the northern terminus of the lake I flagged down a 4×4 driver to ask him about river crossing conditions — he hadn’t crossed, but talked to some folks who had and said it was no problem. He shared that the water came up over their hood (!!) but he quickly assured me that was because of the wake of a vehicle going through and that the water was only about this high (holding his hand part way up the door panel). That still looked at least hip height to me, I was not reassured! However, I pedaled on until I reach the sign below. Finally, let’s check it out!
After crossing a few initial river braids I arrived at the widest and deepest portion. It didn’t look too deep, but there’s only one way to find out. First I needed to test it without the weight of carrying gear and, unlike a tramper, I don’t have hiking poles to aid my balance in moments like these. The current was strong enough to get my attention and the water was about halfway up my thighs, only getting the bottoms of my shorts wet. OK. I’m up for this, but not strong enough to carry my fully loaded bike on my shoulders — river crossings require that I carry the bike high enough to keep the wheels out of the water, otherwise the current catches them like a sail. I pulled most of the bags and weight off the bike and hefted the bike up onto my shoulders. Slowly and carefully I fought the current and balanced one step at a time on rocks that were fortunately not too slippery. Phew! One more trip across to carry all my bike bags loaded up in my backpack and I was done. Fortunately the water was not as cold as expected for a glacial river. In the photo below you can see my bike on the far side of the river where I left it while I fetched my remaining belongings on my third crossing.
A bit more wading across smaller river braids and I was to the branch point for the two valleys. Just before I had crossed the main river I met someone who informed me that I couldn’t go out the Godley Valley as the track had been blown out by pervious storms, but that I wouldn’t have any trouble accessing the Macaulay Hut. That saved me the decision of pushing myself to explore the more challenging Godley Valley and also the concern of staying until the rain and possibly getting trapped on the far side of the river until the water went back down. I was now carrying way more food than I needed for an overnight trip, but relieved to have the decision made for me.
I hid in the paltry shade of the sign, ate my favorite lunch, and dried my feet and shoes a bit — a task that would ultimately prove futile as I spent the rest of the day crossing in and out of the Macaulay River. The ride to the hut was ultimately mostly rideable, but constantly rocky in a way that was very tiring to my body, especially my low back.
I was going deeper and deeper into the valley, but without the unsettled feeling I had experienced in the Poulter. I would occasionally be passed by trucks and even saw two intrepid trampers walking the entire way; knowing that others were out there, that the river crossing was behind me, and I just had to stay in the valley to find the hut allowed me to focus more on the beauty and riding than my fears. In the photo below can you see the hut as I approached it?
Below is the evening view from the hut (outhouse in the the foreground) looking back the way I had ridden in and would return the following morning.
The ride out was a slight downhill grade the entire way, combined with more confidence on the best path to take along, through, and across the river bed, led to a much quicker ride out than in. Since I had sufficient food I added on an extra 1,500 foot climb up an incredibly steep road to the Richmond single track and following the descent enjoyed one more solo night camped along the lake. These outings that physically and mentally challenged me the most during my seven-week trip were also the most memorable and fulfilling.