Queenstown-Buscot Station,
New Zealand
“I’m going on an adventure!” Yes, I’ve adopted the immortal words of Bilbo Baggins to use as my battle cry. When I got really scared at the airport in Melbourne. When I hit my first hill carrying a 25kg pack. As I drug my sun baked and bleached ass up the drive to Buscot Station.
I’ve been in New Zealand for about a week and a half now. And I’ve been riding, pushing, and carrying my Scott Hardtail Mountainbike over the mountains and vallies of the south island for nearly a week of that (instagram, @whencyclingnewzealand).
So here is my first Kiwi post.
Spending Money In Queenstown
I spent three days spending money in Queenstown and I really enjoyed it. Particularly when buying burgers and garlic cheese chips (french fries) and cookies. But more on that in a little bit. This is a delaying tactic to make sure you don’t just read about the Cookie Bar and then go do something else.
After landing in Frankton on the 23rd, I bought a travel sim for my phone from Spark at the airport. They are way cheaper (and better) than Vodaphone. The airport is in Frankton, which is actually about 1km from Queenstown on the shore of Lake Wakatipu. So, I walked to Bikes and Barbers at the Terrace Junction and bought a bike to ride to Queenstown. And the rest of New Zealand.
That night, I slept at Southern Laughter hostel. My favorite hostel in Queenstown and the only hostel in Queenstown that had a bed available. Seriously, book your places way in advance if you plan to visit around New Year’s. I actually locked myself out of my four bed dorm, but I had company.
And then someone who hadn’t left their key let me in. Thanks Caroline! Anyway, the next morning, I rose ahead of the sun and, to avoid my writing obligations, took a ride up the northern shore of Wakatipu. I went about 20km out (halfway to Glenorchy), before turning back to Queenstown. It was gorgeous!
And the day only went uphill from there. First, I visited the Queenstown’s Cookie Bar.
Then I bought the rest of the supplies (minus the food) that I’d need on the road. After much hunting, I discovered that the most efficient place to shop, due to having everything in one area, is just a bit east past the Terrace Junction in Frankton. I got everything here except my sleeping bag. That, I got at the MacPac in Queenstown, because they were having a Boxing Day sale.
Overall, I’d say the Queenstown is a backpacker’s dream. The scenery, Devil Burger, sporting culture, Cookie Bar, the nightlife.
Nightlife isn’t really my thing, so I got pizza at Fat Badger and looked at the street art.
First Day Cycling New Zealand (Middle Earth)
The first 30km went by really smoothly. I left Queenstown early, Lake Dawes was beautiful, I even got to see the place they shot Gladden Fields. I really liked that one.
Even the pull up Tobin’s Track shortly after wasn’t all bad. Breaking over into the high fields of sheep and hay and looking down on the Wakatipu Valley was totally worth it. Even digging a hole in a tiny stream bed to create a pool to pump from wasn’t all bad.
But the first true test of my resolve came in the form of the steep winding road to Crown Range Rd Summit. Sweat burned my eyes. My muscles rebelled under my ill-packed pack. I mentally listed everything I carried looking for anything that I could do without. To my dismay, I would need everything. Down the last coin in my pocket.
I passed. With the help of my [encouragers] Bilbo and Eminem. Maybe I have strange [inspirations]. The best part was actually just short of the top. There was a clean fresh spring on the left side of the road, which rendered my earlier digging unnecessary. And the carpark only allows self-contained vehicles to camp, so once I got there, I had to ride on.
But downhill is pretty cool.
Just kidding, downhill is the only reason to live. It’s literally so cool! Like being on a free ride that can carry you where you want to go. But, if you’re riding that ride down the north side of Crown Range Road Summit, I recommend you find a campsite soon after leaving the peak. Otherwise, the ride will end with saddle buttocks and no viable place to stay.
After a meal of salami and trail mix among the roadside. I admired the steep slopes of the Cardrona Valley and pressed on. Quite under the influence of downhill, I zipped by several nice little camping spot by clear streams and woolly white sheep. Until suddenly a roadside sign declared that my bike and I had zipped into a no camping zone.
So with a sore ass and bitching like it would make a difference, yours truly biked all the way to the outskirts of Wanaka. All the forms of accomidation I could afford were booked out and not a campsite to be seen.
I ended up sleeping under a stand of evergreen trees across from the Medical Centre. Quite compfy to be honest, when there weren’t any drunken uni students running in to take a leak. One thing this trip/ride has given me is a fresh outlook on the plight of hobos.
“As you move along, you can’t just stop where you’re tired, because you’re not wanted. And, when I look at it from a locals perspective, rightly so. When you do get to the end, there’s no bed. Like the world has no place for you.”
But aside from the hiding part (I believe the legal term is vagrancy), I found it quite comfortable in my little sleeping bag. And bright and early the next morning, I rolled into Wanaka for breakfast.
On my way to the Federal Diner, I was stopped by a policeman for not having a helmet. I should really do better research, because there are actually laws about this and I had to dismount in order to appease him until a bike shop opened and I could buy a brain strainer.
After consuming the cheapest thing on the Federal’s menu, I got my actual food at New World, and rode to the nearest place where I could sleep. My first day out still weighed heavily on my legs. I found this place to be the Albert Town Campground. Once there, I payed my ten dollars and found a tree under which to snooze. I woke periodically, as people went about their people things. All in all though, I basically slept until 1:30am (New Year’s).
Around 1:30, Happy New Year!, the French speaking Canadians who had set their tent like 2 meters away, got back from a party somewhere else, climbed into their tent, and gave eachother a very happy New Year.
Lindis Valley and Pass
Note: There is no cellphone reception in the vicinity of the Lindis Pass.
But the next morning, it was my turn to celebrate. With another 50km to Lindis Valley Historical Campsite. I am tired of writing tonight, so here are a bunch of pictures:
The last one is taken inside a tent that doesn’t belong to me. Did I steal it?
Of course not!
What kind of person do you think I am? As I prepared to enjoy my New Year’s Feast under a tree, the sky fulfilled the threat it had been making all day. And it became necessary to find better cover.
Through the rain, I dashed on my bike. Across a field and beneath a row of large evergreens with low hanging branches. Working with a speed born of dampness, I whipped out my tarp and almost had everything set when I heard a twig snap behind me and a Frenchly accented voice inquire, “Ello, are you okay?”
I turned and spoke to a slightly built blonde woman in a raincoat. Oh yes, I had everything under control. She viewed my tarp skeptically, “Is zat all you ‘ave?”
“Yes.” I was somewhat stung by her lack of [admiration].
She and her boyfriend were staying nearby in a campervan and had watched my headlong dash across the field. They had an extra three-person tent and I could use it if I so desired.
Well, I didn’t want to set up a three-person tent in the rain. And I don’t like being on the receiving end of favors. And I felt I had to stand up for my besmirched little tarp. So I politely declined.
“Why not?”
Now what is the answer to that question? My tarp and I stand as one? I don’t like French people? I don’t know.
Anyhow. That was that.
The next morning, after saying my thank yous and good lucks, I made my way into the Lindis Pass. The steep hills crowned by rock outcroppings watched me go. And, it seemed to me that I must soon be ambushed by barrow-wights.
Winding its way out of the initial canyons, my road snaked out through open grasslands as the sun climbed, before crawling back into a land of brown hills and browsing herds of sheep. Now high above, the sun beat on us, as my bike and I climbed slowly upwards.
Climbing through steep sided hills was more than my already tired legs could deal with. Every once in a while, I stopped and used my Life Straw to drink from a stream. In this way, I could conserve water, but the last 4km to the pass were dry ones for me.
Fortunately though, as I trudged alongside my bike 1.5km short of the summit. The door of a passing car opened slightly and the occupant yelled, “You can make it!” So that helped.
When I did reach the summit, the world did a complete backflip in my head. I felt indestructible. I found a spring, almost drank to much, and made myself sick. The popped in my earbuds and swept into the Waitaki Valley in style. Windburned and grinning is a style!
I rolled into Omarama saddle sore and quite pleased with myself. Because their is no ATM in Omarama, I ended up a bit low on cash. But I got a few groceries, donated generously to the public rubbish bins, and indulged in a snickers bar.
How then did I end up at Buscot Station 9km north of Omarama? Saddle sore and not so full of myself. And in much need of a rest day.
With an atmosphere akin to visiting my grandpa’s house, the old headquarters of the Buscot sheep & cattle ranch was an ideal place for me. When I wasn’t snoozing in the dorm or doing laundry, I could hang around the house playing piano with Bjorn (the German born hired hand). Since I was the only guest at the time, Tony (the owner, whose son now runs the ranch) even invited me to join them at their table for the best meals I’ve had since leaving home. I couldn’t have asked for better.
Do watch out for Frank the cat though. He may lay claim to your bed and you’ll be powerless to stop him.