Alps2Ocean starts at the White Horse Campsite in the forbidding presence of Mount Cook. Rolling out on the wet wind of an alpine snow/rain storm ending on the salty breeze of Holmes Wharf in Oamaru. Between start and stop the trail covers over 300km and passes through several of New Zealand’s many worlds. I made the cycle in five days. But I’d recommend taking six or seven with a rest day at Lake Ohau.

Lake Ohau

How would you eat it? My informant in Twizel had described Loke Ohau Lodge’s lunch as “a good feed”. As the woman at the next table began asking involved questions about the wine list, I couldn’t help questioning the accuracy of her description. And began to make a sandwich with the long crackers, smoked salmon, and chutney (I think).

The classiness was actually quite delicious and surprisingly filling.

The date & mushroom soup is particularly good.

Making Camp

After stuffing myself to capacity, I climbed into my pedals and rolled back down the lodge’s long driveway. Briefly, I considered my earlier plan of continuing on to Omarama. But the promise of a 10km uphill ride before the descent to Quailburn Woolshed didn’t agree with me at this time of day (mid-afternoon).

Instead, I rode 2.6km further up the shore of Lake Ohau to a place known as Round Bush Campsite.

Rolling off a lengthy downhill gravel road, into the Round Bush Campsite, I ruefully considered pedaling back up in the morning. I found myself on the wooded southern shore of the lake.

As my gaze traveled west, into the depths of Aotearoa’s mountain fortress. The mountains rose on either side until they finally found the clouds in a place where the glacier-blue either faded into the distance or into the Hopkins River.

I walked my bike along this shore and away from the collected tents and camper vans.

A perfect lazy place appeared beneath the forest’s edge. Reminiscent of Fangorn, the gnarled little trees hung bushy tendrils in protection of a nook where I could recline on my half-inch sleeping mat. I had the rocky shoreline seemingly to myself.

The setting sun lit tiny flames on the lakes ripples as she sand toward the ridge above. The only sound aside from unknown birds calling in the trees was the splish splish of the waves on the beach and my down jacket flapping in the breeze. I pulled out my ocarina and played Concerning Hobbits and Misty Mountains Cold. Soul stirring.

But, I felt nagged. I needed to pull out my pen. Figuratively speaking.

The little laptop was in my pack waiting to be pulled out, propped up on the rock or my knee, and be typed upon. But the sand flies were so annoying. It suddenly seemed as though I could spend all night happily swatting the little bastards and never get bored. Hell, I didn’t need the internet to be distracted.

Months ago, I sat at home and saw the exact same picture in my head. Once I was traveling, I’d have all the time in the world to write. I wouldn’t be consumed with the emotions of packing and planning. A quiet room in a foreign city. No distractions.

Now there was a different image perhaps, but the same emotional impact. This wasn’t an ideal place to work in. The sand flies, the lack of a desk. Only now, I knew the ideal image forming in my head to be rubbish. It was of my quiet room back home.

Work is work. I will never feel like doing it. And any place that I envision myself wanting to work is in the future and requires no effort. Everyone said this would be easy, but none of them has actually done more than envision it. So Cowboy Up!

I looked at what I had done the night before while perched on my bunk in Twizel. Rubbish! (My new favorite word.) I tweaked the wording to portray the idea a bit better and continued writing for I don’t know how long. Every couple paragraphs or so, I’d get stuck and my attention would wander.

Rubbish!

Well, you can’t have everything.

As the great Mo Anthoine once said when his climbing partner ventured a complaint over being stuck overnight on a frozen ledge high in the Dolmites, “Well, you can’t have everything.” My latest work of art (the last blog post) was nearing completion. I had done pretty much all I could without internet and was ready, not truly willing but ready, to beat my head against the latest chapter of Vietnam by Motorbike.

The rain however, came to my rescue, as it were, and I scrambled for bivvy. As I curled my six-foot frame under the tarp and drew my sleeping bag around my ears, I grumbled. “We have some nice hobbit-sized rooms available!”

I had forgotten to write in my journal, but I didn’t really have room to get around to my pack without getting my feet wet by sticking them outside.