March 3.  Te Anau to Queenstown.  Today was a great day, the best so far.  The kind of day for which you come here biking.  Not necessarily a very easy day, but a great day.

            I couldn’t fall asleep last night, so I read until I succumbed to some sleep around four in the morning.  It didn’t last long, and by six I woke up again.  Maybe there was the worry about another rainy day like the five previous ones; I am not sure what kept me up.

            After some sort of breakfast consisting of stale bread, jelly, orange juice, an apricot and a piece of Brie, I was on my bicycle at about seven.  It was cold.  Night temperatures had dropped to 4º - 5º Celsius; I could see my breath.  First I went along Highway 94 going east.  Many tourist busses were already on the road; the sun shone bright having just come over the top of the mountains.  For the first ten km, my fingers were cold and cramped, but the sun kept warming them and they loosened up.  Deer and sheep farms right and left, mountains straight ahead, the ones to the south a bit higher having been dusted during the night with snow.

            The funny red German “Rollendes Hotel” (rolling hotel) and its driver, with whom I had a chat yesterday at Te Anau, pass me at km 20.  It’s a rabbit cage on wheels with seventeen rows of bunk beds, each with three levels for a total of 51 beds.  At the head of each bed a small rectangular window lets you get a glimpse of the outside.  On this trip it is not completely filled up.  There are only 41 German occupants; they must feel great having all that additional room for stretching out.

            I pass the small locality named “The Key” and soon thereafter I turn left into a dirt road that leads north.  The idea is to go to the South Mavora Lake and camp there.  The camp doesn’t have much on facilities and there is no shop.  But of course I have my tent and I have bought enough food for two days.  Nevertheless the night promises to be uncomfortable, and temperatures at the altitude of the lake are expected to drop to or below freezing.  And now I remember an additional reason why I didn’t sleep so well the previous night: the worry about camping.  I saw myself freezing through half of the night and feeling miserable.  I felt certain that my sleeping bag and even the two blankets I had bought at Te Anau wouldn’t be enough to keep me warm.

            In any event, there I was, going toward South Mavora Lake, not much traffic on this dirt road where in the middle and on both sides relatively smooth spurs had developed as cars and trucks over time had moved much of the gravel to the sides.  Outside these spurs it is however impossible for me to ride due to the deep gravel.  I didn’t have much of a problem, I only regretted having to concentrate so much on the road that I couldn’t fully take in the beauty of the valley I was traveling through.  The high mountains to the right, the hills to the left and the river running in-between separating lush green meadows and tall brownish grasslands where the terrain has been left fallow.  With each km the beauty of this valley became more astounding with its wide U-shape formed by glaciers.  The road was gently climbing, eventually reaching an elevation of 650 meters, and the mountains took on a more rugged shape, white on top, stone-gray without vegetation further down, and then some plant growth, grass and shrubs and even a few trees. 

            When I reach Mavora Lake I decide to continue.  There is first the desire to avoid the camping and freezing, but I also wish to continue traveling through this marvelous valley.  The road is getting narrower, but there is also much less gravel and riding has become more relaxed.  The wind now coming again from the front is a bit of a nuisance, but nothing like what I had experienced before arriving in Tuatapere.

            There is practically no more traffic.  When you reach a crest you see the road stretch out in front of you as if going forever, going nowhere.  There is now this wide openness, and this silence except for the wind, sounds of the river and the occasional call by a bird of prey.  No more habitation, distant horizon, side canyons carved out by streams running down the mountains, sharp cliffs where the main river has cut through ancient gray-colored deposits.  For long stretches of time you are all alone in this valley, and you breathe it, and you feel alive.  It is one of those rare moments when you are unfettered, when you are one with the universe.

            Where side streams come down from the mountains, narrow bridges have been built to cross them.  At two spots there are fords, and I need to unpack my bicycle and carry the gear through the stream before returning to the other side to pick up the bike.  After reaching a saddle, the road starts dropping towards Lake Wakatipu.  A new river emerges running in the opposite direction of the previous one.  It enters a steep descent, and so does the road.  The new valley opening up deep below does not exude serenity like the one I have just left behind; rather it takes your breath away; it is unexpected, feels untamed, full of youth.

            In sight comes a biker stopped around a bend in the road.  It is Burghard, a young German I had already met the day after my arrival in Dunedin and then twice more.  Burghard has completed his degree in economics and engineering at the University of Berlin and is taking off a year or so in order to travel.  He has run into a problem with the baggage carrier he pulls behind his bicycle.  The carrier’s tire is torn and he has bandaged it with strong adhesive tape, which he hopes will get him to Queenstown where he can replace the tire. 

            We are continuing together and soon reach a point where Lake Wakatipu comes into view.  Dark blue and large it spreads out below us, high mountains bordering the lake to the north and east.  The peaks of the ones to the north are covered by permanent snow and glaciers, the wind ripples the lake’s surface, it is a sight to behold.  It looks pristine, although it isn’t and you know it.  Burghard shouts “Wahnsinn” (madness) as we take in the panorama.  Two more “Wahnsinn” afterward, I inquire what that madness was all about.  He says: the beauty of it; and I wonder whether something new has crept into the German psyche or whether I have only forgotten it: associating beauty with madness?  I really wonder.

            The wind becomes a bit more of a bother as we head down the last 13 km from Mount Nicholas to Walters Peak to catch the steamer that will carry us across the lake to Queenstown.  The steamer with wooden decks and an old-quality interior and bar, was built in 1912 and as then, still works with coal fired engines belching black smoke out of its narrow funnel.

            Our rush to Walters Peak turns out to have been unnecessary.  The steamer’s next crossing is an hour away; so we fill the time watching a demonstration of dogs herding sheep, and sheep being shorn.  The steamer arrives and we board for the 45-minute journey.

            It’s almost eight in the evening when we reach Queenstown.  Burghard will be looking for a campground or a backpackers place, while I am trying to find quickly a more comfortable accommodation.  A friendly young German woman working at the “real journeys” office gets me a room in a near-by hotel for NZ$ 105, and I hope to get a good night’s sleep.  Not having had lunch I prepare myself a sandwich dinner with the bread, sausage, cheese and apples that I had bought for camping.  I also take a wholesome sip of the excellent 2006 Syrah wine I had bought prophylactically to withstand better the cold at the camp.

            Total bike ride today: 115 km, including 90 km dirt road; average speed: 12.4 km/hour; total riding time: 9 hours and 15 minutes.

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