My Favorite Bit, Pt. II: Ikamathreea

Okay, so last time I said my favorite part of the TA so far is the ride to Ikamatua. Maybe it doesn’t sound like it should be, since apart from the navigation problems and running out of water, the mountain just straight up kicked my ass. But it is, and I’ll show you why.

(Words can’t do it justice, so get ready for lots of pictures. I’ll apologize in advance for the photo quality in some of these. The only camera I have with me is Advanced Alien Technology, aka my iPhone, and phone photography gets tricky when you’re so rain-soaked that you have no way to dry your hands, your lenses, or the touchscreen.)

We left off last time with my first attempt at an ascent, ending with me running short on water. This was a Monday. I rolled back into Reefton with my tail between my legs. Out of self-pity and a need for nurturing I splurged on dinner at Dawson‘s, a hotel and restaurant in operation since 1874. The veggie Madras curry is killer, the kumara chips really come to life when you dip them in plum sauce, and they have a nice crisp cider on tap. Comfort food for the win.

As I was stuffing my face with fried kumara, I saw three women walk in dressed for serious athletic activity, and on my way out I saw them again, checking out Booster. Turns out they’re part of the Reefton running club, but one of them is into cycle touring and another is thinking about getting into it. They were admiring Booster’s setup when I came outside.

It turns out the founder of the club, Emma, is a world record holder for running the entire length of New Zealand in 21 days. (Yes, that makes her three times faster on her feet than I am on wheels. And unlike me, she runs for charity. Worst Bikepacker in New Zealand at your service.) Emma also happens to be temporarily in charge of the best campsite in Reefton. The runners asked me where I’m staying tonight, I said I wasn’t sure, and one of them gave Emma the nod. Soon enough I was following her back to a quiet little glade where she hooked me up with a nice campsite.

So Tuesday morning, another run at Ikamatua, right? Wrong. I wake up to a very sore knee. Oh yeah, I think, the first thing I did yesterday morning was slam it into a rock at high speed. Suddenly today feels like a rest day.

On the one hand, that’s good. I could use the time to get some writing done. Booster’s shifter cable has been giving me some trouble too, and that could use some attention. Plus, as I’d learn later, there’s one pair of men’s size 11 shoes for sale in Reefton, and my current shoes are about as sturdy as the inside of a s’more.

On the other hand, there’s this amazing thing happening in the sky. I forget the word for it. It’s what happens when rain isn’t falling. Whatever it is, it means I could be riding and not wet at the same time. I barely remember what that even feels like. But no, my knee says today is a rest day.

In the knees lies wisdom. Listen to the knees. Not only did I get my work done, but the mountain got a lot of work done. This is yet another example of being careful of what you wish for. I thought I wanted to bike on a rain-free day, but no. Far better to bike the morning after a rain-free day.

Those meter-deep pools? Mere centimeters now. The mountain spent all of Tuesday draining, so Wednesday morning instead of pushing or dragging Booster through one swamp after another, I just rode the whole way up.

Navigation problems? Solved in advance. I’ve already been where I need to go. Steep as hell hike-a-bike? All right, I there was still some of that, but a much lower grade than Monday’s route, never so dire that I had to take the bags off the bike. Compared to last time, I felt like I was sprinting up the trail.

So on my third day I finally made it all 25 kilometers to Big River Hut. This by itself already nominates the path to Ikamatua for my favorite part of the TA, because I got my ass kicked so hard on Monday and came back in such fine form on Wednesday. The Rocky to Rocky II story arc is just so gratifying. But the ride is about to get better.

Just below the hut, after a couple of river crossings, you ride past relics of the gold rush era. That’s where you discover why they tell you not to drink the water or touch the soil: a byproduct of gold mining is cyanide.

But once you’re above the mines, you’re in the clear. Runoff doesn’t run uphill. So on I go, and this is where things get magical: the Waiuta Track.

The Waitua Track starts with a lookalike of the Dead Marshes, yes, that is their name. I did not follow the lights.

Then comes the emerald forest. Not its name but I don’t know what else to call it. Stones, branches, tree trunks, all of them draped in green.

Then comes the Girdle of Melian. Again, not its name. It’s an obnoxiously obscure Tolkien reference, but basically this is the part of the trail where I become convinced elvish sorcery is trying to get me lost. No doubt the same elf-witch is the one who clouded my mind and flummoxed my GPS two days earlier, sending me up the wrong mountain.

Having made that mistake, I was especially on guard for wrong turns and imprecise instructions. So it didn’t sit easily with me when it looked like I was supposed to ride off the trail and into the river. But I double-checked my guidebook, studied the (possibly bewitched) land, and decided leaving the track for the river was in fact correct.

And it was! Riding down the river, ducking under fallen trees, I’m smiling bigger than I’ve smiled this whole ride. This is officially the coolest bike trail ever.

How badass is that? This is where Galadriel and Yoda go mountain biking together. It can’t possibly get better than this.

But the Waitua Track isn’t done. Not by a long shot. Next you get to the winding track hugging the serpentine curves of the mountain. On your right you’ve got a sheer wall, on your left a precipitous drop into the cloud forest.

As you can see, the trail is about double Booster’s width. She’s got some junk in the trunk, so double her big ol’ badonkadonk is plenty of room. It’s not a tightrope; you’re not going to fall. But don’t fall.

By this point I’ve made too much progress and the elf sorceress is displeased. The rain turns to sleet. Honestly, sleet! On a 60° day. The trail gets mushy. Those outside curves get scarier. I keep riding, and then she gives up all her elvish subtlety.

A sign and a fence: you shall go no further. Someone has taken down the fence, though, so Booster and I venture on to see what the fuss is about. 2D photography can’t really convey steepness at all, but I’ll give it a shot:

The trail has completely washed away. Those red lines trace where it’s supposed to be, and the red shaded area is now just empty space. Even a tightrope walker couldn’t inch along the inside edge, because there isn’t an edge. It’s just a sheer drop.

(Just parenthetically, if you think my photoshopping looks janky, I agree. But I’ll have you know, friends and family have commented on how dramatically my technological skills have improved. These shaky red lines aren’t just the best I can do, they far exceed all expectations anyone ever had of me. Worst Bikepacker, meet Worst Compooterer.)

The proper elvish way around this washout is to ride into this cave…

…then pedal exactly 13 times, which sends you 13 miles through impenetrable darkness. Then you reveal the magic password you have tattooed on your body in elvish, and this opens an exit for you through a magic tree:

But I can’t do that. I am untattooed and these photos are faked. Instead, I got to follow the brand new route laid down by the good people of the New Zealand Department of Conservation. The rangers sent some poor schmuck up here to find a way over the mountain and put up orange triangles along the way. I’ll tell you, these were a lot easier to spot than they were to get to.

So for the second time I had to strip Booster of all the gear I could, push her a ways up, then go back for her bags. Waiuta Track, you’re now officially steeper than anything I’ve ridden in the last three months. Which, come to think of it, is also steeper than anything in the preceding 49 years. Well done, you.

So here’s the last reason the ride to Ikamatua is my favorite leg of the TA. It’s entirely possible that no human being has ever camped where I camped Wednesday night. The schmuck who put up the orange triangles wouldn’t have needed to. He’d have just hiked back down to his DOC-issue pickup truck and driven home. It’s possible some intrepid Māori kid camped up here once, though it’s hard imagine why anyone would. It’s a pain in the ass to get to and the only thing up here is moss. The only reason I can think of for anyone to camp here is if the trail you were supposed to follow washed out, the brand new alternative route pushed you over the mountain, and you were too tired to ride down to a campsite that has, you know, flat ground and running water. Toilets. Maybe even a shower.

They have those at Big River Hut, which is why normal people camp there. But no one who camped there would make camp again just nine kilometers later, on this random pain-in-the-ass hill where camping is quasi-legal at best. No, a reasonable person just pushes on down to the trail and rides out.

But not the Worst Bikepacker in New Zealand. It took him three days to reach Big River Hut, and he thought I’ll be damned if I’m only going to ride 25 kilometers today. So big manly man that he is, he rode all of 34 kilometers, until he found himself where in all likelihood no one has ever camped in that exact spot. As of this writing, probably only a few dozen in human history have ever set foot up there. I just think that’s cool. Plus I was bloody tired.

So this was the view from my tent that night, and I’m willing to bet I’m the first person ever who could have taken this picture.