The Battle of Otira Gorge

The last week of my stay in New Zealand was graced by a visit from the sun. People in Christchurch had been mumbling that they hadn’t seen much of the sun all summer but thankfully things turned as soon as I turned inland from the town of Greymouth on the West Coast.  The last week of my trip would be blessed with glorious sunshine.

I took the quieter and more scenic route around Lake Brunner to Arthur’s Pass. This is a national Park in which lies the pass that takes you back over the Southern Alps to Christchurch. Porter’s Pass further inland is higher but coming from the West the hard bit is the climb up Otira Gorge to the town named after the Sir Arthur Dobson who ‘discovered’ the pass. Of course, he didn’t really discover it, it was shown to him by a native as a means of transporting gold off the West Coast but being a whitey he gets all the plaudits. The weather showcased the landscape to perfection and it turned out that the section from Greymouth to the town of Springfield would be my favourite scenery of the NZ trip. To be honest, it did feel a little European with lots of pasture lands and evergreens perched on mountain-sides but the familiarity was still spectacular. Unfortunately the many photos I took didn’t do it justice, one would need some sort of IMAXX lens to capture the amazing 360 degree views.

Re-indexing my derailleur to ensure that I had access to my easiest gear meant that I left Greymouth rather late. It was only 100k to Arthur’s Pass but I would have to climb from sea-level to 920ms and I was aware that the pass was difficult. I did not reckon it could be too tough, unless it was up and down all day but I knew this wasn’t the case as there was a long flat section from the coast to the bottom of the Alps. In addition, one of the world’s most scenic train rides travels from Greymouth via the town of Arthur’s Pass to Christchurch. My thinking was that if a train can get up there then I shouldn’t have too many problems since trains can only climb gradual ascents. Still, 100k on heavy roads is a long day on the rothar. I spent the whole morning looking at the Southern Alps rising straight up in front of me and all that was left for me was to figure out through which stunning peaks I would ‘pass’. After lunch temperatures soared to thirty five degrees and I was still riding on what I would consider flats. I admit, I started to get a little worried as the longer it remained flat the steeper the road would pitch at the end. I noticed signs reminding traffic that the gradients ahead were very steep and so vehicles towing trailers should not advance. However, there were plenty of HGVs on this road pulling two trailers and so I reckoned it was all a bit of a false alarm. I passed through the nothing town of Otira aware that all would shortly be revealed. I snaked between a couple of mountain-sides and there she was in front of me; a beast of a climb with no end in sight. The train-tracks disappeared into the darkness of a tunnel, which meant that I would have to climb over whatever it was that the train couldn’t. So much for the gradual ascent! It was as if this road would take me to some fiery dragon’s lair amidst the small puffy clouds. Normally these things are never as bad as they look but the effects of the heat and the previous 90k had softened me up no end. My tyres seemed to be glued to the road, I was in my 22x32 but it didn’t make things any easier. I managed to make it through the tunnel section and just about hung on until I got to the scenic look-out. I was not alive when the Allies tried to storm the beaches of Normandy but it was that feeling of shell-shock that I had when I pulled over at the look-out. There was no end to the water-falls of sweat and my chest was rising and falling much like a puppy’s such was the need to suck in oxygen. I didn’t know what hit me. It was vicious to say the least and I was only half way-up. The hardest thing was that due to the trucks groaning their way up the mountain it made it very difficult to work the bike up the climb as the road was so narrow. I had to ride a very tight line inside the road, which took huge concentration. Naturally my legs and head were already fried from the heat and so it was just agony.

Having sized up the enemy properly this time I managed to cajole my horse around the steep bend to the viaduct which was less sharp. This viaduct was only opened in 2000. I could not work out which way the old road went up but needless to say I’m glad I didn’t have to ride it as there was nothing but shale mountain-sides around me. I still could not see the finish but I was no longer going to slide down the mountain. Indeed, one more impossible section remained before I finally crested the summit … was it a mirage or did this place not look a little like Sally Gap? It was unfortunate that my bike computer stopped registering in NZ. Thus, I do not know what gradient I was climbing. Perhaps it is on the web but I reckon it probably elevated me 600ms vertical in 4kms, which is hard with the bags and a heavy steel bike. I have rarely suffered so much to turn the wheel a single revolution. 15% on asphalt is not impossible as I have ridden shorter sections of 20% off-road. However, every climb has its own personality and I think it was just the nature of this climb, the trucks and the heat that messed my head up. I won’t forget it anytime soon.

I descended to the town of the same name and as I loved the scenery so much I decided I would take yet another day off the bike and go hiking the following day. After a bad night’s sleep due to the early morning trucks racing through town I decided I would climb Avalanche Peak. I started out with intentions of just climbing to the tree-line but of course, the Moses in me meant that I had to climb the mountain. There was no European-style messing around with the trail taking me through woods and around flushing meadows. Instead the track just went straight up the mountain-side 1100ms vertical to an elevation of 1833ms. If I was going to climb this I would have to toughen up kiwi-style. Despite the boulder-scrambling I climbed up in two hours, it would have been less but for some photo-stops. A very fit mountain-runner might get up in an hour but there is more climbing than running as it was a very steep hike. The difficult bit was coming down and it took another two hours just to get down to the road again after a small picnic on the side of the mountain. My quads were a mess the next day from having to brake so hard tramping down. Thankfully, this action is the opposite to cycling and so my legs should be ok for the 150k remaining to Christchurch.

Look after yourselves

Marco