The Molesworth Muster
Day 1: 85 km, 1506 m
Day 2: 148 km, 1642 m
Filling up my water bottles in the campsite kitchen, a man asked me where I was off to that day.
“Across Molesworth Station!” I replied.
A sort of distasteful expression spread across his face, as he said: “Hope you’ve packed your warm layers”.
They were not the confidence-inspiring words I was hoping would come out of his mouth, considering the worries I had for this ride.
I was nervous about the remoteness, the unknown difficulty of the trail, Jack’s (or Jollies) Pass, and above all, how cold it could be camping that night.
I hate being cold.
I needn’t have worried. Sunday was the best day I’ve ever had on a bike.
I wanted a late start so I wouldn’t arrive at the campsite too early to be able to sit and get cold; I only had 85 km to cover.
My alarm was set for 8, but my stomach woke me up at 0630 and that was that. I managed to ignore it for an hour before the intensity was causing nausea and my bladder was about to burst.
I begrudgingly packed up my sleeping bag and was out of the campsite, had ridden two kilometres and was sitting down for my one hot coffee of the Molesworth-Station-two-dayer by 0830, having faffed as much as humanly possible along the way.
I’d given my gas canister a shake that morning and decided I didn’t have enough gas to get me across the station warm.
I wandered into the Hanmer Springs Adventure Store and was grandly presented with a big enough gas canister to make myself and the entire farm’s worth of cattle a cup of tea.
It would have to do.
Knowing I could cook myself something warm, I meandered around Four Square and picked up provisions for two days’ worth of riding.
After a game of banana and biscuit Tetris, I had exhausted all the faffing available to me.
It was time to get up that hill and into the unknown.
Four mountain bikers passed me on the climb, six kilometres at an average of 9.1%.
“You’re brave”, one of them said, presumably a comment aimed at the amount of weight on my bike.
I laughed and said, “I think the term is stupid”.
I walked a bit.
I got frustrated as my bike skidded sidewards with the movement of the gravel on a camber.
I inched closer to the top.
I was surprised when I saw the vehicles that had given me lungfuls of NZ’s finest dust parked up just above the last corner.
I’m learning that big climbs never last as long as I think they will.
First mental battle: tick!
I rolled over the top and at the junction, I peeled off right, leaving Rainbow Road for another time.
Off I pedalled into Molesworth Station.
The sun had joined me, I was giddily rolling over the small lumps that felt like molehills compared to Jack’s Pass.
I felt so grateful the sun was shining and the wind was behind me for what felt like the first time in weeks.
I was loving it. I had both headphones in, feeling safe doing so with the lack of cars I knew I would come across that day, and was gleefully happy, singing along.
Poor cows.
I was about an hour ahead of where I thought I’d be with my early hunger-induced wake-up call, and it felt freeing to have so much freedom exchanged into the currency of time and warm weather.
I felt free, isolated, and incredibly comfortable in the unknown. I had all I needed, food, a tent, and good weather.
I felt capable.
Then I hit the deck pretty hard.
You bet one of five trucks that passed me that day happened to be behind me at the right time to bear witness to my slow-motion topple. How embarrassing.
I’d dragged my bike to the side of the road and was brushing bits of rubble out of my knee when he stopped alongside me.
“Everything alright?” he asked with his brows furrowed.
I laughed it off and thanked him for stopping, but explained I’d be fine and it was just a case of putting my front tyre in the wrong place at the wrong time. No real harm done.
He drove off after some convincing.
I looked down at a couple of trickles of blood making their way down my shin. I pressed my forearm against my knee and decided it was time for a can of Japan’s finest coffee and a cookie.
I parked myself and my bike in a clearing off the side of the road at the trailhead of a circular walk, popped my drone on charge, laid my towel out to dry, munched on a couple of freshly baked cookies and poked at the points that were sending sharp pain through my knee.
It was still complete serenity. I had my back against the hike’s signpost and was raising my face into the sun’s warmth.
I got my notes out and wrote a bit about what I could see and hear where I was sitting. I described how the crevices etched into the hill face in front of me could have been put there by giants with their snowboards.
I was working my way towards the last hill on the elevation graph that day, Wards Pass. It would be the highest point of the whole trip through New Zealand (I think?) at 1,145 meters.
I came across a group of three guys with mountain bikes heading the other (normally ridden) way and spent a while chatting with them about what was to come for both parties.
They were interested in what I was listening to and I told them about whatever flavour of podcast I had on that day, and I was pretty happy to be recommended a couple of similarly genre-d podcasts.
I wished them luck descending Jollies Pass (the route I’d decided not to take as it was an unmaintained MTB track). And they wished me luck climbing Wards Pass.
I enjoy bikepacking solo. (Self-explanatory).
I enjoyed half and half-bikepacking with Sara and Kirsten. (Cycling mostly solo but reuniting at cafes and campsites).
I’ve enjoyed fully bikepacking with someone in the past. (Being dropped on hills but otherwise sharing 95% of the experience).
I think there’s a delicate balance you need to find bikepacking with people where you’re conscious and responsive to others’ speed, stamina, feelings and needs.
At the moment, I like that I can just bimble at my own pace, take breaks when I want, and not have to worry about other people’s feelings and thoughts about the route or the elevation etc, etc, that day.
It’s hard enough figuring out how I feel about it.
However, as I pedalled away from the group of three from Denver, I felt a twang of jealousy.
It wasn’t the first time that day and it wouldn’t be the last time that day that I thought about how fun it would have been to share the two-day adventure with people.
I imagined a reality where Caitlin and Gemma would be dancing up the hills ahead and I might pass Gemma on the descents, slowed to a snail’s pace with a disdain for speed downhill and a love for using her brakes.
I craved sitting in a tent and chatting rubbish at the end of the day, munching on whatever post-pasta and pesto delicacy one of us might’ve brought that time around.
Alas, it wasn’t to be. I was there with myself and I wasn’t being terrible company so it was still pretty pleasant.
Wards Pass arrived. I thought Jack’s Pass was my worry of the day, this was just a small bump among a few others on a graph. Nowt to worry about.
Then I was pushing my bike up 16% gradients and wasn’t entirely sure at what point I’d decided walking was better than riding.
An MTB-er who’d just descended past me came grinding up behind me and started chatting. “How’s the knee?”.
He knew I’d fallen off my bike. Weird. He also seemed to be doing hill reps. Weirder.
I swiftly put two and two together and realised the 4×4 driver who had witnessed my tumble was now on a bicycle. Wonderful.
He very skillfully remained alongside me as I pushed my bike up another couple of corners before I decided I should attempt to ride up some of the climb to save some face. This man had awful timing. I felt like telling him ‘I promise I can ride a bike’.
Together, we rode the final five kilometres to Cob Cottage Campsite, a DOC-managed patch of land with a long drop toilet that you’re allowed to sleep on. (The land, not the toilet).
When I was researching Molesworth Station, I had the following situations envisioned:
Wind, rain, isolation, cows, hills, gravel, no signal, cold, wind, rain, cold, damp, solitude.
The day, so far had proven to go along the lines of:
Tailwind, sun, isolation, cows, hills, gravel, no signal, warm, tailwind, warm, dry, a few people.
I arrived at the campsite, propped my bike against the freshly painted fence of the DOC keeper’s shelter, and got chatting with the occupiers.
They were volunteers and stayed for six days to maintain the place until another couple of volunteers took over, and so forth.
A couple of minutes in, I was offered a cup of tea. I couldn’t believe it, what extraordinary generosity. (Genuinely not sarcasm, I was so grateful.)
I was sitting with the two DOC volunteers, one of their friends Fred, and an Argentinian man who had stripes of zinc across his face and thorn grazes all over his legs, also with a cup of tea.
Must be the gift they give weary, grazed people who come through their front gate.
We were a very mismatched bunch of people but it made for a very interesting conversation, small talk banned from the outset.
I took a lot of insight and appreciation for what I’m doing away from that encounter. They were all in their mid-50s +(+) and spoke about how I was negating some of the ‘what ifs’ in my life by undertaking an adventure like this.
Fred had done something similar in his 20s and was happy that he wouldn’t be sitting in his rocking chair with any regrets.
The others took up adventuring later in life and imposed great wisdom upon me about how you can measure how much you have seized life, by your ability to tell stories.
I really like that notion.
Then they asked if I had a partner and when I said no, they began chatting amongst themselves about how I couldn’t possibly settle for any less than a man who would cycle round the world with me.
I said I didn’t have any grand plan to cycle around the world, but that maybe yes it would be nice to find someone who would adventure with me one day. They agreed it was very important. It made me laugh.
They then told me I should utilise suncream a little better and pointed me in the direction of a natural plunge pool where I could rinse the sweat, blood and dust off.
I found a flat bit of land and started putting my tent up. The 4×4 driver/ MTB-er wandered over with a selection of three cans of beer and asked if I wanted one.
Cup of tea, and beer. Yes, please.
I erected my tent in between sinking some hazy IPA and then made a beeline to clean myself off.
I underestimated the depth of the plunge pool and instantly submerged myself in the cold water.
I hyperventilated a bit before forcing big lungfuls of fresh air in and clambered to the side where I sort of scrubbed the most offensively dirty areas and got out of there as quickly as I could.
Thermals, fleece, down, gloves and pasta were on.
Along with my pride, my spork had suffered across the station and had snapped in half.
I sheepishly trundled over to a very dusty 4×4 with a group of four sitting outside, one of whom had earlier invited me to set my tent up near their camp so he could hear about my trip.
I asked if I could borrow a fork to eat my dinner with, and as I was doing so I was handed a cracker.
“Blue cheese or paté?”
“Oh. Um. Blue cheese?”
The cracker was retracted and a thick slice of blue cheese was adorned upon it and thrust back in my direction.
I nibbled on it politely in between answering the usual questions. I saw (now known as David) slather up another cracker and hand it in my direction, I willingly took it.
This repeated a few times until I felt like I’d eaten enough of their cheese and should ‘really be getting back to my pasta’.
David said if I wasn’t satisfied after my dinner, I should come back as they had plenty, and if not, he’d come round later with some potatoes and salad to make sure.
4×4/ MTB man came back with a bottle of red wine and asked if I wanted a glass.
This was getting peculiar.
I took it gratefully and sipped away noticing the intense discrepancy in standard between the wine in my hand and the pasta in my bowl.
Then Fred came walking directly towards me with a brown paper bag in his hand.
“We’re off home tomorrow and won’t eat these, we thought you’d appreciate them much more than we could!”, he said as he popped the bag in my grasp.
I peered in and saw five bright red tomatoes picked right from his garden the day before, alongside a pack of crackers. He told me I had to eat the tomatoes like apples and I wasn’t allowed to stir them into my pasta, they were too nice.
Sure enough, I ate a couple like apples and had tomato juice running down my chin and my hands as he walked away and I felt very safe and looked out for.
It was becoming a very different eventuality to the one I had convinced myself would occur.
I used the crackers like a spoon and scooped pasta onto them and realised that the texture combination wasn’t very pleasant but the salt was probably great for me, so did a few more before rolling the bag up and putting it away for the next day.
I walked up the hill at sunset to get some drone footage, and upon my return, David came out of his camp and handed me the promised bowlful of potatoes and salad in a delicious vinaigrette, and his friend gave me a glass of red wine.
Then 4×4/ MTB man (very rude I don’t know his name at this point) brought his black bin bag over and offered to carry my rubbish home with him.
I got into my sleeping bag that night feeling bewildered, amused, uncomfortably full and a bit tipsy.
And grateful. Very grateful. Oh, and warm!
I unzipped my tent the next morning and was met with an eyeful of fog.
I stayed inside my tent to boil my water for my porridge and packed up my bits, throwing them out of the tent and over my pot once they were in their stuff sacks. Efficient morning housekeeping.
I wasted a lot of time walking between my tent and the tap, seemingly forgetting something each time, so left later than I’d wanted.
The cold had arrived in force.
I rode out of camp with my fleece and waterproof zipped up around my buff and had two pairs of gloves on for the first time.
It was honestly a bit grim and I was suffering through the first three hours of Monday’s ride, it was cold and grey and I wasn’t prepared for the climbing.
My knee kept subjecting me to painful, bleak reminders it wasn’t happy locked into a pedal after having mine plus my bike’s weight through it the day before. I think I’d have preferred a constant dull ache but the spikes in sharp pain were unpredictable and added to the general discomfort of the morning.
David came past in his dusty muddy truck and offered words of encouragement but I felt deflated. I wasn’t far off asking for a lift.
How could yesterday be so good and today be so crap?
I’d looked at the elevation graph for the ride, and noticing the downward trend, assumed a breezy ride.
I climbed 900m in the first 40 kilometres.
What a sick joke for a day that was meant to be ‘mostly downhill’.
I’d sat on the side of the road four times. I cried in frustration once.
It was entirely my own, unprepared fault. I was my own worst enemy that morning. What sort of numpty goes into a remote place mentally unprepared?
Me, apparently.
I thanked myself, for at least being physically prepared with supplies to last me a third day if needed.
The monotony of the dreary atmosphere inside and outside of my head was broken up by the meeting of two Scottish cyclists heading in the other direction.
We had a mutual moan at the weather. We appreciated it could have been worse. I desperately tried to take that on board.
They left me and I decided I needed a pick-me-up, so I downed my second can of Japanese coffee and munched on three pastries and continued on.
The sun came out! It still wasn’t enough to lift me from the intense disapproval of myself and the terrain I was experiencing.
Then I descended the second big lump and saw someone walking up the other side.
As awful as it is to say, it seemed even I was having a better day than this guy and that forced me into some perspective.
I felt pretty bad for him that he had some much longer, steeper ascents coming, but kept that to myself.
I did tell him there might be a cup of tea waiting for him over the few hills and it seemed to put a smile on his face.
Post coffee and pastries, I started to experience the edge of enjoyment. Fat and caffeine work wonders. Also potentially helped by the introduction of 100-metre stints of smooth tarmac.
I was growing hugely impatient with the harsh corrugation down the road.
It was impossible to miss and meant slowing to a snail’s pace down descents, and despite that, I still felt like I was putting myself at risk of developing a self-sustained TBI. I think I said ‘ouch’ out loud a few times.
So yeah, some smooth road was nice.
Some time down the road, I began fully enjoying things again. I was very glad I hadn’t asked David for a lift.
My favourite DOC volunteers pulled alongside me in their truck and she stuck out a tube of suncream. “Need this?”
I explained the sheen on my arms was actually a mixture of sweat and suncream today. I thanked them for the conversation and tea we’d had the evening before, and they cruised up the hillside ahead of me.
At this point, I was quite far behind where I thought I might be, explained by the multiple ‘sitting and having a tantrum sessions’ early in the ride, and the slower going than planned.
I hadn’t had signal since about halfway up Jack’s Pass and wasn’t sure if I’d make it to Blenheim, let alone Picton.
I couldn’t see what the ride from the end of Molesworth to Picton looked like, and I certainly wouldn’t make it if there was much climbing.
There wasn’t much I could do apart from continue down the road and see what time I arrived in Blenheim.
I passed the DOC volunteers picking walnuts off a tree up the final climb.
I felt guilty that I’d sent that poor guy chasing false dreams of a cup of tea. It transpired their six-day shift was over.
Finally, and in remarkably good spirits, I made it to a road with road markings. It was a weird sight. Civilisation.
I rode down a pretty flat section of road, lined by vineyards until I thought I’d safely be within signal territory.
Sure enough, two healthy bars of 4G flashed up and I was greeted with the beautiful realisation I had sixty, very flat kilometres between me and the end of the South Island.
TT mode activated, I wore my legs out to get to Blenheim, where I had a huge, greasy feed. I was ravenous.
I think the anticipated bikepacking hunger is finally starting to set in properly.
I tried to savour the last 30 kilometres of the South Island.
They whizzed past.
I remember feeling proud of myself. I remember feeling strong. I remember feeling really, really tired.
I’d made it around an entire lap of the South Island.
Ciao South Island. Thank you.
Thanks for reading 🙂