This text was read by OCR from a scanned newsletter and has not been proofread yet, so expect odd characters and mistakes.
Ts engines roared to life and we pulled away from the jetty, moving swiftly against the current. “Good morning, my name is Pete and I'll be taking you on this scenic cruise across Lake Manapouri today,” a voice boomed across the PA system. “We'll be heading up the Waiau River which drains both Lakes Te Anau and Manapouri, before cruising across Lake Manapouri to our destination of West Arm. Once we get out onto the lake we'll be cruising at a speed of 26 knots which is fast enough to literally blow the coffee out of your mugs, for those of you on the observation deck, and to blow hats, caps, brochures, maps, scarves and small children overboard. So please, hang on tightly to your belongings and sit back and enjoy the scenery.” The boat was packed and the skies clear and sunny as we settled in for the 45-minute trip across the lake to West Arm. Our bikes were tied to the rails on the forward deck and I watched anxiously for a few minutes to make sure the bindings were secure. The lake was like glass and I suppressed a smug grin as I took in the stunning clear mountain vista, recalling my workmates’ jibes about the stupidity of heading to New Zealand's highest rainfall area for " Easter. It tooked like t would in-— deed have the last laugh! Dale Parsons (our High Commander), a keen ex Tongue & Meat and former Club Chief Guide now resident in Dunedin, had coerced a bunch of her southern friends into this Easter expedition into Fiordland and invited me along as the token refugee from the north.
Trip Reports
With a commanding voice few could ignore, quite out of proportion to her size, she rallied the troops, nine in total, chastising them for their apparent lack of enthusiasm and mumbled comments about the merits of cafécrawling in Te Anau. Dale soon put her negotiation skills to good use and the Fiordland Travel bus driver kindly agreed to take our numerous panniers over to Doubtful Sound, saving us the effort of lugging them over Wilmot Pass. The sandflies were obviously excited at the presence of so many visitors and initially left our team alone, as we assembled for the High Commander’s inspection, pursuing instead those who hadn’t yet learnt the benefits of covering up. As the buses pulled away from the Visitor Centre, their interest in us was renewed and we scrambled for our bikes and the relative safety of forward movement. We soon discovered that it was necessary to move in excess of 15 km/h to prevent becoming a victim of these small bloodsucking beasts. The road, although dirt, was in excellent condition and we settled into a pleasant rhythm. The High Commander was determined to keep the troops together; there __ would be no personal fitness agendas on this expedition! Regular photo stops were called as we wound our way up towards the distant Pass, taking the opportunity to gaze down into the Dusky Valley on our way. With three physios and a nurse amongst the team, we were well placed to cope with injury or illness.
a Claire Goldsworthy
Wilmot Pass was reached after nine pleasant kilometres of winding, gently climbing gravel road which steepened sharply near the summit. With chests heaving from the exertion we gathered at the lookout just beyond the Pass to admire our first glimpse of Doubtful Sound, destination for the day. We were dismayed to see a bank of dark angry clouds drifting in ominously from the Tasman Sea. Fortunately, they were still some distance away. The remaining nine kilometres down to sea level 674m below was a blast. A high speed death-defying descent accompanied by suitable exclamations of exhilaration brought us to a screeching halt at the Deep Cove wharf where we were reunited with our panniers for a relaxing lunch in the sun. A campsite a couple of kilometres back up the road was located after lunch and we spent the remainder of the afternoon lounging in the sun. The idea of a refreshing swim in the nearby river was suggested in a fit of bravado, but the plan backfired as the troops took it seriously and I soon found myself stripping off and bravely tip-toeing into the frigid waters near the tailrace tunnel exit. That water had just travelled almost 10 kilometres underground from Lake Manapouri and —l-was- sure |-could see ice bergs. near the tunnel mouth! Dinner was a delicious concoction washed down with Irish Cream hot chocolate and a wee Baileys. The sky was clear as we headed off to our tents and I couldn’t help thinking that we were indeed fortunate.
Trip Reports
Cont'd from page 12 That good fortune was to be shortlived. By morning a raging sore throat and flu-like symptoms were making me feel less than enthusiastic about the 674m climb back up to Wilmott Pass. Bronagh, one of the other punters, was suffering badly from an old back injury. The blue sky was gone and the grey clouds looked decidedly moist. The Fiordland Travel guys had once again come to the party and we off-loaded our panniers for their luxury ride over Wilmott Pass back to West Arm. In spite of the risk of being branded an exercise bore by our High Commander I pedalled off ahead. The climb was not as bad as I had feared and eventually I turned into the lookout point to wait for the others as they puffed and sweated their way up to the Pass. Another terrifying downhill brought us back to West Arm just as the first drops of rain arrived. In light of our party’s illness and injury status, we decided to make for DOC’s West Arm Hut for the night and were soon firmly ensconced.
By Fiordland standards, the rain amounted to zip. A few light showers throughout the afternoon was nothing to worry about and we kept ourselves amused with short walks and a fascinating tour of the Manapouri power station. The bus ride down the 2-kilometre tunnel to the power station was well worth itand very interesting. — Misty cloud was draped around the hills like an enormous feather duvet in the morning. The lake was dead smooth and the sandflies ferocious as the Easter bunny arrived with treats for all. Bronagh’s back wasn’t up to the rigors of a serious bike-carry over Percy Pass and she elected to catch the boat back to Manapouri. The flu by now had a firm grip on me which led to my decision to head back out to Manapouri and Te Anau with Bronagh. Deeply disappointed, we watched from the Visitor Centre as our teammates headed up towards Percy Saddle. The Fiordland Flyer’s wake spread out behind us like outstretched arms as we sped across the lake. Sea kayakers were out in force, exploring the many bays and coves on the lake. Te Anau was a hive of activity and we soon located a place to stay before heading off to the Borland Lodge to drop off the first of our three vehicles. The drive was pleasant; few other cars on the road and only one or two significant hills. It’s funny how hills don’t seem to be up to much when you’re speeding over them at 100+ km/h, but it’s a different story when you're faced with pedalling up them. The sun was trying to shine as we hopped on our bikes and started back to the other vehicles at Manapouri, about 48 km away. Bronagh’s back was swiftly deteriorating and we stopped frequently to allow her to lie on the side of the road and stretch it out. Quizzical stares from the local farm animals made me smile; I could almost imagine what they were thinking. After 20 km_with _ 28 to go, Bronagh was in trouble. She was struggling on valiantly but I was concerned for her. I offered to ride as fast as I could to pick up one of the cars and as the sky darkened again and the rain began falling, I farewelled her and headed off. The roads were quiet and it wasn’t altogether unpleasant as I rode on.
The Fiordland mountains in the distance looked majestic and serene, and even the deep purple clouds shrouding them didn’t detract from the beauty. The kilometres passed and about 5 km from Manapouri the heavens opened. I pedalled harder and was relieved to reach the vehicles a short time later. Bronagh had actually kept riding, mostly to keep warm, and I met her about 10 km out of Manapouri. We drove to Te Anau for hot showers and venison steaks. Next morning mist cloaked the lake. The mountains were standing proudly above the lake and everything glistened in the early morning sun. We headed off to the Borland Road with the intention of riding up to meet the rest of the team. The dirt road was in excellent condition and we followed the huge pylons along the valley floor and then up towards the Borland Saddle, gaining height gradually. The sun burnt off the remaining mist and cloud and the surrounding peaks sparkled around us. As we neared the saddle we caught a glimpse of a cyclist arriving from the other side and it turned out to be one of our team. We couldn’t have timed it better if we’d tried!
The views out over the many peaks of the Fiordland National Park were fantastic and I tried to commit the sight to memory. The compulsory photos on the saddle were taken-and-a shorttimetater— — -we were on our way back to the Borland Lodge, leaving the views of the rugged Fiordland mountains behind us. A great trip in a stunning area with an excellent bunch of people. The success of the trip tempered the fact that I had been unable to do the whole trip. Percy Pass will still be there another time. cX