March 4.  Queenstown to Wanaka.  Another great day, and that after having got some good sleep.  I get up a bit later than usual; the sun has already crossed the mountains and is bathing Queenstown in a brilliant morning light.  Traffic along Shotover Road is busy, the town is awake, it’s already full of tourist activity.  The couple from near New Plymouth on the North Island, when I met them at Milford Sound, had been firm: they would never again set foot in Queenstown. They think it’s a tourist trap; it has lost its charm. 

            I take a small breakfast at a Starbucks and then push off.  The coolness of the morning feels good; there is no cloud in the sky and the wind has not yet decided whether to show up today.  The valley by which I leave is still in the shade.  Not long, and I cross the bridge over the Shotover River where they are already revving up the boat engines for their noisy ride to give tourists the scare of their lives as they twist and turn at high speed through the narrow canyon.  The road takes a sharp drop and then, after the bridge, an even sharper rise, but otherwise the climb to Arrowtown, twenty km from Queenstown, is gradual.  Ten km from Arrowtown, the real climb of the day begins.  Over 11 km, which include about three km of relatively flat terrain, I need to climb some 600 meters to get up to the Crown Range Summit.  At first, the road is winding higher through hairpin turns, then it follows the contour of the Crown Range, climbing relentlessly.  By now, I have been shedding my warm clothes; the air is warming up, and so am I.  I am moving along slowly trying to ensure that I don’t get out of breath, which isn’t always easy.  On some of the tough stretches, I see the curve ahead, and the thought that it might get easier after the curve keeps me going to the next bend.  My speed drops sometimes to 3 km per hour, and that is of course where the problem is.  I need to maintain at least that speed or I will lose my balance.  And even at three km, the bicycle doesn’t always move straight forward but jerks to the right and to the left so that I have to constantly worry about traffic from behind.  Dehydration and accompanying cramps are another concern.  But things seem to be going fine, and after some time, I am gaining confidence that I can make it all the way up in one go, except for some short stops to take pictures and to drink.

            Things go well even on the steep sections where the grade reaches 18%.  And that in spite of the no-cooperation I get from the 25 kg of luggage I am carrying on the rack.  I know they are there behind my seat, but every time I am looking forward they pull into the opposite direction.  Nevertheless, it’s still going.  Until km 8.5.  Signs are starting to flash red; my breath has trouble keeping up; and I think I better stop.  I pull to the side and catch my breath.  I pause for only about five minutes so that my muscles do not get too slack.  An easier section lies ahead, then follows the uninterrupted steep grade to the summit.  I hardly ever get to exceed three km per hour with the result that the final 2.5 km take me the better part of an hour.  Finally, there it is.  A sharp bend to the left followed by a viewpoint on the right, and a marker “Crown Range Summit 1076 meters above sea level, the highest pass in New Zealand on a sealed road”.  The view from here stretches down 700 meters all the way to Queenstown and Lake Wakatipu, which lie in the distance nestled between mountains on either side. 

            I am glad to have reached the summit as I look back down the steep road, and I feel good about having managed without too great a difficulty.  There is also, however, that dead tree spreading its dried-out branches over the summit marker, as if to say: caution, no room for hubris.

            From here on, the remaining 46 km to Wanaka is a breeze.  The valley on this side of the summit starts narrow; vegetation consists almost only of grass, dry now in late summer, interspersed with some low bushes.  The landscape has completely changed, almost desertic.  The road winds down not as steeply as on the way up, but wind is blowing in my ears and I am flying.  On top I had met Kurt, a young Canadian bike rider who came from Wanaka and reached the summit at the same time I did.  Now, half a km down the road, I meet his friend who is walking his bicycle up.  We exchange a few sentences, and I am back on my rush downhill.  The valley widens; first come some views into canyons running diagonally to the road, then the mountains recede to either side; small and then larger trees appear along the descending Cardrona River, and finally pastures take over, and lush green shows up where the land is irrigated.  In a few areas, water has eroded a slope and created cliffs of light-brown sand mixed with smooth rounded stones that the river had built up in distant times past.  Some of the mountain slopes have been planted to pine trees; but mostly they are covered by grasses that in the reflected afternoon light give them an appearance of being draped in velvet.

            It is no doubt a beautiful valley but it lacks the tranquility of the one from yesterday.  Here is traffic, here is agricultural activity, and here are trees planted by man along the river, windbreaks, and cultivated forest.   It doesn’t give you solitude, the time to expand your mind.  Here you are part of the action, part of life in the 21^st century. 

            I take it easy and reach Wanaka at around four thirty in the afternoon.  The view is pretty as you come over the hill and see in front of you Lake Wanaka flanked by mountains.  The town is larger than I had expected; it is a resort town which has expanded considerably over the last ten years or so.

            I settle in a backpackers lodge for NZ$ 85 per night, tie up my bicycle and forget my camera in the process.   The camera is found by some Australian visitors to the lodge, luckily for me, since I would have completely forgotten about it until tomorrow.  The Australians are two couples from Brisbane.  I invite them for a drink in the pub across the street.  They say they will come, but they don’t show up.  As I look out the window, whom do I see?  Here comes Burghard again, his carrier tire replaced, happy but exhausted.  Near Arrowtown he took the wrong turn and climbedthe wrong mountain before recognizing his error.  So he has scaled two mountains today.  He is worn out.

            He is too tired to join me for a beer.  So I get into a discussion with Alistair, the owner of the pub.  Alistair has strong views about development: it has to go on, you cannot hold it off, you have to move ahead, development is good.  When I mention that it might be desirable to balance development and environmental considerations, he gets slightly testy. He firmly expresses that “balance” doesn’t work: everybody would have a different notion of the proper balance, a search for balance would be futile, would not make sense.  We jump to other subjects, politics, the US housing crisis.  Alistair advocates that interest rates be lowered so that all borrowers can meet their mortgage payments.  When I suggest then: why not set the interest rate at zero, Alistair responds that this wouldn’t work because depositors want to earn some interest on their deposits.  It is now him insisting: “there has to be a proper balance”.  And so it goes, another beer another subject.  It’s time I go and get some sleep.

Total distance traveled today: 78 km; average speed: 12.7 km per hour; time of riding: six hours; total climbing today 1,100 meters.

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