The Cast: The most important ingredient is surely the road warrior compadres one chooses. Meet our team…the London bound arts major who found the salutary soul of backcountry photography more appealing, Camilla Stoddart. Casey Brown, a New Zealand born, Canadian bred, 21 year old World Cup talent whose life story rivals that of Indiana Jones, was a strong last minute addition. Then we have mountain biking’s own Amazonian, the man with the golden mane, New Zealand’s Kelly McGarry. Lastly there’s this fella, the guy who signed up to write this adventure, hailing from the great white North, Mike Hopkins.
Transport: Before hitting the paved maze, a mode of transport is needed. Given the natural beauty of this country we saw it fitting to show our respect with the proper choice of wheels. An exterior of vibrant red, complimented by it’s southern hemisphere of white, bungeed window shades, interior wood panelling, two burners, one sink, a top waiting to be popped, all complete with the vintage smell of Woodstock embedded in the seats. A true product of the pilgrimage. Splashed with the iconically groovy badge of approval, ‘ladybug’, and ‘hippy–stick’ our pair of 1970 VW Vanagons. Characters indeed.
Seven bikes, four people, surfboards, wet suits, helmets, questionable smelling pads, sleeping bags, clothes, and one small logistical nightmare packed into two vans. Foot to the floor, windows down, freedom flowing through our hair at a struggling 70 km/h. Ink from our ball–point route finder laid claim to inches on the map. Marking brief circled indents at Lake Pukaki and Teakapou as we momentarily take refuge from the onslaught of summer. Making for the mountains we cranked the tunes. Chugging over Arthur’s Pass as the mounting traffic paid the price of our 82 horses pushing us upward. But hey, it didn’t matter. We were living the dream, and Canterbury bound.
A brief wander through the iconic curves of Castle Rock had us dishing theories on the formations at hand. This resulted in a clear draw between the works of glaciers and an Ogre pottery class gone horribly wrong. Tucked in the cover of the forest after a stealthy water heist from one of Craigieburn’s vacant homes we downed our sausages and prepped for the following days excursion to the ski field base.
In 1961 the Craigieburn Ski Club mustered the grand scheme of carving their way to the whiter pastures. Built on hopes of deep powder and lord knows of how much dynamite, we took advantage of the off–season and put their hard work to use. For six kilometres we familiarized ourselves with the saturated state that goes hand in hand with an uphill grind and mid–morning sun. Motivation was administered at every break in the trees with a periodic glimpse of what lay in wait. Over our final climbing strokes the unobstructed view begins to entertain. Fans of scree cascading from peaks and protruding ridges, their debris sparing only small elevated parcels of green. Forests of native beech blanket the valley bottom, whilst a border of alpine tussocks amplifies their foliage. We toss around satisfied smiles clearly convinced our reward would outshine the effort. For the next two hours we weave through rooted loam and venture across crumbling mountain faces on a carpet of singletrack treasure. This trail takes you back in time. There’s no logging scars, no roads, just raw landscape. It felt more probable that we run into a prospector than another rider. That evening as we made our way east I couldn’t kick the notion that this trail is the reason mountain bikes were made.
