Bikepacking Kōpiko Aotearoa, part 1

Kōpiko Aotearoa is a route traversing the middle of Te Ika-a-Māui, the north island of New Zealand, that begins and/or ends at the east and west coasts of the island in Cape Egmont in the west, and Te Araroa in the east. The name Kōpiko means to meander or wander, or to travel in either direction.

After a big year of overseas travel for the both of us, my sister Helen and I were eager for a new challenge closer to home. Helen is about to start GP training early next year, so we front-loaded our summer holidays with what we could realistically fit into one week: the first half of Kōpiko. Crumpled hills, gravel highways, remote pubs, towns that take you back a few decades or more, patches of ancient forest — these were the gems that filled our week as we meandered on two wheels between New Plymouth and Rotorua. As promised by the guidebook, the back country roads were quiet and we encountered only a handful of other bike tourists. Now that we’ve completed the first half (maybe just under), it’s safe to say we’ll be back for the second.

Day One: New Plymouth to Tarata Domain (50ish km)

Our slightly-delayed flight landed in New Plymouth mid-morning, but time and daylight were on our side with summer solstice approaching. Travelling with a bike again made my bigger trip earlier this year feel not that long ago, but this time round it helped to know what was involved with re-assembling the bikes at the other end. I’d heard that the New Plymouth airport had a bike assemblage station. A man wearing a hi-vis airport information jacket proudly led us to a modest set up outside exposed to the westerly wind, but it was all we needed to get our bikes up and ready to roll. I’m not sure which was harder: making sure the empty bike boxes didn’t fly away in the wind, or getting our bikes back in one piece.

Helen and I both brought our bikes back to life in record speed, screwing and unscrewing all the bolts, pedals, wheels, handlebars, and pannier racks. A few friendly passers-by peered down to ask about where we were going. When we were ready to leave, the airport information man who showed us to the bike station stood outside the main terminal and wished us well, watching us pedal off into the direction of Taranaki Maunga, their lofty peak peeking out from an elusive cloud. The presence of the mountain was strong, and it would anchor us throughout the rest of our first day of cycling.

Preparing for a bike trip is a multi-stage process, and there were two things missing from our bags and stomachs: Food (which is also the equivalent of petrol on a bike ride) and cooking gas. We fought a hefty headwind along the coastal walkway (a beautiful shared bike/walking path, award-winning apparently) to get some lunch at a cafe Helen knew from her year working in Taranaki, and then off to Countdown for on of the most fun parts of the trip preparations: stocking the pantry (read: pannier) full of food. We only needed enough for a few days until the bright city lights of Taumarunui, but as usual I bought enough for at least a week. A biker’s hunger is something to behold, and we were anticipating the growing size of our appetites. Once we’d bought the cooking gas, it was truly time to begin. We had to back track a little, but it was a joy to do so as the now-tailwind carried us along the edge of the concrete path and west coast waves. Inland a bit, navigating suburban traffic, though the industrial part of town (you always have to go through one of those to get out) and then, finally, on to some quieter roads.

It was a pleasant surprise to find that the route we were following was semi-regularly marked with little Ngā Haerenga - Great Ride signposts. We had been getting ready to memorise all the turns from the old-school map! ‘Taumarunui - 170km’ read one of the signs, so we knew we were on track. Sometimes, there were no signs at the junctions though, but a combination of our little guidebook and our map app helped us out when needed.

The road out of Lepperton, a quiet township with (sadly) no public toilet, soon became rolling and windy. The deceptive inclines tested our gears and weight distribution, and we soon found out that Helen’s bike picked up way more momentum on the downhills than my slow, steely Surly did. Taranaki Maunga became our anchor to remind us of place, and their face became clearer as the afternoon shone on. The surrounding grassy hills with patches of ancient bush-cloaked cliffs took me back to walking through the king country on Te Araroa a few years ago, getting to know the contours of the land on foot. Meeting it again on wheels wasn’t bad, either. I remembered this part of the country fondly (despite the ethical dilemma of it being Dairy Farm Central) and it felt cathartic to return to this part of the country.

We were delighted that the sprawling lawns of Tarata Domain, our campsite for the night, had been freshly mowed. It was a basic affair, but the flushing toilets and running water in a brick hut were all we needed. Apart from the sheep dog who greeted us when we arrived by trying to round our bikes up, we had the domain to ourselves that night. We ate our dinners while watching goats grazing on the cliffs above the river and kererū flapping ungracefully overhead. Our soundtrack for the night (which continues as I write this now) was the unrelenting bleating of sheep on the hillside. I wonder what they’re talking about up there. Perhaps they are rehearsing their Christmas Carols.

Day Two: Tarata Domain to Tangarakau, 71km

It was hard to coax ourselves out of our respective sleeping bag cocoons, but our anticipation for the day’s ride got us moving. At breakfast, which we ate in a brick shelter, a couple of guys pulled up to the toilet blocks asking if there was running water for their weed spraying gig at the marae down the road. Apparently all the other taps in Tarata were not turning on that morning. It was a good thing they weren’t looking for water to drink, as the water out of the toilet taps had a dubious aftertaste even after being filtered. Helen geniusly had bought some sachets of Berocca electrolytes, which did the trick to cover up the taste.

We left at the respectable time of 9.15am, down the road we’d arrived on and then back on to Tarata Road, passing a rural Friday morning by. Today held four punchy climbs, each of a similar height to keep our legs and hearts alert. The first hill was a windy one, through a patch of indigenous forest. We were happy when the farmland to forest ratio tipped in favour of the forest (although it was sad to remember that once, all of these hills would have been cloaked in lush forest).

After the fun descent (that’s the best thing about climbing), our first stretch of gravel road began. The first of 15 kilometres was easy-going, hard packed gravel that was gentle on the tyres. A little way in, and on the second climb, riding on the sandy rocky stuff got hard and we had moments of hike-a-biking (getting off and walking them), a respite from the bone-shaking that happens on juddery sections. Helen’s bike is holding up so well - it’s a commuter bike, in between a mountain and tour bike, but Helen was smashing it on the gravel — both up and down. Sirocco (my bike) was also keeping up, although we were much slower on the descents. Historically I’m not the most confident on the gravel, but today I had a bit of a breakthrough in terms of trusting myself to catch any wobbly moments. Feeling much more relaxed worked, I think. My brakes were probably also relieved to get a break from being squeezed by me so much. At the base of the second descent, two quad bikes overtook us. We later met the drivers in the side of the road, who observed that what we were doing “looks like a lotta hard work” He wasn’t wrong - the Kōpiko is described as “arduous” on its website, and I think Helen and I can vouch for that!

The thing about rural roads is that it’s so easy to forget you’re on a road. We frequently stopped in the middle of the road to take photos, or to chat to the drivers going the other way who were more than happy to stop and yarn with us through their rolled-down window. The Rural-Friendliness Effect is a real thing ( I just made that term up but I bet someones else has written about this): the more rural one gets geographically, the more open people are to talking and laughing. We were stoked to get to the junction of Junction Rd and State Highway 43 (AKA the Forgotten World Highway) for two reasons: the end of the gravel section, and it was lunch time. A giant bench balanced precariously on the road side-turned-land slide called our name to be sat on. After a decent refuel of peanut butter and hummus sandwiches, we rolled down the Forgotten World Highway, the tar seal like satin under our wheels after all that bumping around.

One last climb before the famed and fabled Republic of Whangamōmona, the anticipation of everyone’s Forgotten World HIghway journey (if you aren’t familiar with the Republic, you can read about it here). Reaching the saddle of the same name was a highlight for the both of us because of the ancient forest that surrounded it. Soon, we got to the Whangamōmona welcome sign, which advised us to get our passport stamped at the Whangamōmona Hotel. Arriving in this quiet place was like going back a bit in time. There were a few shops, but none open (apart from the hotel, which - fun fact - is the most rural pub in Aotearoa). We had a cold drink at the pub and made a plan for the rest of the day, embracing the flexibility that living on our bikes affords.

We’d initially thought we’d stay at the Whangamōmona Campground for the night, but it was so early in the day that we ended up continuing through more crumpled sheep-dotted hillsides to Bushlands Campground in the historic (not ghost) town of Tangarakau, a slight detour off the HIghway down a 6km gravel road. The road’s gravel was pretty loose, but it didn’t take long for us to realise we’d made the right decision: if in doubt, take the path less travelled. We arrived at the campground, a little oasis nestled in the old Tangarakau township (now considered a ghost town, but rich with history). The other guests included a meet-up of the All-American Truck Club members, with their old-school cars and utes parked all around the camp.

Despite being quite literally in the middle of a forgotten world, this place had everything two hungry sweaty cyclists could ask for: the cleanest bathrooms, free hot showers, power, and a fully equipped kitchen. I was surprised that we were the only cyclists there, but maybe it’s a little early in the season for the bike tourists coming through. In the kitchen Helen got chatting to a couple of men from the truck club. She indulged them by listening then talk extensively about their cars (a 1938 Chevrolet had made it down the gravel road!) and they made some facetious remarks about how crazy they thought we were to be biking for fun. At least the perception was mutual. Helen later remarked that she interacts with a lot of people of a similar demographic at work (who are patients in the hospital) so she knows how to get them talking.

After dinner, we walked along the Tangarakau River, through gorgeous old growth forest to the highly-recommended Fossil Canyon, a natural amphitheatre made of sedimented rock wall exposing 15 million years’ worth of geological evolution. It was pretty humbling to stand in the middle of this and — apart from the company of a few wild horses and cows — feel so isolated from it all.

Day 3: Tangarakau to Ohinepane Campground, 75km

My morning started as no cyclist wants it to: waking up to a flat front tyre. I whipped the wheel off before breakfast and found that the perpetrator of the miniscule hole was a historic issue that, to be completely honest, I’d forgotten about since arriving back from overseas and never gotten round to fixing. A nasty little wire thing that had nestled itself in the inner of my tyre and had wiggled its way through the patches. I did my best to patch it up again, hoping it would last at least the trip. Purely to see how they would react, Helen asked around if any of the All-American Truck Club members had a pump that could get my tyre nice and firm, To their credit, and despite a few demeaning comments some of them made about us being cyclists the night before, they happily rallied around to offer their help and two cents’ worth on my semi-pumped up tyre.

After breakfast, we caught wind that the club members were going out for a glory ride in their trucks at 9.30am, down the same dusty gravel road we’d also be biking on. A woman who I got talking to advised us to wait until they’d left as in her words, “Some of the drivers are vision impaired, and some of them hate bikes”. That was more than enough information for us to decide to wait until the big dust cloud and CO2 emissions had settled before bumbling down the road we came in from, back on to State Highway 43.

The day’s ride consisted of winding through more bush and passing through Moki Tunnel, also known as the Hobbit’s Hole, which conjured up our imaginations of how people built these structures in the early 20th century. Pretty incredible feats. My favourite story from one of the interpretive signs was that, in an act of frustration at the lack of funding for the road infrastructure some of the road builders in the early 1900s pushed visiting prime minister Dick Seddon into a pool of mud. Apparently, Seddon took their point and gave them funding after this incident.

We soon descended into one of the most luscious stretches of ancient forest yet: the Tangarakau Gorge. The forest showed its age through the mighty Rimu and Tōtara rising majestically above the canopy. Had it not been a Saturday, we may have been stuck in some roadwork traffic jams as the gravel road was slowly being sealed. Still, the gravel stretches were long and juddery, and I was delighted to hit the smooth seal again - although sad to be emerging from the gorge and back into farmland. We were truly in the heart of the King Country now, getting closer to Taumarunui as each hill rolled by.

Our goal destination was Ohinepane campground, just short of the big smoke of Taumarunui itself (New World resupply, here we come). The campground is situated on the Whanganui River. When we eventually arrived, we passed a man chilling in the shade and exchanged a quiet ackowledgement of each other’s presence. The river bends and its surrounding forested banks took me back to a few years ago when Dad and I canoed down the river together as part of Te Araroa - a time of immense growth, fun, and sore arm muscles.

As we set up our tents, a familiar shape that we hadn’t seen many of entered the grassy patch: another bike packer, the first we’d seen on our few days on the road. He introduced himself in a heavy French accent as having limited English, but the more we conversed, the more we realised that language barrier did not matter: in fact, it made things much more fun. Fred, from Corsica, had a fantastic sense of humour and we managed to exchange cultural quirks and stories. Turns out the man who was relaxing in the shade was Aneru, and he and his friend, Jimmy, were canoeing down the river in a boat that Jimmy had made but had smashed against a rock earlier in the day. Luckily, the pair managed to hire one from Taumarunui Canoe Hire and were therefore able to get back on the river the next day. They were lovely people and made for excellent company in the evening.

At dinner, Jimmy whipped out — as one can on a canoe trip with much more space to carry heavy things — a wok, a cabbage the size of a baby, onions, olives, a chopping board, alongside various other ingredients to make nothing short of a feast - including some dubious-looking home made venison sausage they decided to eat anyway. Aneru kindly gave us an avocado he had in excess. I ate most of it on bread there and then, stocking up for the next day’s bigger mileage. We talked for ages about all sorts of things - about life in Huntly where Jimmy lived, Aneru’s experience as a forest service worker before DOC was a thing, about the political uncertainty of the world. At some stage, probably when it started getting dark, we went to bed.

Day 4: Ohinepane Campground to Ngaherenga Campground (Pureora Forest), 96km

We woke to a deafening dawn chorus, just the way it should be. We packed up a mildly damp tent in the iconically King Country morning mist and said bye to Fred, who was heading the way we’d just come. It was a hilly 17km to Taumarunui. Arriving there felt like a homecoming of sorts (not that I’ve ever lived there - but would love to one day), but there’s just something about Taumarunui that I love deeply. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is - maybe it’s the size of it, its proximity to endless outdoor adventures in the Central Plateau, the people, its rustic-ness, its free high-speed public wifi and fine public toilets… The public amenities were just as good as I remembered them to be. In fact, they’d renovated the New World since the last time I was here three years ago. Helen and I took turns stinking out the supermarket and topped up our snacks. Given the huge food haul I’d done in Taumarunui, there wasn’t much to stock up on, but I was chuffed to buy a head of broccoli.

Down the road post-resupply, we found a cafe to rest in before the 79km left that day. Helen ordered curly fries and we got coffee. The combination of excessive salt, carbohydrates and caffeine created a second breakfast that would make any bike packer’s heart sing, and it set us up with all the energy we needed to get to our destination in Pureora Forest. As we left the cafe, another bikepacker rolled up next to us. He was riding Sirocco’s twin, a green Surly Disc Trucker! He’d been travelling north for a couple of weeks from Nelson, and we were impressed at his minimal set-up. It’s always funny, low-key eyeing up other bike packers’ kits. There’s always something to be learnt from the ways we all travel and pack up our lives on our bikes.

On we rolled, along Golf Road (can you guess what we encountered along there), which inconspicuously became the Ongarue back road. There was more fun undulating gravel to navigate. By this point, we felt like gravel pros. We met another two bike packers coming the other way, who were also kitted out well. I vaguely remembered riding this section on Te Araroa after having biked the Timber Trail. Sure enough, a sprinkling of unmistakably TA southbound walkers passed us, too, and we briefly said hi. Helen and I decided to bypass the Timber Trail this time as we weren’t confident our bikes would make it on some of the Grade 4 sections. It was bittersweet knowing we could have been in the gorgeous forest, in the company of a healthy kōkako population, but the road ride wasn’t too bad either. We soon turned through into the sleepy township of Ongarue, and then into another sealed back road (but not quite a state highway, thankfully). We found a spot — a big gravel turnout people probably use for burnouts — for lunch overlooking some interesting rock formations wedged into the hillsides, and also used the opportunity t oil up our chains, which were getting pretty squeaky after all that dirt riding.

I’d been having a few issues with my gear changing on this trip and I finally figured out why, thanks to Helen’s observation that my pedal cranks were a bit wobbly. I won’t bore you with the details, but in short, I regret not getting my bike fully serviced before this trip… After some more solid climbing, the road joined onto State Highway 30 and it was an easy ride (made slightly annoying by cars travelling way too fast and too close to us) into Maniaiti / Benneydale, which, by the way, have excellent public toilets in case you’re ever passing through. Another steep slog up a hill ensued, followed by some more steady grinds in the sharp heat of the early summer sun.

At some point I knew we’d join with Te Araroa again (more crossover points than I remember!) About 10km before our campground, the road signs announced this merge: TE ARAROA TRAIL USERS NEXT 8KM. This stretch came back to me vividly, not least because there was a meat works that I remember walking angrily past, there was no shoulder on the road side to walk on, and I’d run out of water. It was a sobering reminder that Te Araroa was not all glorious and ideal. Helen was boosting it on this stretch, attributing this energy later on to those fries we’d had for breakfast that morning. I couldn’t have kept up if I’d tried. It was a relief when the turnoff came up to Pureora forest. A few more kilometres, and we’d made it. We were not over half way. Ngaherenga was a tranquil camp shared with a few TA walkers about to embark on the timber trail. Helen had a super spicy ramen for dinner, and I had some rice with the broccoli I’d bought earlier.

Day 5: Ngaherenga Campground to Dunham’s Reserve, 40km

It rained through the night, and it rained still as we packed up our sodden everything in the morning. We found a sheltered sanctuary of dense forest to eat our breakfast within. What was not sodden were our spirits, and we left for the day with eventually only a drizzle in the air and the optimism that the skies would clear and we would dry out. Today we would be entering Waikato, the region in which Helen and I were born.

The fog cloaked the farmland on either side for the first hour of the day’s ride. Helen led the way on her bike, now christened Fred after our Corsican friend. The rain cleared in time for a downhill zoom through a beautiful section of indigenous ancient forest, the towering Tōtara cheering us along from both sides of the road. It was bittersweet to yet again be reminded of the fact that, once, the forest was the rule, not the exception. That’s become a theme of this two-wheeled traverse of Farmland HQ. Our forest bathing was disrupted when we emerged back into foggy rainy farm (can you tell I’m not into farms?) The rain was hitting our eyes so much that we had to blink constantly to be able to see anything and not get hit by ruthless motorists. Despite the soggy conditions, and some passing cars that had no spatial awareness, we persisted on with our pedalling to Whakamaru. By now, the road signs for Rotorua were appearing. Only 70km to Rotorua, the sign at Whakamaru teased. If you were in a car, then maybe, but we were taking the scenic route and still had double that distance to pedal.

The Dam Cafe, a classic NZ cafe-come-gift shop-come-lodge pitstop named punnily after the Whakamaru Dam, was surprisingly bustling for a late Monday morning. Inside, we met a Canadian couple who were biking the reverse of what we were doing. We exchanged a few notes and commiserations about the weather. I ordered baked beans on toast, Helen a spaghetti toastie, and both of us coffee. The kai was a humble affair, but at this point a can of baked beans heated up on a plate felt luxurious. Another fine salt-caffeine combo. The prospect of setting up our wet tents so early in the afternoon did not appeal to us, so we looked for alternative camping options that included some form of dry shelter. Helen tried calling a campground right next to the one we were aiming for, but they only did group bookings. It looked like we’d have to put up with being outside for another 24 hours (not too sad about that!)

Today’s riding was objectively short, so with only 12km to go we hung around in the shelter of the cafe for as long as we could. A quick snack and water stock-up at the dairy next door, and off again towards the Mighty Waikato River. The next section took us off the shoudlerless State Highway 30, and onto the southermost section of the Waikato River Trail - a connection of five biking and walking trails that line the river. The stretch from Whakamaru to Ātiamuri was described in the Kōpiko booklet as Grade 3 mountain biking, but we decided to brave the technical trails than being squished onto the highway only metres away from the river trail.

We were glad we took the trail. The windy single track through pine and native regenrative bush was fun, and the constant presence of steep drop-offs straight into the river next to us kept our toes on our pedals. As we bumbled along the ups and downs, Helen mentioned the Great Rides initiative (which the Waikato River Trails are part of) were one of former prime minister John Key’s ‘green tourism’ projects. They’ve clearly put lots of resource into this trail, which is dotted with free camping spots along the way. I wish all government agendas nowadays were as benign as this, but alas. We stopped for a break on a dry patch under a tree and had a competition to see who could whistle the loudest. Not long after continuing, we got the half-way point of the river trail, but our final resting post for the day: Dunham’s Reserve. The Reserve was another free camping spot, a big series of fields surrounded by mature European trees and a few private nooks to set up camp within. To our surprise, the spot had a really clean vault toilet and free hot showers. The only thing it didn’t have was drinkable water, and we were not prepared to risk the integrity of our stomachs by drinking out of the Waikato River water, no matter how many filters and purifications it had been through. But we’d come prepared and had just enough water to last us through a night and a morning.

A few people came and went throuhhout the afternoon and evening. A father and his son out on a ‘spur of the moment’ camping trip, as the dad put it, a woman and her dog in a van, another solo camper. There was room for everyone. The sun eventually came out to dry our tents before bed time at 7.30pm.

Day 6: Dunham Point Reserve to Guy Roe Reserve, 76km

The rustles in the night must have activated the North American camping mode section of my brain that I’d developed earlier this year. In my half-asleep state, I convinced myself that bears were surrounding our tents. The sounds of Helen moving around in her tent a few metres away reassured me I could wake her if needed. In the morning, I asked her if she’d heard the wildlife sounds. No, she said, she’d slept through it all. If anything, it was a possum in a tree. True.

The second half of the Waikato river trail continued to be fun. We got into a real flow on the track, controlling our momentum over bumps and gliding down the slopes. It was only 9am but the sun was pounding down already. Thinking it would be better to have E coli-infested water than none at all, we stopped to fill our filters up with Waikato water in case there were no places to get water between here and our next destination. We stopped part way through to wade in and collect some less-than-clear water. When the trail ended, Helen and I shared how sad we were to be back on the road - and State Highway 1, of all roads… I didn’t think I’d ever miss riding on gravel, but here we were. To be fair, the next little section took us as much off SH1 as possible, which meant twisting and turning through the Ātiamuri Dam station. It felt a bit like trespassing, but was in fact the official route. At the end of the trail, we were overjoyed to find a water fountain at the end/start of the Waikato River Trail and glugged it all up. I will never take water for granted. We filled our vessels and then turned back, direction SH1.

Although it was narrow due to roadworks, the highway riding wasn’t too bad. All cars were (technically) travelling at 50km/h, which was great news for us. After only a few kilometres we turned off into a quiet country road again. We soon met a cyclist, our eighth on this trip to be precise, who was pausing on the roadside. He was doing the same Kōpiko stretch but from Rotorua, having left a few days ahead of his family to meet them in New Plymouth for Christmas. The amount of mud on his bike indicated were in for some wet gravel roads ahead. He confirmed this, but said the roads were being graded, so we might miss out on the muddy fun. There was a lot of elevation to be gained in the section ahead, before descending into the Waikite Valley. According to the Kōpiko booklet, we’d know that we had reached the highest point when passing the only bison farm in the country.

The climbing began and Helen and I got into our respective rhythms. Later, we both found out we hung onto the same hope that each herd of cows in the distance were in fact bison, but our hopes were almost always dashed - until we saw the sign for the bison farm (but no actual bison). From the top of the hill, a vaguely familiar odour announced itself: at first I questioned if it was just the latest evolution of the smell of our bodies’ hard work, but then it clicked: sulphur. We were entering the geothermal wonderland of Rotorua. The gravel was pretty bumpy and muddy in some areas, but in the final section we got stuck behind the big roller packing the little stones in beneath it. Soon, we emerged at the river again (I think it was Waikato) and shared a cobweb-adorned shelter with a guy out for a day ride on his road bike. He whipped out a pie from I can’t tell where - he seemed to have no vessel on him to carry it in! On the descent down into the valley, the chimneys of steam rose from seemingly nowhere - like the cyclist’s pie - on the deep green hillsides of the Paeroa ranges. We stopped for a quick walk up to some hidden sulphur pools (blink and you’d miss the turnoff) and became mesmerised with the ironically glacial colours and gurgling mud.

The climb out of the valley was brutal. After passing the Waikite Thermal Pools, a straight, sharp, road lay ahead exposed to nothing but the sun. It really took it out of us. The stretches of flat road have been few and far between on this ride - in some ways it makes for a more interesting ride that way, but it’s more physically demanding. After surviving that climb, just, we went - you guessed it - back down, and down some more, ending up at Waiotapu, one of the well-known stops along the geothermal highway. The Waiotapu Tavern was like going back in time a bit, and we ordered kūmara fries from the straight-talking staff there. Re-fuelling on the deck outside, we soaked up the rest and energy for the next section. We considered the option of going all the way to Rotorua that evening - doable, but long - or sticking to Plan A. We decided to keep things simple and head to Lake Rerewhakaaitu, which was a little detour off the route to Rotorua.

There’s a place you can go into to pay and see some super impressive pools in Waiotapu, but in the interests of our budget and time, we checked out the free mud pools in the surrounding area. From here we intended to follow Te Ara Tahi, a bike route we recently learnt about that connects all the thermal hot spots all the way into Rotorua. It quickly became apparent, however, that some of its upkeep had been neglected. The signs led us to a narrow overgrown shoulder along State Highway 5, which we could tell was meant to be the path, but was not rideable. We resigned to riding on the busy highway until our turnoff. There’s that phenomenon that Helen has created a theory about called the Three Kilometre Theory (Helen, please publish something about it so I can cite you here!) In this case, it was more like the 10 Kilometre Theory - the road just kept on going. Eventually, we made it to the lake. Initially we’d planned to stay at a campground even further around the lake but settled for the closest one: Guy Roe Reserve, a Council campground.

A while after setting up our tent (near where a group of 16-year-olds loudly explored their sexuality, music tastes and independence for the whole night), I noticed it was my back tyre’s turn to get a puncture. I managed to repair the snake bite before dinner, but it meant that everything I touched got a faint smell of inner tube rubber. The setting of the lake was pleasant, and it felt good, if not sad, to be so close to our destination.

Day Seven: Guy Roe Campground to Rotorua, 37km

The previous night was up there with the most bizarre sleeps I’ve had in a tent. The noises from the ruckus partiers next door continued into the glorious hours of the early morning. Long story short, I got to know their names and the racist and homophobic slurs they used way too casually littered every second sentence. The night’s sound- and lightscape involved constant oomphing from their bass-heavy beats, sporadic horn-honking and car hazard lights.

After debriefing about this with Helen in the morning (who had slept through it all - I have no idea how that’s possible), we had a peaceful breakfast and set off to re-trace our steps for the first few kilometres. We took another back road to Waimangu, where we had really good coffee at the tourist centre/cafe and caught up on the pre-Christmas local news, at the base of Mt Tarawera. Everyone was so friendly there - the other customers, the guy who ran the place, the barista. A customer warned us of a hill on State Highway 5. When we got to the intersection for the highway, another sign for Te Ara Ahi pointed towards an inland trail, where we could make out the faint gravel tracks. Despite the false start on the previous day, we decided to give it a second chance - if it meant we could skip a hill on State Highway 5, then I was willing to give it a shot.

The trails started out bumpy and overgrown with grass and cows, but it soon became more legible. Soon, it turned into a concrete bike path and stayed that way all the way until Rotorua. It was the easiest biking we’d done of the trip, and literally no effort was required for 10km or so. The final section took us through another little gravel section, which popped us out near Te Puia Georthermal Park. From here, after high-fiving each other for finishing, we navigated our way deep into the suburbs to my dad’s cousin’s place. They’d just left for their holiday, but kindly let us stay - a shower, washing machine and bed awaited us. Water-blasting the dirt off Sirocco felt satisfying.

We hit the town in the afternoon to have a feed, and then I took my bike in to a shop to get my pedal crank checked out. Turns out, the bottom bracket that connects the two arms was totally worn through. The guys there were able to change it there and then. Riding it out of the shop made me realise how smooth the ride could have been, had I got the bracket replaced earlier. Oops! Something to keep in mind for when Helen and I return next year to finish Kōpiko. I met up with Helen later in the evening and we drove out to one of the many lakes, and then to Helen’s friends for dinner. This ride has grown the excitement of bike packing for both of us, and opened our eyes to how good we have it here in Aotearoa when it comes to long-distance adventures on two wheels. Although our roads are narrow and windy, and the cycling infrastructure is still growing, a little defiance and hi-vis goes a long way.