As reported previously, last autumn I finally got the chance to ride the Old Ghost Road. I liked it so much I organised a rematch a month later. It turned out slightly differently, but just as good.
I deposited Glen and the caravan at the amazing Gentle Annie campground on the north bank of the Mohokinui River mouth, handy to the end of the Old Ghost Road.
A fairly simple logistical exercise was then executed: I met up with my mate Graeme at Westport, and we drove up the Buller Gorge to the start of the OGR. We ditched the van there, depositing the keys in a locker box for the very accommodating Buller Adventures team to collect and deliver to the other end of the ride.
Our first day on the OGR was a mirror of the ride I had done a month earlier, with the added feature of some constantly mobile cloud in the valleys making the vistas from the tops even more interesting.
Our night in the Ghost Lake hut was entertaining, it was almost at capacity with an even split between riders and walkers. The main topic of conversation was the weather, cloud closing in as darkness fell looked ominous, but a young fella doing the ride with his parents assured us that if we could get through to the end before 2pm the next day we would be dry.
Graeme went outside at 2am and came back in to report that it was pissing down.
The dawn was grey and wet. We had a slow start, lingering over coffee while we peered out into the gloom, but eventually it was time to go.
As soon as we were on the trail, the weather became irrelevant. The look of the place was completely transformed. Shifting cloud exposed glimpses of the terrain, just enough to confirm we were on an exposed spine with dramatic spaces below.
After clambering down the stairs, the ride through the forest was so different to my previous trip that it was like a strange new planet. Everything was wet. Water was everywhere, running down small courses and across the trail, dripping off every element of the forest, and completely soaking us. The trail can handle it, rain is a regular part of the west coast and everything that can be washed away probably already has been, and the rocky trail was never a problem.
In the entire day of bucketing rain the bikes ran like clockwork. At a riverside stop for refuelling we noted how amazing mountain bikes have become. Everything worked, gears shifted, brakes slowed us down, suspension floated us along, seat droppers dropped, and returned to their original position. We swapped recollections of bikes that ceased to function on days like this.
Somehow the weather put an extra layer of meaning on the day. The ride seemed much longer then the dry version, and just as memorable. The van was waiting for us in the carpark at the trail terminus, and I backed it under the little shelter so we could get into some dry gear and pile the dripping carnage of the day into the back for the run back down to Westport.
I dropped Graeme off and headed back up to Gentle Annie, where I had a long and very satisfying shower.
I consider myself very fortunate. Besides winning the life lottery of being born in Aotearoa, I have managed to ride my bike in some cool places around the planet. I can honestly say the opportunities we have here at home are as good as anywhere else I have been.
ILLUSTRATIONS AND WORDS BY GAZ FOR NEW ZEALAND MOUNTAIN BIKER MAGAZINE