The One Longest Day

As I slipped and slid down the dirt mountainside following Naomi to check out the looming plunge ahead I was thinking to myself, “This chick wants me to RIDE MY BIKE DOWN THIS?!? IS SHE NUTS?!?” Then, as I clamored back up the hill to my bike and pulled myself into position to drop, my question change to, “I’M GOING TO RIDE DOWN THIS?!? AM I FREAKING NUTS?!?”

Guess so.

At nearly 10PM the sun is still refusing to succumb to the surrounding mountains, marking the longest day of the year here in New Zealand. Taking full advantage of the summer solstice, a group of kick-ass locals decided to ride the Wynyard Downhill track – and somehow I managed to get an invite.

I had spent the morning leisurely waking up to the warming sun cascading upon Arrowtown – a small town on the South Island, and without a doubt, one of the most beautiful area’s I’ve ever seen. Nestled between several breathtaking mountain ranges, Arrowtown boasts a historical downtown that lies parallel to a quaint river that at the moment is host to thousands of beautiful wildflowers.

Adam and Gary had stayed the night (after we all stayed up watched a hilariously scary horror movie) at the house I was housesitting. Delighted to be hosting my first sleepover in months, I quickly set-to making apple-cinnamon pancakes and eggs…dyed blue and green just for fun! After the boys showed me how to eat properly with my knife and fork, the three of us spent a lazy afternoon in the sun before heading back to Queenstown.

After dropping the boys off I packed up my bike and headed to Wynyard. The five ladies joining me had varying levels of experience (i.e. Naomi -internationally ranked pro, Pip -a newbie like me). Despite never riding an expert-level downhill track, I excitedly followed the ladies as they charged down the street toward the beginning of the track. I didn’t even make it 10 feet past the dirt before realizing I had popped my tire on a silly curb of all things!

Not to be out-done, another rider named Sal had suffered the same misfortune. So the two of us patiently waited for a car-ride back down to make repairs. Never having done anything beyond putting a chain back on, I listened as Sal walked me through how to fix my tire. A quick drive to get new tubes and several laughs later, we were headed back up to the top of the course.

I spent one terrifying run on my own bike (suitable for some pretty mean cross country riding but not advanced downhill courses) before the girls took pity on me and began letting me demo their own bikes each run. I learned that a few thousand dollars makes a world of difference when riding sheer rock faces and rutted-out burms! I cautiously followed - trying not fall as Indra, Naomi and the others hit jumps and wood rails at speeds I only hope to reach someday.

A few runs down Naomi, whether on purpose or by mistake, led us into a section of the trail with three options:

A- go down a really steep 15 ft. drop followed by huge ruts.

B- go down a suuuper steep 15ft. drop followed by smoother ruts.

C- go down a steep, really technical 20 ft. drop full of lots of ruts.

I chose option B and somehow, through sheer determination not to chicken-out, made it down without crashing. At least the first time through!

After a few gloriously adrenaline-pumping runs (and not too many crashes by yours truly) the girls decided to call it a day. Not a bad end to the longest one of the year.

FUN FACT: If you ever feel like complaining about gas prices, come to New Zealand. Petrol (as they call it) can be priced at over $8.00 a gallon!!!

The One Hundred and Ninety Dollar Key

“You know the chances of us finding this thing are like one in a billion right?”

“At least.

Finding keys on the side of a mountain is not unlike trying to find a needle in a haystack. Only a haystack doesn’t have heart-attack rendering peaks and overgrown razor-sharp bushes. My morning had been a challenging one already. Jess, a fellow American rugger had accompanied me on a 16K hilly bike ride that had brought us to the Roaring Meg Reserve; a scenic campsite/picnic area clustered next to two distinctly different, yet beautiful rivers. The Kawaru (ka-wa-row) River runs ashy blue through a canyon of jutting rocks and dangerous rapids. The Roaring Meg River is more picturesque with its mountain-fed clear waters pouring over boulders and fallen trees. But enough about water – lets get back to the seemingly impossible task Jess and I were tackling.

Our mission had begun, inadvertently, almost 24 hours before we found ourselves huffing and puffing up steep ridges. Having two days off of work, I had taken Jess up on her offer to visit Cromwell, a small agricultural township close to Queenstown. On my way to Cromwell I decided to hike the Roaring Meg Track. Once I realized the track was really just a road for the most part, I opted for the challenge of “free-hiking” up a random mountain. Free hiking is essentially picking an area to hike and going in that direction, often without the aide of trails. So up I went, sometimes following sheep trails, but mostly picking a path that avoided the thorns of the brush covering the mountainside. Two sweat-filled hours later I reached the summit. I was pleasantly surprised to find a grassy meadow appear amidst the havoc of rough terrain.

After a few pictures and a snack I began the tumultuous trek downward. Loose rocks and dirt sent me flying several times; one spill in particular must have dislodged my only set of car keys. Oblivious to the loss, I continued down the mountain until finally, thirsty and worn-out, I arrived at the car. Reaching into my backpack, it took me 4 or 5 pocket checks before I determined my keys were not in my possession. Just to make sure, I emptied my entire car out (after breaking in) and then literally ran the first 20 minutes of the trail looking frantically for the tiny key hooked on a very well camouflaged grey lanyard.

An hour later I had given up and called Jess to come rescue me. In the meantime I befriended four wonderfully nice (and good looking!) young men from the Czech Republic. Only two of them spoke English well enough for a conversation, but Peter entertained us all with his newly learned “hello! My name is Peter” and “you are such a beautiful lady”. About a half hour later Jess arrived and we bid farewell to our Czech friends.

A relaxing night ensued followed by morning plans of a mission to recover my missing keys. Jess and I geared up early and headed out with an optimistic and enthusiastic outlook about finding the keys (keep in mind the keys were lost somewhere in unmarked wilderness). About halfway up the mountain, with dark clouds descending upon us I kicked into survival mode and practically ran (okay, jogged - BUT UP A STEEP FREAKING MOUNTAIN) to the summit. A thorough search by both of us came up empty-handed. Until that moment we were both confident that the keys would be where I had last set my backpack down. Looking down the mountain at the seemingly endless and indistinct square mile of brush and rocks we realized the odds of finding the keys now had drastically plunged.

Slipping and at times crawling our way down, we were unsuccessful at recovering anything but new sand fly bites. Four hours later, feeling exhausted and rather dejected, we hitchhiked back to Jess’ house and laid out plans for our next hopefully more successful “mission”: teaching Kiwi’s how to play beer pong. I won’t recount all the glorious details of that night, but lets just say it was highly entertaining and that Kiwi’s are naturally VERY good at drinking games (in fact, they are very good at drinking in general…coincidence perhaps?).

With work looming ahead, I woke up, made my East Coast rugby hosts breakfast (my Dad’s recipe of yummy apple cinnamon pancakes), and called the locksmith. Within a few short hours Gary, the locksmith, had a new key made and my car was up and running. With Kiwi hospitality, Gary led me back to town where he made me two more keys, helped me fix the window I had broken, and then gave me a discount on his original quoted price (even though he had done way more work than I had originally asked). Before announcing the financial damage my carelessness would cost me, Gary informed me that, had I made a spare key BEFORE losing the original, it would’ve been a whopping $5. The final damage? $190. Lesson learned folks….

Fun Fact: The crime rate here is so low that there are only 6 officers on-duty to police 7 townships! So why is it that my locked bike got stolen across the street from the police station? Funny eh?