Running from Middlemarch to Daisy Bank, the 150 kilometer abandoned railroad in the center of the South Island has been reinvented as a graded and graveled biking and “tramping” trail. It wanders through hills and farms, and small sleepy farm towns, energized by the commerce brought in by 120,000 riders last year. Really steep hills called for tunnels for the trains, and the bikers benefit. The area had been in an economic tailspin, the farm economy faltering. The Province received grants and encouragement from the New Zealand government and pieced together what has become an international tourist destination.
The locals sometimes hop out on the trail and ride the whole thing in a day just for a little workout. My life flashed before me as one bore down at me on the right side of the path where my American instinct had badly placed me. We both swerved in the same direction to get away from each other, that same right-side-of-the road impulse nearly doing me in. I was saved only by his far superior biking skill and strength as he pulled his bike uphill out of danger. Perhaps a local sport in rural New Zealand.
The route is episodically interspersed by small farmhouse Bed and Breakfasts and more rustic hostels. Pubs like tiny Whiskery Bill’s near Ophir, miles from so-called civilization, offer up pots of tea, the ever-present meat pies and quiches, and a nice selection of beer and sandwiches. (I’m sure it just seems like most things in New Zealand come in a flaky pie crust.) Picnic tables and ancient shade trees welcomed us like desert mirages. Three farm wives from the area, chores complete, sat on the porch in the shade, having tea, ready to be and give the play-by-play on local color.
The small towns and crossroads on the train route are marked by Central Otago Rail-Trail signs measuring distances—to the South Pole, or to even more distant Los Angeles. Chile is straight to the East, Fiji lies North.
The signs guided us to the next beautifully restored railroad station in the next tiny town. I felt like I had time-traveled and landed somewhere around 1945. Each day we had lunch at a pub along the trail, and we collapsed into Speight beers and hot teapots, chowing hearty meals worthy of our athletic prowess, then dozed in the shade for an hour.
The trail climbs very moderately for about fifty miles, and then begins a very gradual descent. An engineer in our group explained the ratio of climb-to-distance; it could never go above an incline too challenging for the old steam engines. Our first two days were pretty toasty warm and featured a long gradual uphill ride, the third day was more moderate, and on the last, easier day we pulled in to the Central Otago Hotel’s Pub, just beating an unseasonable rain that was spattering through.
We spent our first night in Omakau, a dot on the map in danger of extinction before the rail trail brought its cascade of hikers and bikers. We were booked into a B+B that had an earlier life as a small town post office. It had been elegantly restored with red brick and white pillars and was flying the bright blue Kiwi Union Jack. It featured a late-summer garden courtyard, where we had made arrangements to have a barbecue dinner prepared by a local chef, a friend of the South Islanders on the trip. Between the sunflowers and black-eyed susans, grilling rosemary’d lamb and chicken perfumed the air, accented with grilled pears and peppered strawberries.
There was a plate beyond overflowing with “dabbies,” a huge orange crayfish that was bigger than many lobsters I’ve seen. A few of us had earlier gone on an off-road trip to a stream in a canyon, waded in and caught buckets of them using liver for bait. Local wines were sampled and sore body parts were compared. Grilled veggies, sliced tomatoes were topped off with more local wines, coffee, and an amazing cheesecake. We all slept so very well.
