Timbertrail -ohakune

The Decision to Ride

Woke up today on Maxine’s (Mameyo Goods) family farm: Kim Young and Sons, Ohakune.

Today is the day we are doing the Timber Trail in Piropiro/Ongarue.

The adventure started with a lunch at Crystal Mall with Kerry and Norm when they were visiting Maxine. Since Laura and I are obsessed with her parents and their potato and carrot farm, we had to meet them during their visit to Canada. In a short food court visit, Norm convinced us that doing the Timber Trail would be a great adventure. Biking through the forest with lush NZ greenery and crossing the longest bike trail suspension bridges—it all sounded magical. I love forests, greenery, mountains, and bridges above rushing water—I love it. So, when Kerry went ahead and booked the Timber Trail excursion two months ago in December, I was all in.

The Panic Sets In

Fast forward, we’re here now, having this overwhelming sense that maybe we should have done a bit more research other than just looking at a few excursion photos to decide it would be a good time. Our little Gemini search yesterday rudely notified us that there was plenty we hadn’t even begun considering. For beginners, it seems people spend months training for this fun little adventure we were about to have. And it’s not a “trail”, it’s a death trap for the uncoordinated. There was strong advice to ensure we packed adequate waterproof layers, but don’t weigh yourself down with heavy packs as the bike ride itself is supposed to be crazy hard on your back (what was I thinking? Me.. with me my whiplash injury..) And then there was all this talk about you need to have good coordination and a strong core as there are about 15-20 bridges you have to ride over, some of which are suspension bridges that require core stability.. UM I HAVE NONE OF THESE SKILLS. cue mild panic setting in

So, for all the reasons foretold, I was having a mid-life-crisis-sized realization that my survival instincts hadn’t just failed me—they’d packed their bags and moved to a different continent. They clearly didn’t A) Slap the "Yes" out of my mouth when I agreed to this, or B) Force me to do even five minutes of research that might have prepared me for a literal mountain. 

Kerry, sensing our impending doom, had arranged for us to borrow some "butt-cushioning" bike shorts (WE DIDN’T EVEN THINK TO BUY THOSE... seriously, why am I allowed to make adult decisions?!). She also bestowed upon me a super-soft heat-tech shirt to wear inside-out, ensuring my tattoo—my literal skin-canvas work of art—wouldn’t be chafed into oblivion (Kerry, you are a saint and a scholar). Every time I caught a glimpse of Norm, my panic spiked; he had the haunted look of a man who was certain he was about to deliver two Canadian idiots to their maker and end up as the lead story on the evening news. 

It’s too early to be alive face

We woke up at 5AM and Kerry and Maxine were up making us a big breakfast to start our day. After about an hour drive (which I stress-slept through) we got to the car park in Ongarue to take the shuttle up to our starting point.

“What’s the worst that could happen… it’ll be fine…. Right?”

The Ride Begins (and the Near-Disaster)

Once we secured our E-bikes—bless my remaining two brain cells for not agreeing to a manual bike—off we went. I’d padded my cycling resume with some Vancouver riding, so I was clicking through gears like a pro, while Laura treated hers like a cryptic puzzle. In a display of pure sibling affection, she tried to send me to the afterlife once or twice by anchoring herself directly in front of me on steep inclines. At one point, while I was in full 'Turbo' mode, she came to a dead stop. I swerved, the pedal bit my leg in a fit of mechanical rage, and I hit the dirt. As I tried to recover, the bike’s torque decided it was in charge now. The handlebar whipped out of my hands, and the bike began its slow-motion descent toward a literal cliff. I tried to use my body weight to bounce it back, but these bikes weigh as much as a small moon, and it just kept dragging me toward the abyss. I had a brief, crystalline moment of clarity where I could actually see the 'Dumb Ways to Die' meme playing in my head, starring me. Fortunately, Sunny pulled a full superhero move, hopping off his bike to rescue both me and my runaway mechanical steed from a very embarrassing headline. Phewf. Time to be careful, stay far away from other humans, and embrace the speed of a cautious turtle. Definitely. Maybe. Crap.

A Change in Scenery and Suspension Bridges

Once I recovered from the initial shock of almost going over the cliff, I started drinking in the greenery and all the flora. The whole ride felt like I was going through some magical portal to another realm where nature talks. There was velvety moss and ferns of all kinds (including the silver fern which is the national symbol of NZ) and Ents lining the pathways! It was so hard to focus on not dying when all I wanted to do was stare at everything along the way, not the ground and hopefully memorize it all.

The little pathways with stone walls on either side with velvet moss and a canopy of ferns was some of my favourite parts of the ride.

While the “trail” still looks like a leisure greenery bike trail

Something about the browns, maroon and greens coming together here made my heart sing

Ents! Waiting for that Entmoot.

Then there were the bridges, some were smaller wooden bridges, but then there were the famous suspension bridges. 3 in total, 1 of them being 140m long and 53m high. Of course I looked down and wobbled immediately on my bike. There was no way in hell, I came all the way out here and risked my life for this view and then not even take in the view to what?.. focus on not dying? Sort of a catch 22 isn’t it?. 

After the initial hiccup, Laura and I were practically performing an aerial ballet down the mountain. We were "getting the hang of this," which meant we were operating at approximately 50% less "near-death" capacity. In fact, after we absolutely annihilated a particularly strenuous uphill section, I was hit with an ego boost so massive it needed its own helmet. In my mind, I was already planning the next two-day excursion, confidently drafting a list of things I would do differently now that I was basically a professional cyclist. I was drunk on adrenaline, soaring on my own cockiness, and boasting to anyone who might be listening that I was going to crush the entire trail. Who cared if they called me cocky? I was surrounded by lush nature, enjoying the warm weather, and speeding along with the blissful knowledge that there were no bears, wolves, or judgmental foxes around. Little did I know, the trail had just been patiently waiting for my moment of hubris.

The Descent and the Pain

After about 10km of what I can only describe as "aggressive nature," the path transitioned from a charming trail to a vertical death trap. It became narrower, steeper, and featured literal dead drops—no gentle grassy slopes here, just a direct invitation to meet the forest floor from 50 meters up. Going downhill at that speed over large rocks that might arguably classify as boulders for 20-30 min at a time was rough. Halfway through, my glutes didn't just go numb; they checked out of my body entirely, presumably to seek asylum elsewhere. (Kerry, if you're reading this, those padded shorts are the only reason I still have a skeletal structure.)

Every pebble felt like a personal insult, and the "suspension" on the bikes was clearly a myth. My body was the shock absorber, and my internal organs were currently playing a very violent game of pinball. I felt the vibrations in my teeth, my armpits, and—most tragically—in my delicate lady regions, which were undergoing a level of trauma usually reserved for crash test dummies. We finally reached a clearing with a panoramic view of the lush, green canopy. It was breathtaking. I hated it. As I sat there, my earlier bravado had shriveled into a raisin of regret. My ass was vibrating, my dignity was gone, and I genuinely wanted to weep because we weren't even close to being done.

Sat here reflecting on all my life choices that led me here. like dejavu.. 

I remember as we hauled our broken bodies upright, whispered in a voice so fragile it belonged in a Victorian novel, “Maybe we can slow down a little...” I looked at her with the wild, unblinking eyes of a hunted animal and hissed, “I just need to freaking get to the bottom.” She immediately dissolved into hysterics because we are two peas in a very bruised pod. If I slowed down, that was just more time for that godforsaken bike seat to continue its systematic interrogation of my soul. I finally understood what people train for: it’s not endurance, it’s building an iron-plated posterior. We took off like bats out of hell, leaving the guys 300m in the dust—which, in hindsight, was a classic horror movie mistake. "What if we fall?" My brain asked. "Who cares, at least we"ll be off the seat," my ego replied. And then, as if the universe heard me challenging its authority, the sky opened up. At first, it was a "magical tropical shower," but within seconds I was a drowned rat. My waterproof Patagonia jacket? Oh, it was enjoying a lovely, dry ride with Uncle Von, way back in the distance. I stood there, marinating in my own poor life choices, getting soaked down to my literal DNA until my jacket finally made its guest appearance.

With at least 15-20KM of purgatory remaining, I began a frantic, multi-denominational prayer session, offering up my firstborn and all my earthly possessions to any deity willing to numb my lower half. The rain wasn't just falling; it was a targeted water-cannoning, blinding me to everything except my own suffering. Naturally, I did the logical thing: I accelerated. If I was going to die, I wanted it to be fast, or at the very least, over. My glutes were currently holding a protest, sending white-hot signals of betrayal to my brain with every single pebble. I was seeing stars, vowing to spend the rest of my life in a reclining chair, and right as I reached the climax of a particularly heartfelt deal with the Universe out loud, a bug flew directly into my open, gasping mouth. Extra protein, I thought grimly, before choking. This wasn't a trail; it was a customized circles-of-hell simulation. I wasn't just going through the stages of grief; I was speed-running them while stuck in a permanent loop of anger and total existential collapse. WHAT. WAS. I. THINKING.

And just like that I saw the light at the end of the proverbial and literal tunnel.

The Finish Line

Against all laws of physics and common sense, we actually made it. There were tears, whooops, and high fives so aggressive they nearly finished what the trail started. No one—least of all us—expected to survive this ordeal without a search-and-rescue team or a priest. Reaching the end felt less like an accomplishment and more like a successful prison break. It was breathtakingly beautiful, truly, but mostly it unlocked a new core memory primarily composed of vibrating glutes and the haunting realization that I am remarkably easy to trick into "adventures."

10/10 would recommend and do it again. 

Best part about the finish line, the fields next to the bike rental place had horses, so I got to chill and feed apples to the horses at the end of it. 

The Aftermath and Recovery

Having narrowly escaped becoming a permanent forest fixture, we began the dcrive back, at which point the "dreaded cold" decided to stage a hostile takeover of my nervous system. (PRO TIP: Bring a complete change of clothes, right down to your dignity, and leave them in the car. You will want dry socks, dry shoes, and underwear that hasn't merged with your DNA). The hour-long drive to Ohakune was actually 65 minutes of me shivering violently. Once home, I hijacked the shower for a period of time that surely violated local water bylaws. As the feeling returned, so did the realization that my glutes had entered a witness protection program and were never coming back. To add insult to literal injury, my right knee decided to join the protest; every time I tried to sit or stand, it buckled like a cheap lawn chair. I suppose this is 40: where "adventure" is just a fancy word for "voluntary physical torture”.

We were allotted a two-hour "recovery" window before a family BBQ at Maxine’s brother’s house. During this time, Laura and I lay in our respective beds in a state of catatonic silence, our eyes fixed on the ceiling, silently debating whether to be angry at the universe, the bikes, or our own questionable decision-making skills. Every movement was accompanied by a groan that sounded like a haunted mansion settling. The prospect of sitting through a 15-person family dinner felt like being asked to climb Everest again, but with higher social stakes. However, I’ll be damned if I let a little thing like total bodily collapse disrespect Kerry and Norm’s legendary hospitality. I gave myself a pep talk, told my inner "P.A.B." (Pussy Ass Bitch) to take a hike, and prepared to face the steak with the courage of a woman who can no longer feel her own hamstrings.

The dinner was, in a word, restorative—mostly because it involved sitting on a chair that wasn’t vibrating at a frequency designed to disintegrate my pelvis. As we inhaled steak and basked in the local praise for our "feat of endurance," Kerry and Norm offered enough encouragement to almost make me forget I’d spent the last six hours speed-running the five stages of grief on two wheels. They celebrated our survival with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for people who return from the moon, rather than two Canadian idiots who nearly lost a fight with a suspension bridge and a bug.

But as my right knee buckled for the eighteenth time while reaching for the salad, the "survival" part felt highly debatable. I wasn’t a conqueror of the Timber Trail; I was just a collection of bruised organs and damp DNA held together by borrowed padded shorts and sheer, unadulterated hubris.