This article originally appeared in the 2025 Nov/Dec issue of Adventure Cyclist magazine.
“The earth has a small negative charge of around 200 millivolts, and humans have about the opposite.” I nodded, unsure of the science behind this assertion, as Mark, a pediatric surgeon turned mental health therapist, explained his theories to me at the breakfast table. It was my first morning in New Zealand. “Humans need to neutralize that charge,” he continued. “You do that by getting in touch with the earth.” I nodded again. Mark then leaned closer, away from his wife, and lowered his voice. “The other therapists in my practice don’t like it, but instead of pills, I sometimes prescribe my patients to get into nature.” He sat back and smiled. “You know, walk barefoot. Touch some trees.”
This story is not just about trees. Or millivolts. It’s about a bike ride along New Zealand’s Timber Trail, one of 23 Great Rides sprinkled throughout this scenic, far-off land. Located in the middle of New Zealand’s Pureora Forest on the North Island, the route is described in an online brochure as “the best two-day ride in the country. Hyperbole? I’ve come to touch some trees — or at least ride among them — and find out.
On Day One, with Mark’s opinions about millivolts and non-pharmaceutical prescriptions ringing in my head, our group finished an ample breakfast of bacon, eggs, and sausage, plus all the muesli, fruit, and coffee we could take, at the Timber Trail Lodge. We’d spent a comfortable night at the guesthouse, set on a hill overlooking its namesake route’s halfway point. A few minutes later, our bikes loaded on the trailer, we clambered into the shuttle van to take us to the start.
Our driver, Vaughn, turned back to us. “Okay, question for all of you: did Rob take a breath when he was driving you up here last night?” Everybody cracked up. We couldn’t say for sure one way or the other.
Rob is Rob Kakahi, a 69-year-old Māori from the Iwi Ngāti Maniapoto (iwi is Māori for “tribe”). The previous night, he’d started talking about the trail and the surrounding old-growth Pureora Forest as he shuttled us to the hotel, and he never let up once on the hour-long drive. And why not? Rob and his iwi belong to the forest. He was here for the intensive logging of native New Zealand trees in the forest. He was here during the environmental protests in the ’70s to save the forest. And he is here now as trekkers and cyclists discover the glorious, preserved forest.
Te Pureora-o-Kahu — “the place where Kahu regained her health” — is the Māori name for the area surrounding Mount Pureora, the highest peak in the Hauhungaroa Mountain Range. (Kahu was a Māori ancestress, and her legendary wanderings throughout New Zealand’s North Island as she mourned her husband’s death are a major settlement narrative in Māori lore.) In between periodic eruptions from nearby Taupō Volcano, the Pureora area lay pristine for millennia. This idyll ended abruptly in the 20th century and by the 1940s, timber companies were pushing into the ancient native podocarp forest, felling 100 to 150 enormous trees a day. Hardwood conifers like the rimu, tōtara, and New Zealand’s tallest tree, the kahikatea, were chopped, chained, dragged, and carted out of the mountains to be milled into lumber.
Opposition to logging the ancient trees grew in the 1970s, culminating in 1978 when protestors lived on platforms in the canopy to block operations. It worked. The New Zealand government declared the remaining tracts off limits. The old-growth trees were saved, but as Rob explained, the sudden shutdown threw thousands of loggers out of work, devastating local communities. With the loggers gone, chirps and trills from some of the country’s most endangered birds replaced the buzzing of saws and roar of machinery. Few visitors entered the protected areas, and the remaining trees grew in peace, the forest taking back the bare hills and tramways and other signs of logging, a slumbering Eden, until 2010.
“It was a John Key project,” said Russ Malone, Timber Trail Lodge’s operations manager, of the effort to use adventure tourism to help rebuild the local, post-logging economy. New Zealand’s prime minister at the time, Key pushed for new cycling trails as part of the Tour Aotearoa, a 3,000-kilometer bikepacking route linking the entire country north to south (or as I like to think of it, One Trail to Rule Them All). The Timber Trail’s 85 kilometers became part of that network when it opened to riders and hikers in 2013.
Vaughn, our shuttle driver, dropped a dozen of us at the Pureora start point, we all took photos in front of the Timber Trail sign, and then we rolled into the forest. I watched my fellow riders, shining in the morning sunlight, disappear into a dark opening of trees, moss, and vines. As I entered, the forest absorbed the noise and sunlight. We were in ancient lands.
I showed up solo for this bicycle trek but quickly made some Kiwi friends, including Tommo and Tania, just ahead of me, who have ridden all over both islands. Behind me was Robert, a former Marylander who’s lived in New Zealand for the last 26 years. Most of my fellow cyclists were on Trek Powerflys, part of the wave of electric-assist bikes. I kept it old school with a rented Trek Roscoe 7 hardtail.
The Timber Trail is 53 miles long (85 kilometers), with an elevation gain of 4,600 feet (1,412 meters) and a descent of around 5,800 feet (1,765 meters). Most riders start at the east end, as we did, and head west toward Ongarue so those numbers are in their favor. How difficult was the route going to be? I’m an experienced roadie, so I figured I had the fitness. As for mountain biking, I love it, but I’m not ashamed to admit that steep descents with big rocks scare me. New Zealand rates the Timber Trail as a variable 2–3 on their 1–6 scale, with 1 being easy and 6 being extreme. This sounded reasonable. Day One’s extended climb toward the Mount Pureora summit and the descending switchbacks accounted for most of the level 3 difficulty.
The first miles were easy and marvelous, winding through the dark, ancient trees with sunshine slashing here and there through the canopy. We rode past a red and black Māori whakairo rakau, or wood carving, representation of a Waikato Māori chief, Te Kanawa. He challenged a fellow chief to a race that roughly followed the route of the Timber Trail, or so the story goes.
We soon discovered that not every hill in Pureora is virgin forest as we eventually rode out of the woods into direct sunshine. Some of the region remains in private hands, and we rolled within sight of some of those tracts. Although no native or endangered trees are cut, we could see a few barren hillsides, recently harvested. Adjacent to them were a few more hills filled with medium-sized teenage trees targeted for cutting as part of a 25-year cycle.
Back in the forest at kilometer 11, we rolled up to the footpath spur to the Mount Pureora summit. A group of schoolboy cyclists were munching on snacks, having just returned from the peak. I chatted with one of their teachers, Jonathan, who sported a fabulous mustache. “This ride is a final exam for the mountain biking section of our outdoor education class,” he said. “Later, we’ll do kayaking and rock-climbing expeditions.” Feeling some regret that “Awesome Wilderness Adventures 101” was not one of my high school electives, I looked at the boys in their mud-covered shoes and asked, “Is the summit hike worth it?” A few of them nodded and said the trail was fun, but with their teacher standing nearby, I briefly wondered about the sincerity of their response.
It was worth it. My riding companions decided to skip the detour, but I figured it was a perfect day, so carpe diem and all that. Leaving my bike to the side of the trail, I headed into the lush forest, the sounds of the boys’ laughter fading behind me. About halfway up, the forest thinned, and I found myself among scrub and smaller trees. I could see a giant wooden tripod marking the summit, but it remained distant as I negotiated the mud puddles and slippery roots. Finally, I reached the exposed peak and the wind slammed into me. From nearly 4,000 feet (1,165 meters), I could see Lake Taupō, the country’s largest, and the still-snowy summit of Mount Ruapehu, an active stratovolcano and the highest point on New Zealand’s North Island. Mount Ruapehu has been relatively quiet since 2009, but in 1945, it erupted and triggered a mudflow that killed 151 train passengers. Fortunately, the volcano I was standing on, Mount Pureora, is extinct.
I hiked back to the trail and saw that I was alone, my biking buddies and the schoolboys gone on ahead. From here, the route continued up for several miles to its highest point at 3,200 feet (971 meters). Usually, long ascents are my chance to catch other riders ahead of me, and I enjoy calling out a cheery, “Hey, lookin’ good!” as I pass friends on the mountain (and they probably curse me under their breath). However, there wouldn’t be any shoutouts on this ascent. No matter how hard I pushed, I couldn’t catch my electric bike–riding friends. Curse them and their silent motors!
So it was in solitary splendor that I crested the tail, aimed downhill, negotiated some switchbacks and another corner, and then rolled to a stunned stop. I’d hit the first suspension bridge. “Wow!” I exclaimed to the trees.
The Timber Trail is much more than its famed suspension bridges, but this was a wow moment. The soaring towers and gleaming silver cables were like seeing the Arc de Triomphe anchoring the Champs-Élysées in the final stage of the Tour de France. Despite its inelegant name — Bog Inn Bridge — the crossing was a beauty, stretching nearly 400 feet (115 meters) over the unnervingly steep gorge below. The bridge towers were lowered into place by helicopters, then strung with cables. In addition to the dozens of vertical suspension cables, several horizontal sup-porting cables were strung across the chasm to reduce sway. It all looked comfortingly solid, although a sign advises no more than 10 riders at a time.
I parked the bike and stepped out onto the bridge. Despite the horizontal cables, I was definitely swaying. “Just like a pleasant swing in a summer hammock,” I told myself. A hammock perched over a chasm perhaps, but still a pleasant swing.
Crossing the bridge, back on my bike, I was alone among the trees again, but far from lonely. Nor was it very quiet. Throughout the ride, and especially in the native woods, I heard the whistles and shrieks of birds. Dark shapes flitted across my path. Although I couldn’t identify the individual species calling and flying past me, I knew there was a good chance they started with a “k” — the kōkako, kākā, kākāriki, and kūkūare are among the birds found in Pureora.
After six hours and 26 miles of biking, not to mention 2.5 miles of muddy hiking, I finished Day One back at the Timber Trail Lodge. I found my cycling companions, including Tommo and Tania, already out on the deck enjoying a card game and cold beverages in the late afternoon sun.
Given the Timber Trail’s remote setting, nearly all cyclists choose from several mid-trail lodging options. The Timber Trail Lodge, my choice, sleeps up to 45 in rooms with shared bathroom facilities or private suites. Your stay includes breakfast, dinner, and a to-go-lunch, but there are add-ons, including transport to trailheads and bicycle rentals. It is off the grid with solar power and rainwater cisterns and is as lovely and quiet as I could have hoped.
Nearby is Piropiro Campsite, a wide expanse of lawn surrounded by trees in the wop-wops (New Zealand term for “middle of nowhere”) with shared bathroom facilities. Barely two more minutes down the trail sits Camp Epic. “I first visited here 10 years ago and realized this is where I wanted to be and what I wanted to do,” said Paul Goulding, Camp Epic’s owner. Seeing the need for more rider accommodations, he opened the campground. “I modeled our tents and facilities after an African safari.”
I chatted with some of the schoolboys, who were playing card games around one of the tables in the common eating and kitchen area. With the sun setting behind the tents, I bade the Camp Epic glampers farewell and rode back to my guesthouse. I was just in time for a dinner of bacon-wrapped chicken, potatoes, and broccoli salad. As the only non–New Zealander, I played the role of ignorant outsider and enjoyed the opportunity to lob questions about controversial topics, such as politics, religion, and the touchiest topic of all: rugby.
From afar, New Zealand has always seemed to me like a place of cooperation and unity, an island paradise. It was heartening to observe the different views and disagreements in our after-dinner group and be reminded that every country wrestles with divisions. Yet there was no bitterness, and the mood remained as warm as the glowing wood stove nearby.
Around midnight, I awoke and stepped out onto the common balcony to chill myself in the night air and enjoy the quiet. A few nearby tree limbs murmured while unfamiliar Southern Hemisphere stars sparkled above. Off to my side, I could see a light on in the common room. I walked over to turn it off and found Robert and another guest at the table, still engrossed in conversation.
It was early spring on the North Island, and Day Two dawned with temperatures in the high 40s Fahrenheit to start and would only reach the low 60s. We filled up on more eggs and bacon and then hit the dirt. The first highlight of the day was the longest suspension bridge of the trail — Maramataha Bridge — extending 462 feet (141 meters) with its towers rising at least 200 feet (60 meters) from the gorge below. It is the third-longest suspension bridge in New Zealand. All of us gathered at one end, setting ourselves up for photos and gaping at the views.
More forest, more views, more fun downhills, and then the final suspension bridge: Mangakotukutuku Bridge. While not as long as the others, Mangakotukutuku dramatically spans the giant rocks jutting out of Goat Creek below. After hopping among the rocks and shouting out to Tommo and Tania and other riders as they crossed above us, we lay out in the sun, pleased with our efforts. We only had about nine miles (15 kilometers) left, and they were predominantly downhill.
We traced the old Ellis and Burnand logging company tramway. The rails and ties used to transport the felled trees out of the forest were gone, but we soon discovered evidence of the loggers from decades before. There were a few abandoned camps and worker huts on off-trail spurs. At one point, we stopped and walked around a massive, steam-powered log hauler, its cable still attached to a giant, rotting tree. I imagined that trail workers, pondering the bulk, decided to leave it as a trail-side exhibit, rusting away in a grassy meadow.
At kilometer 75, we anticipated the other highlight of Day Two: the Dungeons & Dragons–esque Ongarue Spiral. The 360-degree loop of railroad track is not a fantasy trap for tired cyclists but instead a remarkable engineering feat, built by Ellis and Burnand to ease the grade for their loaded timber trains. As we approached, our trail spiraled down underneath itself, leading into a black tunnel. Out of sight and around the corner, I could hear the hoots of other riders in the tunnel, and then, almost before I realized it, we were rolling into the dripping darkness, aiming for the bright smudge of sunlight ahead.
We exited the spiral demon-free. With most of the mountain forest now behind us, the landscape softened. Inevitable New Zealand sheep appeared among the hills, and it would not have surprised me to see some Hobbits wandering about. New Zealand is Lord of the Rings country, of course, and the Hobbiton film set, a major tourist draw, is only a few hours north of Pureora.
We wound through the easy bucolic miles, then up one final rise and were at trail’s end. All was cheery here at this roadside spot with an open shelter, water, and simple bathrooms. I saw most of my cycling companions from the last few days lazing on the benches and ground. Instead of waiting for the shuttle, several of us decided to ride a few more miles on a paved road to where our cars waited in the lot. Along the way, I passed a giant herd of curious reindeer, their antlers destined for Asia, keeping their collective eyes on me as I rode by. More sobering, I paused at a trackside memorial to a 1923 train accident that killed 17 people.
As I changed clothes and packed up my rental car, I ran into Vaughn, our driver from the first morning. He congratulated me on finishing the trail, asking how I liked the scenery. “Rob Kakahi said this was the most beautiful part of New Zealand,” I replied, “so it must be.” Vaughn laughed and said something about there being a lot of beautiful scenery in New Zealand.
Among all of New Zealand’s natural wonders, is the Timber Trail the best two-day ride in the country? Well, I hope to sample more of New Zealand’s 23 Great Rides and compare, but scenery aside, I think the route could be the most meaningful ride in New Zealand. It comes back to the trees, of course. Because Rob isn’t the only one who gets emotional about this land.
Before my trip, I watched a documentary about Pureora Forest, featuring former loggers and Māori whose jobs and communities were abruptly wiped out in the 1978 logging shut-down. The interviews took place in the forest itself, and, sitting among the preserved trees, it was clear that their bitterness toward the protestors had softened. “I think what the protestors did was the right thing to do and maybe we should have done it ourselves,” mused Dave, one of the former loggers. A bulldozer operator from the 1940s named Bruce took it even further. “The logging should have never happened. This is magnificent . . .” and then he trailed off, emotion overtaking him as he looked around at the towering ancient trees.
I rode among those trees — I may have even touched a few of them — and yes, they are magnificent.
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