There we stood, seemingly miles away from any sort of civilisation, on the other side of a peak we had just hiked over. A tiny mud hut sat in the centre of our view, dwarfed by the expansive backdrop of the south island mountains that surrounded us. We were insignificant blobs of human life enveloped in this landscape. Our bags and our bikes had been dropped next to the hut by the station owner, Tom. It was surreal to think that only a couple of hours ago, we had rushed out of Queenstown airport, squeezed our two bike boxes into the Mazda Demio we had hired (much to the amusement of surrounding bystanders), done a shop at what was possibly the most expensive supermarket in the country and then driven to Garston and assembled our bikes before hiking up through this massive backcountry station to a lonely hut that sat just below a high point affectionately named “Welcome Rock”. Standing there looking upon this stunning canvas laid in front of us, I felt like I was taking the first breath I had taken in weeks. The cool mountain air infiltrated my lungs and stayed there, despite the fact that I had already breathed out.