From Aotearoa to Ecuador
 

What Trails Leave Behind

Words & (most) images: Michael Dammer

Moody skies and endless greenery on the Moerangi Track.

May 2013 - Whirinaki

It was probably around midnight when a loud engine and barking dogs broke the silence of our remote campsite. Marcela and I looked at each other nervously. She pulled her long hair fully inside her sleeping bag while I reached for my headlamp and the small camping knife I kept nearby. Heavy footsteps trampled onto the wooden porch. We could hear two or three men talking, their voices slurred. I could tell they had been drinking. Who could be showing up in the middle of the night, in a place this remote?

In search of adventure and isolation, we had chosen Moerangi Track as the next stop on our bikepacking journey around New Zealand. It wasn’t only the towering podocarp giants of Whirinaki Te Pua-a-Tāne Conservation Park that drew us there, but also the cultural and economic context of this remote part of the Bay of Plenty. I was curious to see how recreational trails built in isolated regions could support more sustainable ways of life for communities that often feel forgotten. We had just ridden the Ōpōtiki Loop Trail <Motu Trails Loop>, and this felt like a natural continuation; deeper, quieter, and further from the edges.

We arrived at Mid Okahu Hut at dusk the previous evening. It was lonely, rainy, and cold. Finding the hut took hours, there were no signs leading to it. Using a small paper map I’d printed before leaving, we parked the car and bikes on a deserted mountain road and crossed a flooded river on foot before finally locating the hut.

Morning coffee after a long night at Mid Okahu Hut (now removed).

First impressions weren’t encouraging. Unlike most huts in New Zealand, Mid Okahu was in rough shape. Empty liquor bottles and cigarette butts littered the floor. Parts of the bunks and furniture had been smashed apart and burned for firewood. Wanting to dissipate the somewhat eerie feeling, I hurried to tidy the place as best I could before Marcela came in. Once we lit a fire and warmed ourselves with a bowl of soup, the hut began to feel more welcoming. Still, we went to sleep alert, ears tuned to every sound outside.

The footsteps came closer to the door. I signalled Marcela to stay still and stood up. Whoever it was, I wanted to be on my feet before they came inside. “Kia ora,” I called out as I moved toward the door. A tall man stumbled in. He was soaking wet, covered in mud, holding a liquor bottle, with a large knife strapped to his waist. My small Opinel knife suddenly felt absurd in my pocket. If things were to turn bad, I knew it wouldn’t be much help.

“Kia ora,” he mumbled back, meeting my eyes. We exchanged a few words. I explained that we were travelling by bike and had come from Ecuador. He said they were out hunting and needed shelter from the weather. He grabbed a piece of foam from the floor and went back outside. I returned to my sleeping bag and took Marcela’s hand. For hours, they stayed on the porch; drinking, arguing, yelling at their dogs. Until finally they disappeared into the night.

We were up at first light, both exhausted and foggy from the long, tense night. A hot coffee helped steady our nerves, and soon enough we were riding again, rewarded with some of the most memorable stretches of singletrack we experienced in New Zealand.

We were rewarded with some of the most memorable stretches of singletrack
we experienced in New Zealand.

On our way out, we passed through the small towns of Minginui and Murupara, slowly learning more about the Māori communities who care for Te Urewera and Whirinaki Forest Park. The feeling of vulnerability I carried from that night at the, now demolished, Mid Okahu Hut lingered with me. So did the quiet magic of Minginui on a rainy day, the vastness of the podocarp forest, and the sense of peace that comes with riding through such remote land.

Te Urewera - It’s not just giant podocarps… miniature treasures all over.

Somewhere between all of that, a question began to take shape: how and why had New Zealand invested so deeply in trail networks like Ngā Haerenga, and what could other countries learn from that approach?

Kahikatea - the largest of the podocarp grandfathers.

So how does all of this lead to Ecuador?

High altitude traverse of the Trans Ecuador. Cotopaxi National Park.

In 2012, I had the pleasure of joining bikepacking pioneer Cass Gilbert on a short section of his journey across Ecuador. He had already been riding for several years, making his way from Alaska to Ushuaia , a well-known feat among experienced cycle tourists. But what truly struck me about Cass wasn’t the scale of his ride; it was his genuine desire to avoid busy highways and instead travel through remote mountain roads, making the journey harder, longer, but far more adventurous and real.

Michael, Cass and Thomas on navigation duties. Original TEMBR Route.

Before meeting Cass, I already considered myself more of a wilderness explorer on two wheels than a traditional cycle tourist. That trip, however, deeply reinforced my eagerness for bigger off-road adventures. Growing up on a farm in rural Ecuador, and having been connected to its natural magic and stories, it wasn’t only the mountain landscapes that captivated me, but also the mountain people.

The combination of that encounter with Cass in 2012 and the bikepacking explorations across Aotearoa that followed a year later triggered many questions, but one kept coming back, over and over again: Could you ride the entire length of the Ecuadorian Andes using only remote singletrack? And, could a route like this offer new opportunities to isolated mountain communities?

It wasn’t only the mountain landscapes that captivated me, but also the mountain people.
Original TEMBR Route.

With the help of my brothers, Thomas and Mathias, avid explorers and mountaineers with whom I had already shared several bold expeditions, we began creating an Ecuadorian version of Ngā Haerenga. This eventually became the Trans Ecuador Mountain Bike Route (TEMBR). Initially conceived as a bikepacking route, the TEMBR quickly grew into something much bigger.

By 2014, a draft route was in place. In January 2015, we joined forces with Cass and rode its full length: 1,300 kilometres of some of the hardest and most beautiful terrain you can ride on a mountain bike, connecting some of Ecuador’s most remote mountain villages. By April 2015, the TEMBR evolved from a hardcore bikepacking route into the backbone of an ambitious national programme. Led by Catalina Ontaneda, then Ecuador’s Minister of Sports, we were hired to draft a plan to position Ecuador as an adventure sports destination.

The final project was called Senderos del Ecuador. It included a comprehensive study and implementation program to develop a nationwide network of trails across some of Ecuador’s most iconic ecosystems, creating new opportunities for many isolated rural communities.

Mathias enjoying fresh goat milk along the Trans Ecuador Mountain Bike Route.

Latin American bureaucracy, and a lack of long-term vision from political authorities, ultimately blocked the funding needed to implement the project. The argument was simple: two years was too long. The entire trail system needed to be operational within six months, in time for the upcoming presidential elections.

Today, ten years later, Senderos de Ecuador still hides inside its own Pandora’s box, waiting for a courageous government or small private donors willing to fully unlock its potential. The door has been knocked on a few times, but so far, nothing has come of it.

I still hope that the night at Mid Okahu Hut, my encounter with Cass, and my brief period as a government consultant will one day come full circle, and that Senderos de Ecuador will finally emerge from its magic box. In the meantime, I’m grateful to see that the Trans Ecuador Mountain Bike Route has become one of the most popular bikepacking routes in South America, with many communities already benefiting from the hundreds of riders who travel it every year.

Ride on,
Michael