Queenstown , I pantomimed adorning my riding gear , looking for an apology that I assumed would never come .
Queenstown deserved more time , I didn ’ t care , I wanted out and set off at a pace that was verging on reckless , a fully laden BMW F800GSA with 50 / 50 tyres couldn ’ t do the road out of town justice , a twisted and contorted tarmac ribbon that wound itself around , up , and over the hills surrounding this mining ‘ metropolis ’.
The Lyell Highway screamed for more , I tried but was rudely brought back to reality with the vision of a car , on its side , in the ditch adjoining the road . The locals had the situation under control , a traveller , and his wife , both looking miserable as they tried in vain to get their insurance company to help with retrieval . “ But where ’ s the caravan ?”, I couldn ’ t help think .
Riding on through the twists and rises of the Lyell , fading memories of the heated discussion bounced around as I tried to work out what had pushed the button . Was it the prior day , when we ’ d made our way to the west coast community of Trial Harbour , so named for the cutter , Trial , that anchored in 1881 the harbour had been established by the ‘ Russian Finns ’; the Karlson brothers , Steve , Peter , and Karl , as well as Gustav Weber .
Now nothing more than a collection of holiday homes , the harbour was once used as a hub for the nearby towns of Zeehan and Queenstown , evidence suggests that
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