February 12: She was lost but now he's found

incredibly large and scrum local green mussels from Coromandel

The ride up the Coromandel Peninsula's west shore is idyllic. Overcast, with a light sea breeze. Perfect little bay after perfect little bay, each one more perfect than the last, in a super superlative sorta way. Black-backed gulls dive, shags hunt cautiously, then arch wings to display, oyster catchers, with their long beaks like orange drinking straws, peck quickly at invisible foods, ducks float around, occasionally plunging their heads underwater. It's breakfast hour at low tide.

Floating the 15 miles to Wilson Bay, we head inland and climb almost instantly. These hills are like Wales; not long, but direct (cyclists' term for any climb over 7%). Three little "direct" climbs leave us 1200' up, with commanding views over the bounding hills and our first view of the undulating coast and islands to the north. Ellen is struggling to make the climbs, and needs to stop and walk now and then.
After Manaia Harbor, Gary churns up a long climb, one of those "direct" tendon poppers, reaches the top first and turns to photograph and pull covers on the gear as a cloud of misty rain moves in from the north. Unbeknownst to him, Ellen has remounted and, not seeing the bike and cart, well-pulled off the narrow shoulder, passes him and heads right on downhill toward Coromandel Town. How could she possibly have missed that rig, she thinks? Could he have said to meet at the bottom? After a 20 minute wait, no "she" shows up, nor does "he". A group of cyclists heading northward have not seen "her". (How could they, she is ahead of them.) You are getting this awkward picture by now. He, in a panic, and fearing she has fallen by the wayside with a failing heart valve or been eaten by a flock of shags, heads back downhill to the base of the last climb where last he saw "her", to no avail. She, now almost to Coromandel 6 miles away, fears that somehow she has gotten ahead of "him". Hailing a lagging cyclist from that same group who had not seen "her", she learns that "he" was last seen at the top asking similar questions. With the simultaneous realization that they both have made erroneous assumptions, and that the blog cannot exist but in the plural, she and he reunite somewhere in the middle, the lost are found, the clouds part, angels sing and the elusive, reclusive town of Coromandel is reached.

Wayne and Maggie's B&B is as quaint as can be and the most exquisite and sweet mussels and local brews are just the perfect answer to an up and down, lost and found day.