Old Ghost Road – When the Whole is Greater than the Sum of the Parts
Originally published in the June/July 2025 issue of UltraRunning Magazine
“What do all the acronyms mean on your graph?” came the question from the audience. It was the end of the prerace briefing for the Old Ghost Ultra 85k, where the race director, Phil Rossiter had entertained and delighted us with logistics, gear requirements, how much a helicopter ride out would put us back, and a hilarious graph of what a typical ultra runner might go through during the race. While he had made clear that WTLI stood for the Will To Live Index and how it would go down during the course, be elevated by the lovely aid station volunteers, but generally decline over the day, there were a few lines left unexplained.
As I left the theater, I commented to my friend/crew Michael Pullar, that actually the race briefing was enough, I was satisfied and could go home.
Of course I was kidding, but the meeting left me with a feeling of awe in what the race organizers, and more importantly, the trail builders had created when they rebuilt the old and built the yet undeveloped portion of a road/trail that had been created for gold mining in the 1880s, but abandoned when it was determined that gold didn’t exist there. An old and original surveyor’s map circa 1886 still existed and was put into the hands of one Marion Boatwright, an American transplant from North Carolina who was passionate about the New Zealand bush and landscape and a self-described “dream driven entrepreneur”, and that was the beginning of an eight-year journey to complete the long-forgotten track.
What goes into making good trail is something many trail runners have experienced with countless volunteer/voluntold hours, bringing a sense of pride and ownership to the trails that they run on. The recreation/creation of the Old Ghost Road – New Zealand’s longest continuous single track – is next level. The topography is steep, the landscape is varied, the native bush is thick, the waterways are so clear, it’s no wonder the producers of “Lord of Rings” chose this gem of a country for filming.
I did indeed get up next morning to catch a 4:15 bus to the race start – a 30 minute drive in the dark – and had a nice conversation with Ashley, a farmer from the North Island, chatting about dogs, sheep, horses, cattle and training while juggling all of that. When she learned my name she said, Oh, you’re the one from the US that has run Western States! Apparently filling out the bio did matter, as RD Phil mentioned me in a social media post.
We arrived nice and early – it was 5 am and the race didn’t start until 6:00. Someone had built a small fire, and I inched in and found a seat on a log. I was tempted to pull out my warm gear from my pack but decided I couldn’t be bothered. A young woman, Kate, came and sat beside me, and we conversed about the race, about where we were from, what we do – she is a physio in Christchurch, but I gleaned that she was a top notch soccer player who went to college in Tennessee to play. Having coached HS XC, I’ve been witness to the endurance and speed many soccer players have allowing a natural avenue into running. I had a feeling she was a contender today.
At about 5:30 I decided to get up and start moving around. I don’t warm up like I used to – trotting up and down roads, doing strides, getting my heart rate up and ready to race. At best I hope my bowels are ready to be emptied before the gun goes off and that I make it through the porta potty lines. I made my way to the drop bag sack to deposit my very sturdy race provided bag that was to be choppered to the midway aid station.
Runners amassed at the starting area as the time drew near. I didn’t have any prerace nerves as I didn’t intend to run hard or chase down a time. My plan was to follow Ruth Croft’s approach to racing “start like a donkey, finish like a horse.” I was in the middle of the mob, and at the end of the countdown we were oozing down the double track the few hundred meters before the head of the Old Ghost Road turned it into single track. It was still pitch dark, and runners zipped by my donkey paced running. Once we narrowed to single file, I was in a comfortable pace and no one behind me was in a hurry. There was nothing to see but a line of headlamps as the trail meandered along the Mōkihinui River.
There are thirteen suspension bridges on the course, and we were advised to follow the instructions posted on each end, regarding the maximum number of people allowed on the bridge – it was either 2 or 5, depending on the length. The first such bridge was over a small enough creek that several runners ploughed through the creek bed rather than wait in the queue. I chose to wait my turn, not in a hurry to have wet feet or navigate slippery rocks with a headlamp. Once I was on the bridge I realized quickly why it was limited – those suckers BOUNCE!
As dark turned to dawn, I was greeted with the New Zealand bush flora and fauna I have been in before, and it brought such a smile to my heart. Fern trees are iconic to me, and the songbirds graced us with their rich tones. I turned off my headlamp, only to have to turn it back on each time I went from open sky back into the dark canopy. There was still a conga line preceding me, but when I could glimpse a gap ahead, I “on your left” scrambled past small groups, bringing another runner along behind, Julien, who was grateful for my assertiveness. We chatted a bit – found he had lived in the Bay Area for some time, but was now living in Nelson, a 3 hour drive from Westport. He had previously biked this route, taking 11 hours, and was quite concerned about how long it was going to take to run it! I was told then that there is a general suggestion that bike tourists start at Lyell (our end point) and trampers and runners start where we did – to avoid too many surprises from behind.
It finally was light enough to pack my light away, as I made my way to the first aid, 11 miles into the warm welcome of the volunteers at Specimen Hut. There are 4 huts located along the course, constructed by the builders of the Old Ghost Road, and one can reserve them for the journey whether you’re biking or running or hiking. They come with heating, beds, toilets, water, kitchens. There are also 2 DOC (Department of Conservation) huts available, but without the flash amenities.
The course has no access other than the track. No sideroads or optional trails, so there are only 4 aid stations – at miles 11, 26 (drop bags delivered by helicopter), 33, and 40. This makes it essential to stock up at each aid station. I leisurely refilled my bottles, used the loo, checked my watch and shrugged at the 2 hour plus split. For a flat section, that wasn’t alluding to a 10 hour finish. Never mind, just keep moving forward and take it all in.
Now in good daylight, I was mesmerized trotting through the bush, passing runners casually, and just feeling a part of an organism – a piece of something that was greater than the sum of the parts. This wasn’t about me running from point A to point B, it was a feeling of purpose bigger than that, for which I don’t have the words.
Crossing one of the suspension bridges and trying to time my pace to the bounce, I made a little whooping sound, and the runner behind me commented on the trampoline sensation. His name was Pete, and we spent the next several hours chatting about the trail. He grew up in Westport and told me how the trail has changed the economy of this previously economically challenged community to one that has come together and thrived due to the tourism the Old Ghost Road has generated. He mentioned especially how local businesses, schoolteachers, and students have become involved in the race that on the first year had only 50 runners, mostly out of towners. We wound our way up the first climb, a moderate 1600 foot climb over 12 miles, in the lush forest, then broke out into a broad clearing dubbed The Bone Yard. Several rocky switchbacks down into a valley lay ahead, and I commented to Pete that I could not imagine biking UP this section, especially while hauling gear!
Another mile or so and we arrived at the halfway point – Stern Valley Hut. Volunteers had my drop bag in my hands before I could even ask. I drank one of the chocolate milks I had placed there, filled my bottles, looked at my watch – 5:30 hours – and for sure knew that 10 hours was not even an option given the big climb ahead. I made sure I was fully stocked and ambled out, Pete close behind. The climb to Ghost Lake Hut began rather subtlety, eventually becoming more grueling, through the forest and finally above bush line, where if you dared look up, you could see the climb that lay before. I chose to keep my eyes on the trail or out at the horizon, knowing that eventually I would arrive at the aid station, some 7 miles and 2500 feet later. The views were incredible – dense bush and steep ridgelines all around – and we were above it all.
Finally at the aid station, I drank some coke, filled my bottles, and off I went alone this time. I knew that the descending would start soon, and I had saved my legs all day for the possibility of an exhilarating finish. One last mild climb along the face of the Lyell Range, past trail markers of “Heaven’s Door” and “Tombstone”, and finally I met the descent. I had a group of runners in front of me, not as eager, so when it seemed polite to pass, I went around them, bringing Julien from the early miles with me. He said “you must have paced yourself better than me!” and I said I’m known for pacing myself well, and I put my foot on the pedal.
We cruised faster and faster on the incredibly runnable grade, slowed only by switchbacks and creek crossings. I was thrilled to feel this good, and grateful for my patience. Yes, I am no longer as fast as I was, but I felt fast and strong, and at age 63, I don’t think it gets better than that. Coming up toward us, some bikers on their way out, encouraging us. I could hear someone coming from behind, and in moments, a woman I had passed hours ago went screaming by, just having the time of her life. Julien hung with me to the final aid station, Lyell Hut, where I moseyed around, commenting on the native bird, Weka, that was comfortably waiting for dropped food. One volunteer said her shoes had been stolen by a Weka once and never found. I chuckled as I left, being told it’s all downhill from here. Overall yes, but it was pretty flat for a while, and I desperately hung on to my pace, thinking around the next corner must be the descent. I caught back up to Julien, stating “downhill my ass!”. He assured me it was coming. And when it did, I was once again in heaven. I dropped Julien and began passing runners who had burned too many matches early on. We were in such beautiful bush again, on the lovely curving track, and my spirits were high. The kilometer markings were helpful and allowed me to practice converting metric to imperial as a mental exercise to help the time and distance pass.
At last, I saw the final bridge and staircase up to the finish line. I weaved, nearly falling, through the small guard rails, then across the finish line, in 11 hours and 9 minutes. I was so pleased with the day, the experience, the community, the beauty of this country that I had experienced in such a short time. I found Phil, evermore the attentive race director greeting runners, and tapped him on the arm – “Phil, I just want to thank you for such an incredible race”. He looked down at my bib, saw the US flag and said “You’re Meghan!! Thank you so much for coming to our race. I am so humbled!” I thought, “You’re humbled! Do you have any idea what you’ve created?” but instead I said, “I just wanted to let you know that my Will To Live Index was 100 all day, and it was always Type 1 fun!” He said that had to be some kind of record.
Michael was there to gather me and my things up, so after chatting with some folks, getting my finish line sandwich and meat pie, we drove back to Westport.
Next morning at 9:00 was the awards ceremony, and I had won my age group – Super Veteran Women – so of course I wanted to be there. I told Michael it would just award winners, no one else would bother, to which he remarked that there would likely be a good turnout. I shouldn’t have been surprised, since Phil was once again the MC of an entertaining hour of prize giving, complete with his gratitude to his team, and the opportunity for racers to take a turn at the mic. Numerous runners did just that, all extolling praise to Phil and team and for putting on such a great event.
Obviously, we don’t know what we don’t know. Now home in my cold Corvallis office, reading up on Old Ghost Road, I see how much of this trail I missed by the sheer fact that I was in a race. There are many historical signs along the track for remains of old towns and sections of trail that would have been interesting to read, views that would be better taken in, and what a great 2-3 day training camp one could have by reserving huts along the way.
