Bikes, Barks & Berms: Life of a Trail Dog.

I trotted ahead through the silver beech forest, nose low, tail high, weaving between piles of freshly cut mānuka branches. The air carried the sharp bite of sawdust and the earthy smell of turned dirt. Somewhere uphill, a shovel scraped rock.

“There she is,” called Sam, the tallest human.

I barked once to let him know I had already inspected the trail and found it acceptable.

Mostly.

The new section curved along a steep bank overlooking a dark gully thick with ferns. Yesterday there had been nothing there but tangled roots and slippery mud. Today, the humans were carving a smooth ribbon through the hillside, one shovel at a time.

I didn’t really understand why humans liked digging so much. Dogs dig because something is buried. Humans dig because they want to ride bicycles where bicycles clearly should not go.

Still, I admired their commitment.

I bounded uphill toward the others. Rupert was swinging a WMC Trail Tool into the dirt while Viet carried rocks in a wheelbarrow that squeaked every few seconds. Their boots were coated in clay.

Mine were not.

Advantages of paws.

Rupert crouched beside the trail and pointed. “Needs more drainage here.”

I sniffed the puddle carefully. He was right. Excellent puddle potential. Terrible trail potential.

Rain drifted through the pines in soft misty curtains, the kind that soaked into fur without you noticing. Far below us, Dunedin disappeared beneath low cloud, and the wind carried the salty smell of the harbour all the way into the hills.

The humans kept working.

Hours passed with the steady rhythm of tools, laughter, and occasional swearing whenever someone hit buried rock. Prudes, Dex and I helped by running ahead every few minutes and testing the trail at full speed.

This was important quality control.

At lunchtime everyone sat on logs eating sandwiches while I supervised from the middle of the group. Viet slipped me bits of bacon when Sam wasn’t looking.

Best human.

Then came the moment everyone had been waiting for.

“Ready for the first run?” Rupert asked.

Every shovel stopped moving.

The humans grabbed their bikes leaning against the trees, tyres already caked with mud. Excitement buzzed through the forest. Even the tūī seemed quieter.

I took my position at the front.

Sam dropped in first, wheels humming over the fresh dirt. The new trail twisted through the bush with smooth berms and little rollers, weaving between tree trunks like it had always belonged there. The humans whooped behind the Ministry of Tailworks pack as mud sprayed and tyres gripped the clay.

I flew down the trail, ears flapping, paws barely touching the ground.

This was the real reason humans built trails.

Not the digging. Not the tools. Not even the bikes.

It was this feeling of moving fast through the forest together while the hills echoed with laughter.

At the bottom everyone stopped, grinning and breathless.

Sam scratched behind my ears. “Good trail, Spotty.”

I leaned against his muddy leg proudly.

Of course it was.

I helped build it.

 

- Spotty (Bikehouse & Ministry of Trailworks Supervisor)