It is every bit as atmospheric and sinister in real life as it is in the movies. From the minute I crested the rise at the entrance to Skippers I was overwhelmed by the breathtaking grandeur of the canyon, which stretches over 17 km into the Richardson range. These mountains are so vast and enigmatic that one can easily imagine an enormous, creepy castle buried deep in their midst, inhabited by a crazy sorcerer whose favourite pastimes include cackling ominously and smiting small, inoffensive creatures.

I arrived just before sunset -- a truly inspirational time of day -- which allowed me to appreciate fully the charisma of Skippers. The fiery colours to the west stood out in radiant contrast to the ominous clouds that loomed like purple bruises over the imposing snow-capped mountains framing the valley. Skippers Road, constructed in extraordinarily adverse conditions in the mid-19th century, meandered serenely down until it vanished behind a sharp, rocky outcrop. My eyes were being hijacked into the distance, captivated by the romantic ambience of the canyon, whilst remaining blissfully unaware of the devastatingly sheer drop that hugs the road at every step. The theory that the human brain is amazingly astute at suppressing unwelcome facts is well established, and if you've never consciously experienced this handy feature, I guarantee you will here. You just won't want to believe that such a landscape could be so beautiful and yet so dangerous, and thus your subconscious will obligingly ignore the perilous elements. It's only when you're sat, teetering see-saw fashion on the edge of a precipice, that you realise that perhaps your brain wasn't doing you such a big favour after all.

Sat at the top admiring the view you could be forgiven for thinking that, despite the risk of plunging to a gruesome death, the road itself is passable, as long as you keep your wits about you and don't meet any speeding juggernauts coming the other way. It's relatively well levelled, especially for a New Zealand dirt track which are notorious for rocks the size of your head and potholes inside which you could comfortably hide a small hippopotamus. In fact, if anything, this idiosyncratic road only adds to the beguiling charm of Skippers. But the canyon's fairytale façade belies its far more treacherous nature, exemplified by a history replete with disaster.

The Shotover River, which runs the course of the canyon, is a prime example. It has been dubbed the 'richest river in the world' due to the phenomenal amounts of gold that it yielded. However, despite the romantic nickname, it's more hostile than a tarantula in your boxer shorts. Unsatisfied with sweeping away nearly all attempts at bridging it, the river also killed countless people when it flooded the valley just a year after gold was first harvested from its waters. It's unsurprising then, that one of the world's most exhilarating (and petrifying, as I can personally attest to) jet boat rides runs up and down the river on a daily basis.

Skippers Road itself sports an equally turbulent history. A precarious pack trail used to be the only access to the canyon for hopeful prospectors, who flocked to the area in the summer of 1862 after gold was accidentally discovered by Maori adventurers Dan Allison and Hakaria Haeroa. This trail was perfectly adequate while prospecting remained small scale, with individuals panning for their fortunes. However, as it became clear that there were colossal amounts of gold to be had, mining became increasingly industrious, and pressure for a more respectable road to support the necessary heavy machinery resulted in the commissioning of a new road which follows the now world-famous route into the ravine. This was not completed until 1890 due to the daunting structure of the canyon, which required the road to be literally scraped, hand-drilled, chiselled and dynamite-blasted out of the solid rock face of the cliffs. The hazardous nature of this undertaking resulted in many of the workers meeting tragic deaths before they could see the fruit of their labour in its full glory.

Although Skippers Road was considered an engineering masterpiece in its day, the term 'road' is somewhat misleading by modern standards. Forget wide expanses of gleaming tarmac, down which one can cruise with the minimum amount of effort, while happily wailing along to the radio. Instead imagine gradients that would make hardy mountaineers think twice, surfaces that would jolt passengers in a tank, and hairpins so tight as to slow vehicles down to the pace of a geriatric snail. Unfortunately, none of these hazards become apparent until you're well past the signs warning that there are ludicrously few places in which to turn around. From where I sat, coaxing my two tonne campervan down the perilous road without becoming one of the permanent features of the Shotover River certainly looked like a challenge, but also held the promise of being the kind of daring adventure with which I could regale my grandchildren in years to come. And so, despite the constant proclamations of doom and destruction from that nauseatingly sensible person inside of me (who I've named Eugene after a mind-numbingly boring old geography teacher of mine), my adventurous side (Evel Knievel) triumphed and I sallied forth like the brave Frodo, albeit at a not-so-heroic two miles per hour.