'You're going to drive the Molesworth in a sports car," exclaims the lady at the Hanmer Springs I-site. I don't know why people, like her, look at people, like us, as if we are mad. After all, the only difference between a sports car and most other cars is the number of seats and, perhaps, the ground clearance.

The $2 Molesworth pamphlet is well worth the outlay. It's packed with the history of the region and points of interest on route.

It is 186 kilometres from Hanmer Springs to the Awatere turn-off on State Highway One and about 156 kilometres of it is gravel. We enjoy driving gravel, most of the time. We've done Dansey's, Hakataramea (twice) and McKenzie's Pass (twice) and loads of shorter gravel sections. Later in this trip we would also drive the Whangaehu Valley Road, not by design, mind you, but because the road we planned to take turned out to be a private road when we got there. If you want a rough piece of gravel road, interspersed with rock falls, then you have to do the Whangaehu even though only 14 k's of gravel remain. The 186-kilometre Molesworth expedition was a doddle in comparison. The worst it could offer was some corrugations and potholes on Jack's Pass Road, just out of Hanmer Springs. Oh, and some sharp rocks. More on that later.

We are told that Jollie's Pass road is for 4WDs only but Glen and Laurie Robertson ignored that sign when they did a reccy to the Molesworth Road after our night at Hanmer Springs on the way to the National Rally.
"Pretty loose, steep and corrugated, potholes to be negotiated, but otherwise perfectly okay for a B," says Laurie. Some blackberry pickers had told them that, being the end of the season, Jollie was in better condition than Jack.
On their way home the Robertsons also went along the Braeburn Track, west of Nelson Lakes, which the people at the Murchison Garage said couldn't be done in an MG, but a farmer said, 'Piece of cake, the mail van does it daily'.
"And it was a piece of cake in the dry conditions," says Laurie.

We are travelling with Rex and Sheryl Thompson in their 1977 BGT. It is Thursday 1st April and we have driven up from Christchurch after the Rally farewell breakfast. We pass Bernard and Mary Ashwell on the way. They are returning to Hanmer to look for Mary's bathing suit. Bernard raises both arms in the air to show he can drive hands free.

It's a little after midday when we leave Hanmer Springs. We aren't worried. It's still daylight savings.

"You lead," says Rex, as we are topless. Those in MG roadsters (or 'roadstar' as my registration sticker says), seem unable to travel any other way. It's warm and the sky is etched with wispy cirrus clouds accented by the occasional jet stream.

I drive and Neil is on gate duty. There are thirteen gates to pass through, plus Red Gate, where there isn't an actual gate.

"This looks like a power company access road," says Rex at the first gate in the narrow tussock covered valley cut by the upper Clarence River. We have been following power pylons for some time and they would accompany us for much of the journey. Later, when we re-read the pamphlet, we find the road had been built for the construction and maintenance of the high voltage lines that suppy Benmore power to the North Island. They remind us that civilisation is never far away.

After crossing the Clarence we record our travel intentions for DOC and take time out to look through the Acheron Accommodation Homestead. The oldest building in the area, with walls made from clay, straw and animal dung and a tussock roof tied with flax, it was built in 1862 and served travellers until 1935. It's been restored but still smells of dung.

From here we follow the Acheron River and the road is remarkably smooth. Bushes of sweet briar studded with bright red rose hips dominate the vegetation. Evidently the rose hips were made into jam to mask the flavour of the rabbit poison. We don't see any rabbits although we do see a hare.

We cross the Guide River, one of the many tributaries that flow into the Acheron, then stop at the Yarra River where Neil removes a dead opossum from the bridge. The poplar trees show the first real sign of autumn. They are as brilliantly gold as my car. We feel at one with nature.

We pass a drover herding cattle. He is leading a horse and has several dogs.

We ascend the valley towards Pudding Hill. Larger rocks are occasionally seen on the road and form a ridge in the centre for us to grade.

Suddenly a sound like a shot pierces the air followed by a flap, flap, flapping sound like someone banging a floor mat against a post to get rid of dust. The left rear tyre has deflated. Not a problem, we have a spare. But we are shocked to find the thread on the key for the lock nut is munted. Rex suggests a socket and hammers one on. It spins when Neil finally gets some leverage on it and the nut doesn't budge.

People in a Nissan Safari stop. They can't help us. The guys are getting frustrated. There is no cell phone coverage and even if there was, the AA won't come to the Acheron Road.

A Cape Reinga 4 x 4 dune-rider trundles around the corner. It's now a motorhome but hasn't been repainted. Mark, the owner, almost laughs out loud at our pitiful range of tools.

The drover stops on his way to the homestead. He is in a truck and the horse and dogs are in the back. He contemplates the situation. "I'll let the Ranger know and he'll probably sort you out," he says.

Mark gets the socket off and hammers the nut with a cold chisel. The nut doesn't turn but the hammering distorts the metal enough to hold the socket in place. The nut turns and we cheer.