Alice Springs

Date:	13-18/04/2017
Location:	Alice Springs (Northern Territory)
Distance Travelled:	403 km
Temperature:	Min:	6.0
	Max:	34.0
tyres popped:	1

After the somewhat inauspicious manner with which we arrived in Alice, it was fantastic to finally settle ourselves in at one place for the best part of a week. In particular, it was a welcome relief to wake up in the morning and not have to pack up our little trailer and move on to a new destination. As much fun as it had been exploring the roadways that have been chiselled through the centre of this vast country – it was an unparalleled delight to be able take our time unpacking the van, cleaning the car (especially the back seats where two little grubby boys had been residing) and letting the kids have the freedom to go off exploring this very child friendly environment.

Being Easter, the caravan park was buzzing with families – but, thankfully, we weren’t all squashed in like sardines. Rather, this was a spacious campsite – in fact the site we had been allocated was so big that I had to check to make sure we hadn’t been directed to park on two campsites!

All cleaned out and packed up neatly (oh, how I miss this simple things in life… like a vacuum cleaner!)

Over the next few days, the boys got on with doing what young lads do best – that is, making friends and running amuck. And we were glad for them to do it! Nat and I both remember our best childhood holidays being those that when we able to wake up in the morning and head off on adventures with our new found friends, come back for lunch or a quick trip to a point of interest with our folks, then back off adventuring again – until we were called in for tea. Ahhh, the bliss of youth; long may it last!

As Easter was firmly upon us, there were no end of adventures to be had; or new friends to made along the way. To be honest, it seemed that over that long weekend, Alice Springs turned into a  young person’s Shangri-La of hedonistic pleasures.  Save for a few day trips here and there, the boys dove head-long in being kids. Not a bad way to spend a week, I reckon!

…There was even some time to get stuck in to little homework (even if it was only for an hour or two)

 Homework time!

To top off our campsite experience, we spent the morning of Easter Sunday relaxing over a coffee with some good people (whom we had recently become indebted to for getting us out of a tight squeeze; but more on that later…) and munching down on a pancake breakfast put on by the Big4 caravan park. Ok, it may be a gimmick to entice people to stay – but, while there’s no such thing as a free lunch, no one ever said anything about no free breakfasts! Sure, I realise I may have just been duped into providing a shameless, albeit wholly inadvertent, plug for the Big4 Caravan park in posting this, but – damn it – they fed me (and my family), and I’m grateful for this small mercy! There was even an Easter egg hunt (complete with a few dubious looking characters dressed in Bunny costumes – the likes of which even Daniel saw through in a matter of moments – but, despite this, he did play along in the hopes of getting as many chocolatey treats that his sticky little hands could hold.

Pancakes!

So, yes, the week was passed expertly by our boys. Daniel played and talked and made an exquisite, yet brief, friendship with a young lady called Libby – with whom he would sit for hours on the swings and discuss the world, life and what truly makes the best sand-based cake. It turns out that flowers and bric-a-brac featured heavily in such a prized masterpiece. On the morning the Libby left Alice Springs, Daniel frantically wrote her a postcard (including our email address that had been added in his dad’s best handwriting), and dashed up her car and handed it to her before they drove away. Unfortunately, he’s still waiting for a reply. I can’t help thinking that perhaps dad’s best handwriting perhaps wasn’t bestest enough… Libby’s parents, we had learned over the week (in between exaggerated bites of sand-castle cake; the likes of which would have brought the most theatre-hardened veteran to their feet, screaming ‘Encore, Maestro, Encore!’) had sold their house and had been travelling around Australia for the past two years. So, perhaps it wasn’t the handwriting. Maybe with the change of caravan park, Libby had just simply moved on to the next port of call and reluctantly found a new Daniel to play with. Whatever the truth, our little chap still asks every few days for us to check our emails and see if any message has turned up yet. We wait in hope.

Daniel and Libby doing what kids do best!

Ben, on the other hand, has always been the kind of guy that doesn’t put his eggs in just one basket. Over our six days in Alice Springs, I think he made a dozen or so new friends. All comers were accepted. No matter their age, race, gender, or creed. If you’re up for a random act of fun, then he’ll be there. And so, by the end of our time in this little desert oasis, Ben couldn’t walk more than five meters without someone calling out to him and saying g’day. “Who was that?” Nat or I would ask. Which would be met with either a name or (most often) “dunno”.

Amid the swimming pools, play grounds, jumping pillows, tv room, and sand pits, the boys most favouritest thing was the peddle powered go carts. It’s amazing how a few wheels can give kids the freedom to zoom from one end of the park to other faster than their parents could chase them. All in all, both boys had a great time.

 

Go speed racers, go!

…we even managed to drag them away to soak in a few of the sights in and around Alice Springs to boot!

Over the week we were based in Alice, we visited the Royal Flying Doctors headquarters (RFDSA; a must see, if you have a nurse in your midst!) and the old Alice Springs Telegraph Station (the sight of which is only a stone’s throw from the actual spring named after the eponymous Alice – although, <spoiler alert> it turned out to be less of a spring and more of a waterhole at the bottom of a hillside…. But such trivial details, in my view, should never get in the way of giving a town a good name.

At the base of this hill side was once found a pool of water, which was thought to be a spring... turns out, they were wrong.

The RFDSA was a nice (air conditioned) way to spend an afternoon. The story of how the flying doctors came to be was quite miraculous and a testament to Reverend John Flynn, who spent his life bringing the service to fruition.

Royal Flying Doctors Service

It was a far cry from the TV show that I remember my mum watching on Channel Two when I was a kid (I’m not sure what was on Channel One a the time – but surely there was nothing as griping as swarthy young doctors, comely nurses and daring pilots, swooping in to save the lives of the people of the outback, I bet!). Perhaps the TV show may have taken a little dramatic licence here and there – but from my time in the museum, I have no doubt that the RFDSA is a magnificent network of dedicated medical teams which save many lives each year. I only hope that I am able to continue appreciating them from afar, without the need to call on their service over the remainder of this four month walk-about. Still, it’s awesome to know that they are there if we need them!

“Stand back dad, I got this!”

Our afternoon at the old Alice Springs Telegraph Station was another stop not to be missed. As seemingly dry as this may sound, both boys got right into reading, listening and learning about how messages used to be sent from Adelaide to the UK in less than four hours. In this age of instant communication, there was a visible shudder from the boys when we explained that messages used to take weeks, if not months, to reach the other side of the world before the invention of the telegraph… let alone to get a reply.

Telecommunications! Ah, now this was something the boys could really sink their teeth into. Perhaps they were just missing YouTube, or maybe they could imagine a world without skype or FoxTel (that’s ‘Sky TV’ for those folks reading in NZ); but whatever the reason, they seemed to grasp the enormity of the 3000 km stretch of fencing wire strung up from Adelaide to Darwin well over a hundred years ago.

The site of the Alice Springs' Telegraph service and Post Office

We were also lucky to have arrived upon a day on which the Morsecodians were also in town. This stalwart band of timeworn gentlemen turned up every year on this weekend to send telegrams between Alice Springs and a few universities across Australia. Greeting us at the entrance to the main telegram building was one such gentleman who, in a kindly and enthusiastic manner, invited us to write our first names on a piece of paper to be sent via Morse Code. Unfortunately, due to the recent cyclone in Queensland, the line between Alice  Springs and the rest of Australia had been struck down. So, by way of replacement, the earnest Morsecodian tapped out each name in a series of clicks and clunks, and his partner – who dutifully received the message a meter or two away – announced our names to the occupants of the small room. The name was then transcribed it on a certificate and handed it proudly to each name's owner as a souvenir of the experience.

This piece of arcane magic captivated the boys for ages. How could this frantic tapping result in their name being called out by another person several steps away. Surely this wasn’t telepathy… ‘go on,’ they cried ‘do it again!’. And so, the dear Morsecodians did. Name after name was coded and decoded by the world’s original human powered modem. Dots and dashes zipping through the air in a cacophony of clicking bits of information. While two young boys (and their folks) gawped on in awe. AWESOME! Like a small tribe lost from time in the amazon, speaking a language that is rapidly dying out, we knew we were hearing something that few people could do these days (at least at these speeds). Keeping alive what was once the life blood of the Empire, in a small room in the desert, once a year. [...-   .    .-.    -.--      -.-.    ---    ---    .-..!!]

Morse Code – the magic of an age gone by.

The remainder of our time in Alice was spent exploring the various gorges, canyons and water holes along the length of the massive mountainous range that stretched for many hundreds of kilometres from this small hub-town. Our favourites were definitely Ormiston Gorge, Standley Chasm and Simpsons Gap.

Spectacular beauty awaits at every turn!

Each new water hole became the kids’ favourite. Although the water was slightly murky after the recent rains, it was cool and refreshing in the hot desert sun. Lilos were inflated and rocks were jumped off. A smashing time was had by all!

Gorgeous!

Even the water monitors didn’t seem to mind us encroaching on their territory in the hot afternoon sun. There was more than enough watery goodness to go around – besides, the encroaching tourists would be gone soon enough, and the massive lizards to get back to their basking and fossicking for food in peace.

Water Monitor at Ormiston Gorge

There was, however, one experience in Alice Springs that we shall put down to a learning experience for us all. No doubt having had this experience early in our trip will set us up well for further adventures off the beaten track down the line…

…but it occurs to me that this post is probably long enough already. So, I’ll leave that tale for another day. The more eagle eyed of you will perhaps have picked up a hint of what happened in the opening stats for this post. If not, I’ll see you next time and tell you all about it.

Bye ‘d bye,

Gregg

P.S., Man, this is eerie… As I sit here typing this, a cacophony of dingos are howling outside (I hope) of the camp ground. I’ve never been to America's wild west, but I  imagine this is very similar to the chilling sound that wolves make… as they close in on their hapless prey. Not for the first time I am glad to be in our little trailer, some small way off the ground, and surrounded by at least the pretence of four walls. Sure, it would be easy to get through the canvas if someone or something was determined enough… But, I’m just glad dingos don’t have opposable thumbs and haven't been shown to pick locks, undo bolts or unstick the Velcro flaps. Ahhh, now that’s a thought…

… guess who’s just scared himself and probably won’t sleep tonight!?!

Our (somewhat ill-fated) drive to Alice Springs

... and everything seemed to be going so well.

Amid all the phenomenal scenery, exquisite sunsets, and intense feelings of battle weary but satisfied bodies, there were shadows on the horizon that we hadn’t foreseen. The first such shadow crept towards us while we were drinking in the splendour of Uluru and the Olgas. News came from home that Nat’s grandmother, Frankie, had taken ill.

I remember, in our early days of travelling around Europe and Africa, Nat had always said that if anything happened to her grandparents while we were living abroad, she would be on the first plane home. And so, it was a no brainer, that when the news came through that Frankie had left her tired body to start a new adventure of her own, we all knew Nat needed to be home for a few days – to help celebrate the life of the matriarch of the Tolhurst family with her parents, siblings and extended family. However, for Nat, getting there would be an adventure in itself – and one that required fast action to organise. Using a painfully slow internet, we managed to eke out just enough connection for long enough to book plane and bus tickets to get her home and back to us again. As luck would have it, we were moving into a relatively metropolitan area (by Northern Territory standards) of Alice Springs in a few days’ time – where she could catch a plane to Adelaide and a connecting flight to Melbourne. But until then, there were many hundreds of kilometres to cross and Kings’ Canyon to explore (see the last blog post for a psychologically scaring tale of highly emotion charged drama at the top of the enormously high walls in King’s Canyon). So, despite the initial flurry of activity, once plane tickets had been booked and bus rides organised, there was (what seemed like) a long period of simply waiting patiently before these plans could come to fruition.

As such, Nat’s tale would have to wait a few days to be told…

So, pressing onwards with our own family adventure, having thoroughly explored King’s Canyon, we set off bright and early on the 13th April to head to our Easter destination of Alice Springs (aka ‘The Alice’, as locals call it). However, being a little distracted by the goings on of the past few days, it was not surprising that a thing or two got overlooked along the way. This primarily came in the form of the cable connecting the trailer lights and electric brakes to be car not properly being attached. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until we were about half way between King’s Canyon and Alice Springs that we realised the mistake… By then, the 12-pin plug had well and truly been ground into minuscule particles and consumed whole heartedly by the desert. Until that point though, we had been merrily tootling along, listening to the ‘Short and Curly’ ethics for kids podcast from the ABC (check it out, it’s very good!).

The site of our discovery…

Alas, in the middle of the outback, there were few auto-electricians to be found… least of all in the days leading up to Easter weekend. Besides, even if there were any outback sparkies floating around, we didn’t have reception on our phones with which to give one a buzz and have him or her ‘pop out’ and fix the plug. And so, we limped (as carefully as we dared) the last few hundred kilometres to Alice Springs. Along the way, we had patches of phone signal and were fortunately able to contact a rather helpful young mechanic (…the first two we called hadn’t been particularly interested in our plight – particularly as most had already shut up shop for Easter Weekend). While this chap couldn’t help us that day, he was able to book us in for first thing on Saturday morning. Since we planned to stay in Alice Spring for 6 nights, that worked out brilliantly!

Luckily, our Pajero was able to provide the breaks for both itself and the caravan (something, I’m sure, the Ford Mondeo would have failed spectacularly to do). And so, with a few arms waving out of the window, signalling to other bemused motorists where we were going, we managed to arrive safe and sound in Alice Springs. Our new found mechanical friend was true to his word and turned up as planned on Saturday. After adding himself what seemed like a ‘wee Easter bonus’ on to the bill, we were all fixed up and ready to roll again…

…that is until we decided to test out our four-wheel drive and see how it would handle a little off-road trip to palm valley. But, with six days to cover in Alice, I think I’ll leave that nail biting tale for another day.

Off Road Adventure... (coming soon!)

Bye ‘d bye,

Gregg

King's Canyon

Date:	11-12/04/2017
Location:	King’s Canyon (Northern Territory)
Distance Travelled:	304 km
Temperature:	Min:	19.0
	Max:	38.5
lizards SPOTTED:	9

After the magnificence of Uluru and Kata Tjuta, it was nearly impossible to imagine that anything could assail our senses with such stunning and memorable sights as those astounding rocks. But, of course, we were wrong!

Travelling from our base camp at Uluru, we turned our humble trailer firstly east and then northwards, following a windy stretch of road along for about 300 kms, following a series of craggy mountain ranges towards a part of the world known as King’s Canyon. The camp site didn’t present us with anything particularly special – but it did have a pool to douse off weary travellers after a long car journey or a hike through the canyon itself.

Our next destination, King’s Canyon

Having arrived at our campsite, we set up our humble living quarters and set off on a mini-adventure – a ramble, perhaps – along a well-trodden path through the base of the canyon. Although incredibly steamy and hot, there were shady moments of shelter from the beating sun amongst the massive ghost gums and overhangs of dusty red pancaked rocks. The canyon floor was crossed here and there by dry river beds, lined with smooth pebbles and, at times, rocks the size of footballs – their silkiness a testament to the waters which once flowed there.

Riverbed at the heart of King's Canyon.

Here too were lizards. In fact, more lizards, of more sizes and more shapes than we had encountered on our journey to date. Indeed, this sheltered canyon was a place of refuge for animals of all types. Falcons soared above. Zebra finches and host of Spinifex Pigeons darted out crannies amongst the canyon walls; flitting down to perch briefly amongst the weather-beaten gum trees and hardy shrubs in the shade below.

A 'congregation' of lizards (yup, that's what you call a group of these little blighters!)

The only mar upon the fantastical meandering journey was the large swatches of cloth, plastered like enormous band-aides over many of the ancient gum trees. Signs dotted along the trail apologised for these anachronistic fabric patches amongst the prehistoric trees, and also explained that they had been placed on these stately plants to prevent infection from the scars that have been carved into them by other travellers to this place. That is, those names and initials that had been scoured into the thin bleached bark of these river gums, for whatever purpose or intent that was in the mind of the scribe. Thanks for that you plonkers… I bet these are the same sods that talk in movie theatres and stick chewing gun to the underside of tables. hmmmph!

As we walked further along the trail, despite the beauty of the canyon floor, one’s eyes were constantly drawn upwards. And I mean UPWARDS! Far up towards the top of the canyon. Up passed the sheer walls surrounding us. The more I walked, the more the rock faced changed. At first it resembled a roughly hewn conglomerate of intensely coloured rocks. Soon there were new features, with layers of rock that had been forced upon from deep within the earth; stacking layer upon layer like books bound in ruddy leather lying discarded in a library reading room.

Pancaked rocks, thrust up out the ground.

Towards the end of the canyon, as if a giant wielding a razor sharp knife had cleanly sliced the walls of the rock like cheese, there were perfectly vertical walls (or at least damn near close to vertical) stretching up for hundreds of meters. Along the top of these various rock faces, our destination for the next day could be glimpsed intermittently. That’s right, not content with merely wandering along the base of the canyon, we had our sights set on something we hoped would be even more splendiferous – The Cliff Top Walk.

Are you sure you want to walk up there?

Now, unlike my brother – who will merrily throw himself out of a perfectly good plane whenever the whim takes him (believe me, this is where the two peas in the proverbial pod most definitely part company) – I consider myself more of an earth-bound creature. I would be more at home in a muddy puddle than soaring like an eagle in the wild blue yonder. It is also my firm belief that falling from 50 meters is just as deadly than falling from 50 leagues (only you have more time to regret your actions the higher up you careen from) – but the key word in the sentence above, at least to my mind, is deadly. Sudden stop. Squished. Kaput!

Now, I’ve always believed myself to be a sure footed little mountain goat, and I’ve been happily able to creep my way cautiously to a safe distance from which to peer into the bowels of a ravine or two. But, despite my profession as a person who seeks to bring out the best in others, when faced with a large cliff – I have an innate difficulty in trusting that other people will not suddenly transmogrify into lemmings and inexplicably develop the urge to throw themselves over the edge. For some reason, the assumption that others will not be able to preserve their own life by simply not walking those extra 10 steps extends to strangers and well as those I hold dearest to my heart. Perhaps this can be attributed to the countless times I’ve yelled ‘STOP’ to my kids, and they’ve blithely kept on performing whatever potentially lethal flight of fancy has taken them at that moment; leading me to constantly question my capacity to prevent my own children from thinking it would be super fun to jump of a sheer cliff face… if only to see the look of maniacal terror on my face as they giggled on the way down.

Two things: firstly, yes, I took this photo… and secondly, I told you it was a long way down!

I truly hope this neurosis isn’t particular to me… perhaps I should see a psychologist (or at the very least a psychiatrist) in an effort to cure myself of these demons.

But, as I stood there on the canyon floor, I knew the top of the cliff was where we were going – nay, where we needed to go in order to truly experience the wonder of this geological masterpiece… And so, the next day that’s where we went.

Unfortunately, the neck craning of the day before had set my ‘family preservation system’ into overdrive. I woke up that night, on more than a few occasions, with dreams of Daniel having a world shattering hissy fit because I wouldn’t let him go closer to the edge… resulting in him running head first into the abyss.

So the next day, as we ascended the steep jagged steps towards the top of the canyon, I held on tight to my littlest rug-rat and made sure that I reiterated my safety briefing to him every five minutes or so (sooner, if I felt his little hand tense in joyful boyish glee – I have come to know that tell-tale sign of tensing as being an indication that a no-good course of action has begun to surge through his seven-year-old brain).

…tough climb!

But, as we reached the top, fear gave way to awe (well, perhaps awe tinged with fear… slight feelings of hunger and dire thirst, as well as a little bewilderment thrown in for good measure). I even found that my grip on Daniel’s sweaty pink little hand relaxed a little here and there – and to my amazement he didn’t suddenly plunge off the cliff into the depths below (although, by now, in my somewhat unhelpful imagination, these depths had also been filled with giant spiders, crocodiles and, for some unknown reason, tribes of natives from the Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom movie… I’m surprised there wasn’t a giant boulder also perched at the top of the hill, poised to roll down and squash us all too!).

The only way is up!

As the hike continued, the full splendour of King’s Canyon was soon laid out before us. To my relief, it became apparent that the trail wasn’t going to be a six-kilometre tightrope walk of impending doom. In reality, the path at the top of the cliff was – for the most part, at least – a broad track that made its way deep into the heart of the mountain range.

Broad mountain paths atop King’s Canyon.

There were, of course, heart stopping moments when the path burst out of the relative safety of the mountain’s interior. But, once my breath returned to my body, it was possible to sit and stare, watch and think – and most of all, drink in the whole scene. 

Sure, we might be bad parents… but, what a photo op!

Between these adrenaline-filed moments, the path guided us towards broad mountain top, where we were met with vistas of weather worn rock sculptures, a valley oasis filled with flourishing plants, stands of 200-year-old cycad plants, and undulating rock faces carved by the motion of prehistoric and obsolete seas. There were also plenty of dome shaped rocks here – a series of mini Kata Tjuta’s, if you will – like children lined up to eagerly enter a class room at the sound of the morning bell.

Oasis in the heart if King’s Canyon.

Daniel reaching back in time to an ancient river bed.

By the end of the six kilometre cliff top journey, the grip on my son’s hand relinquished slowly as we began to descend from the heady heights of the canyon-top walk; toward the more mundane path to the car park below.

Our camera full of memories and our brains goggling with all that we’d seen, my boys and I also learned a little about trust. As much as I hate to admit it, I know they are turning into fine young men – with good heads for self-preservation on their shoulders. As such, a little relaxing of one’s grip isn’t always a bad thing…

One small step for some boys… one giant leap for fatherhood.

…but perhaps we could have started with a ten-meter cliff and left the 300-meter plummet ‘rite of passage’ for somewhere a little further down the track. Perhaps when they are 80 and I’m happily resting soundly in the great never-never.

Ok boys, seriously, it's time to come down now...

Daniel the daring…. (umm, this image may have been rotated by 90 degrees in post-production)

Bye ‘d bye,

Gregg  

Kata Tjuta (the Olgas)

…So, picking up where we left of:

With Uluru well and truly experienced, we turned our attention to the great rock’s equally breathtaking cousin – Kata Tjuta (akas The Olgas).

[left] Kata Tjuta (The Olgas), [right, distance] Uluru

I hadn’t heard of these magnificent ancient structures before Nat took the boys and I by the hand and showed them to us. For those, like me, who don’t know a great deal about Kata Tjuta, this is  series of orbs shaped mountains, in a range or gargantuan sizes from very big to massive, cut from a similar stone as Uluru. However, whereas Uluru is largely fine grained sandstone, Kata Tjuta is a conglomerate of fine sands, rough pebbles and fist sized boulders – all of which has been smashed together to form an exceptionally coarse rock. But, as with everything, no matter how tough and strongly built a rock is – given enough time, rain and wind, all things erode beneath the unrelenting forces of nature. And that is exactly what Kata Tjuta is. Rough sandstone that has been carved up by the passage of time. But, for us, who live in exactly the right epoch, these marvels are a series of chasms and near vertical cliffs – capped with almost perfectly dome-shaped roofs.

Kata Tjuta – up close and personal…

Climbing through the gorges, which have been pared from these once cohesive mountains, we were treated to a stroll back through geological history. Layers of light and dark sandstone, interspersed with chunky seams of boulders and other debris – some pieces easily as big as a car – were able to be glimpsed.

Our first foray into Kata Tjuta took us up an easy incline through Walpa gorge; to a peaceful enclave at the end of the track. All along the trail, massive sandstone boulders – with their characteristic composition of fine, coarse and fist sized rocks were strewn about. Tracing the cliff face upwards, it was easy to see the hapless holes from which these chunks of rock were ejected. Typically, each boulder shaped hole lay in the path of a dried up waterfall, which had picked away over many years at the fine threads that had once secured these boulders into the cliff– until they had finally given up their futile fight against gravity and tumbled to their current resting place. I hesitate to say final resting place, as I’m sure these boulders will continue to be worked on intermittently by occasional rainfalls that find their way to the valley floor. Long after I’m gone, I have no doubt that they will continue to be eroded into their constituent parts – each piece ending up as part of the great red desert surrounding this place.

Natural beauty… or, potential death from above!

Having wandered to the end of the gorge, we made our way home for the night – only to return for a better look the next day. However, on our second excursion, instead of heading straight down the road to the chasm, we turned left several hundred meters before the entrance and followed the signs past a rest area to a longer hiking trail known as the valley of the winds.

Here lies our path

This moniker, The Valley of the Winds, comes from the first kilometre or so of this six kilometre trail. The winds howl through the tightly packed walls of this second gorge, before opening on to a peacefully sheltered trail, coiling its way through rocky terrain. Along the way there were many massive cliffs, as well as large open spaces – some densely packed with trees, but others dotted only with barren red and grey rocks and occasional grasses. Lizards of all types seem to find this patch of the earth an appealing place to call home. These critters ranged from small, but unusually aggressive, skinks – to long thin bodied goannas, with tails that whipped behind them as they were dislodged from their sun-drenched rocks – usually, to scuttle out of the way of trampling feet.

Back off… this is my turf!

The recent rains of January had also brought out the best of the desert flowers. Everything from small blue delicate blooms, with fluffy white inflorescent clouds – to substantial and hearty deep purple blossoms, were dotted along the path.

While the sheer walls provided a perfect backdrop for these colourful blooms, the enclosed nature of the chasm walls also allowed for some excellent echoes to resonate throughout the void of the ravine. Thus. Ben and Daniel proudly ignored the colourful and transient flora of the region, to focus their efforts of making the longest and loudest echoes possible… I’m surprised another immense boulder didn’t come tumbling down from the rocky heights above at their shrill calls!

Flora of Kata Tjuta

Towards the end of the hike, the path erupted into a grassy fen – and then out into a hidden, sheltered valley nestled amongst these elliptic mountains. From here the full splendour of Kata Tjuta could be seen. Surrounding us on all sides were the domed rocky structures, framed starkly against a brilliant blue sky.

Nearly there, boys…

All around were these weird rocky eggs of red and orange thrusting out of the earth; each nestled closely to it neighbour, like a throng of campers telling stories around a fire pit at night. The lizards didn’t seem to notice any of this though – as they kept up their vigilant watch for two young lads stomping along the trail, making piles of stones to pass the time whenever they got far enough in front if their parents and had to wait for the backpack encumbered pair.

Who needs to see the trail markers…

The trail ended with a steep climb up from the valley floor, and a sudden descent into the car park once again.

Hot and tired from the long and undulating hike, we returned to the camp site and jumped in the pool – a perfect way to finish the afternoon. That evening, as the sun was setting over Kata Tjuta, Ben and Daniel’s new found campsite friends dug out their telescope and invited us all the gaze at the stars. Unfortunately, the moon was full, and so most of the stars were washed out in the bright glow of our nearest satellite. However, Jupiter and four of its many moons put on a brilliant display for us. The boys also returned to looking at our own moon time and time again.

The remaining days around Uluru were spent revisiting the unexplored parts of both of these giant rocks in the desert. Sunsets and sunrises provided a magnificent setting for viewing these austere mounds, as they wore many different cloaks throughout the day. Until, sadly, it was time to pack up the camper trailer and head out on the open road once more. The journey that faced us wasn’t a long one, as we were travelling only a short distance to Kings Canyon some few hundred kilometres down the road. And so, that’s where we’ll pick up again next time.

A ‘sign’ of things to come!

Bye ‘d bye,

Gregg