When you go away for a short while, fitting in a few blogs is a bit of a tall order. But here is the final offering from my five day excursion to the red centre.
We are on the plane home, we have waved goodbye to the big red rock and the landscape that has awakened in us a deeper understanding of such a wide expanse of our country. It was a taster, an entree for further exploration at a later date, at a slower pace. I have an overwhelming feeling of gratitude for having had the opportunity to visit at a time when tourists were scarce. I commented today how my journey to the Twelve Apostles on the Great Ocean Road a few years ago was sullied by the quantities of box-tickin’ tourists that obscured the scenery and inflected a disruption. And I could not imagine how detrimental this would have been to my experience at Uluru, particularly, possibly turning a slow and magestic connection around 180 degrees to a facade of potency.
This morning we returned to the Mala walk at Uluru and sat in utter and complete silence at the Gorge – not another living soul; unless you count birds, the flies and the wind as souls. It is a contemplative place, cool and still, a waterhole filled by recent rain and happy trees and shrubs becoming of the solitude. I will return to it in my mind’s eye when that sound of silence is required in the humdrum or the pace of life.
Yesterday we drove to Kata-Tjuta (The Olgas) and embarked on a walk that was graded as difficult. I was concerned that the heat and the rocky terrain may be too much or even dangerous, and had proclaimed before leaving for the 50km drive that I didn’t think I’d do it and I was quite content with that. But after closer viewing and indulging in some Midnight Oil “Beds are Burning” on the drive out there I was inclined to attempt the incline, at least to the first lookout to survey the territory. Yes, it was hot and there were some steep ascents and descents but we felt prepared and so we ventured on the 8ish km Valley of the Winds circuit. The geology of Kata-Tjuta is different to Uluru, more a conglomerate, so there are many loose stones, rocks and boulders of many colours. There were two valleys we walked through that were like an oasis, particularly for budgerigars. It was not the first time on this trip that we’d seen flocks of this sweet little parrot of pet-ownership fame, but I would say the happiest ones. They wanted the whole world to know how happy they were in their budgie-ness to have access to the abundance of water and food after the recent heavy rain.
I haven’t talked about the two days we had at Kings Canyon which included a dramatic rim walk and exquisite scenery. Nor have I mentioned a few funny stories that came of the weather event we experienced on touchdown and en route to Wattarka. That’s a bit of a tease but suffice to say that those tales include caricatures of Northern Territory folk, laconic and larger than life, nonplussed at rainfall not seen as heavy since they moved there in 1956. And somehow after taking shelter at a station/bar/fuelstop with its tractor tyre plant pots, we ended up purchasing a bottle of (language warning) “Fucking Good Port” (yet to be imbibed for confirmation).
I’m home and it’s dim, grey and showery in BrisVegas. I am missing the red sand, the desert oaks and the spinifex. I am not missing the flies. It is nearly 24 hours since I got home and I have just about landed. I am grounding, back in subtropica. I will return to the desert for more and for longer. For the sparseness and harshness there is so much to experience and the space and silence to accentuate.
Presence in Place 