This is the story of some big rocks.
An absolute saga of more than five years in the making, I
finally visited Australia for the first time almost six months ago with my godfather, Dave. I had 16 days in Australia, 10 days in New Zealand, and 5 in Fiji. The story is
complete, finally, and only now am I feeling the desire to write. The desire to
write outside of work has been non-existent over the past several years,
although the instinct to travel far and wide only seems to have grown stronger.
The drive to photograph has only grown stronger over the years, like a
California wildfire.
But my memories of Australia (and New Zealand and Fiji) have
ignited something, particularly of my 2-night visit to Uluru - Kata Tjuta
National Park in the Northern Territory of central Australia back in November
2025. I keep thinking about those extraordinary fucking rocks, about what I saw and felt out
there in that dry, arid, and desolate slice of the Central Australian Desert. That memory is giving me the ache
to return to this Aboriginal outpost someday, for more than two nights. Another thing that fueled the fire to write was reading Bill Bryson books, including "In a Sunburned Country" which was the story of his travels around Australia in the '90s; on that occasion he did see Uluru, but for only two hours after driving all the way from Alice Springs because he didn't make a hotel reservation at the same resort town in Yulara that I stayed in. I read this book once a few years ago, but I didn't remember much. Reading it again after I had my own experiences in Australia made it stick more effectively, and it provided ample motivation to put my own words down on paper.
I had wanted to see Uluru for myself for many years. Considering I'm a sucker for rocks and mountains and geological formations of any kind, Uluru naturally captured my imagination. I had seen many images of a big red rock in the center of Australia, conjuring images of some great adventure that takes many hours of planning and execution. In reality, it really did take a lot of time, effort, money, and desire to go there. Uluru was just one feature of a trip that took a gargantuan amount of coordination and communication with Dave, who was instrumental in making this trip a reality. While Uluru was but just one aspect of this trip, it was the top priority of the five-week marathon and in hindsight, it was my favorite experience of the whole adventure. By the time we touched down at Uluru on November 8, 2025, we had already been in Australia for a week and a half after reveling in the iconic Sydney skyline, driving hundreds of miles on the World War I-inspired Great Ocean Road, and wandering amongst the many skyscrapers of Melbourne.
The approach to Uluru - Kata Tjuta National Park on that
Virgin Airlines airplane from Melbourne was an exciting one. It turns out that the journey to Uluru itself isn't exactly difficult because you can fly directly from Melbourne or Sydney. Each of my fellow passengers were
pointing out the windows and chattering loudly, and there was an excitable buzz in
the cabin because Uluru was clearly visible on the orange ground. Kata Tjuta
was also visible in the distance, although I had no idea what would be waiting
for me there. My eyes were glued to both formations, even from the vantage
point of the small peephole through the exit door that the attendant allowed me
to have, if only for a moment because the airplane was close to landing. While
this flight wasn't as beautiful as the one from Bishop to San Francisco, it had
plenty of merit for most fun flight I've ever experienced, partly due to the
first-class seat I occupied in the first row right next to the window and the level of service that came with it.
The Ayers Rock airport is a tiny one with just two gates; in
comparison, Bishop's airport boasts one single gate. Both of these airports
compete for the title of Best Airport in the World in my head because they're so easy to navigate. But the AR airport is an
almost-miniscule facility that at least offers paved runways, running
luggage belts, souvenir shops, and a food kiosk. Dave and I deplaned straight onto the tarmac in a happy mood,
reveling in the upbeat vibe that had infected everyone else on that plane,
including the pilot. Surprisingly, Dave was able to snag a rental vehicle
despite the fact we didn't make a reservation ahead of time, and our carriage for
these 2.5 days turned out to be a compact, boxy, Isuzu four-wheel drive SUV.
Finally, after 400 miles of observation as a passenger, Dave
decided to try driving for the first time on the left side of the road with the
steering wheel on the right side of the vehicle. He giggled as he gingerly
navigated the parking lot and onto the main road towards Uluru. It was a
bizarre feeling, to ride as passenger on the left side of the vehicle, driving
a road with surprisingly little traffic, and Uluru itself clearly visible,
dominating the flat horizon. Stone-cold sober, I felt as if I had fallen into a
dream on a different planet, like I did within Monument Valley (although on that occasion, my guide and I were undoubtedly inebriated).
Images don't do landmarks justice in my experience. They can attempt to convey scale, but they almost always fail. Uluru has always looked massive in the images I had seen throughout my life like how Big Ben, the Grand Canyon, Zion, or Monument Valley look huge in images. Like those other places, Uluru is even bigger in reality.
Actually, it's a behemoth of an orange rock, like a colossal alien structure that had just landed from outer space.
In some light, Uluru is red. In others, it's purple. Standing on the ground at the base, it's orange; this color is the result of its richness in the common mineral feldspar. Formed 550 million years ago, Uluru is a lump of alluvial fan that was part of an ancient mountain, and what we see today is the result of erosion over eons of time. Uluru is what the Anangu people call this massive arkose sandstone formation. William Gosse, an Australian explorer born in England, "discovered" Uluru in 1873 and named it Ayers Rock after Sir Henry Ayers, an Australian politician. But the Anangu have lived in this area for many thousands of years, living off the land thanks to their extensive knowledge of the environment all tied together by "tjukurrpa", the era of time when ancestral beings shaped the landscape, established laws, and created rituals, songs, and stories that continue to define life, land, and behavior today. After spending just two nights here, I can (kinda sorta?) understand why the natives call this place their home; the spiritual energy is overwhelming!
Dave and I reserved an apartment at a resort called Sails in
the Desert in Yulara, one of several establishments right outside the borders of Uluru -
Kata Tjuta National Park. This apartment was quite posh in the sense that it
didn't feel like your typical hotel room, rather it felt like a home in which you
could spend lots of time relaxing; it was almost a shame that I spent so much
time outside exploring the park rather than lounging on the soft corner-sectional couch or
taking a bath in the spacious and luxurious bathtub surrounded by marble. Dave
and I giggled as we first opened the door, greeted by a warm foyer complete
with a chair and standing light, and we immediately spotted a charcuterie
platter on a long dining table in the living room. This unit was on the third
floor of the resort, which meant that our balcony offered unobstructed views of
Uluru.
After relaxing in the unit for a few hours after the plane
ride, we set off for Uluru in the gray Isuzu box. To enter Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park you must
purchase a 3-day pass for $38. We scanned our passes at the border and passed the checkpoint
in the early evening. I remember feeling surprised that there was hardly any
traffic on the two-lane highway in a state of minor disrepair. We stopped a couple of times along the red, dusty shoulder to take photos of
the behemoth from distance; by this time fluffy clouds began to develop in the
sky and cast their shadows against the formation which created even more interesting photo compositions. We briefly stopped at the
sunset viewpoint, a long, one-way driveway with many parking spaces, and noted
that we should return there for sunset. We continued on the road, with the rock
growing in size as we approached, and still there wasn't much traffic. Weird.
We turned onto the road that almost forms a whole ring around Uluru;
there's several hundred feet of missing pavement because the natives believe
that part of the rock is especially spiritual. This road leads travelers to the Uluru-Kata Tjuta Cultural Center where people can learn basics about the Anangu culture, plants and animals in the area, the rock's geology, and local artists, as well as the village of Mutitjulu. The rock was larger than life
from this vantage point, rising more than 1,000 feet above the ground, forcing
us to look up at it. Still, even here, there was hardly any traffic. This made me wonder if we were somewhere we shouldn't be, but no one accosted us. More clouds cast their delightful shadows
on the rock and briefly softened the sunlight.
Both of us were in awe of this massive orange thing and its countless ripples, crevices, black-streak-lined dry waterfalls, lines, curves; parts of it remind me of a scored loaf of bread or a hunk of meatloaf. Click click click went
both of our shutter buttons.
We approached a large dirt parking lot between the road and the rock, the trailhead to Kantju Gorge. Something told me I needed to take a walk here. Dave and I discussed things for a few moments, and then he reluctantly agreed to let me out so I could walk a trail and he'd pick me up later. Off I went strolling along the orange-reddish path, further into the shadows of Uluru. Up close, it's even bigger. But it never felt threatening. Rather, it felt otherworldly and welcoming. Upon reflection in the days and weeks afterwards, I concluded that the rock felt like it was friendly and cordial towards me, and happy for me to stay a bit longer. I had the impression that Uluru actually likes the attention it gets from visitors.
I took my time while reading informational signs on this trail about ancient, epic battles between Kuniya, the python woman, and Liru, the poisonous snake man, that left their marks on Uluru.
Occasionally I'd pass a large, chattering tour group, but I found peace and
quiet on the path which I still found odd. I'm used to massive crowds of people
in these famous landmarks and national parks and considering we visited during
tolerable heat in the upper 80s to low 90s (Fahrenheit), I expected it to be busier.
I passed several important locations along the trail and saw
petroglyphs. I saw where the Anangu cooked, where important men stayed, and one
location that was sacred to Anangu women. The informational sign by this spot
instructed visitors to refrain from taking pictures of it. I moved on.
Meanwhile, I was continually fascinated by the curves, indentations, colors,
caves, and texture of Uluru. I touched it with my hand. It was rough, gray, and
slightly flaky which is what results after the wind and water have decayed minerals in the rock.
As I approached Kantju Gorge itself, I noticed one rather large dry waterfall sitting below a dip in the rock, a column of inky black against the bright orange of the rock illuminated by the late-evening sun. I had this area all to myself. No chattering groups of tourists, no animals, nothing except a gentle breeze in the desert oak trees endemic to Central Australia. It was here where I felt full-body goosebumps develop. I moved a bit slower and looked up a lot with my jaw on the floor. This place was POWERFUL. The concept of Tjukurrpa appeared earlier in this entry, and the power I felt may have been a reminder of this (since I'm an outsider, this is my own personal guess based on my limited education of the idea). The Anangu believe the aforementioned ancestral beings created Uluru and that their ancestors are still here, very much alive.
***
I arrived at the base of the gorge on a metal walkway which halted right at the edge of a small waterhole below the dry waterfall. A nearby sign encouraged visitors to take a seat on the bench and take in their surroundings in silence, and that the water here is sacred, so that's what I did. For 15 minutes I sat there in stillness, just listening to the breeze and surrounded on three sides by the huge orange wall. I could have stayed in this spot much longer, just soaking in the peaceful energy and studying the black outline of the dry waterfall. Central Australia doesn't get much rain at an average of 11-12 inches of it per year, but when precipitation does arrive on Uluru, it can create mesmerizing, ephemeral waterfalls, something I may only ever see in images. I've seen pictures and video of Uluru in these scenarios where rain creates many cascading waterfalls, and it would be a dream to see it happen with my own eyes. While I tried to imagine what Kantju Gorge looks like when water is flowing, I still felt slightly stunned that I was here at all, a foreigner a long way from home, on a sunny and warm evening.
Slowly, I made the decision to return to the trailhead to meet Dave. I passed one couple near the waterhole and quietly told them the energy here reminded me of Monument Valley in America because it's overwhelming and everywhere. I had been waiting for Dave at the trailhead while swatting at a group of relentless bush flies determined to embrace my eyeballs and explore the recesses of my nostrils, for only a few minutes before he returned in the Izuzu.
I told Dave that the energy was wild on that walk with a big
smile on my face, and then I noticed that he had picked up two young female
Anangu hitchhikers who were on their way to the market center near our resort.
Wearing T-shirts, shorts, and sandals, one spoke English better than the other
and told us that they have seen many actual waterfalls cascading from the rock
during rainstorms. They waited patiently while Dave and I photographed a
colorful sunset, each of us giggling at the treat. It took me a while to come
down and process what I had experienced that evening because I had just watched the rock glow in the last light of day with clouds so perfect I couldn't have asked for anything better. We drove the rest of
the way to the resort in silence. The girls told us where to pull over near the market, and we
watched them disappear into the darkness.
The Anangu believe it's disrespectful to take photos of
certain parts of Uluru. The girls we met on the drive home said you shouldn't
take any photos of it at all because a photograph takes a piece of its energy.
In the six months since I visited those rocks, I can understand that point of
view because I've thought about those fucking rocks each and every day since
then. I keep talking about them and my experience. Perhaps I really did take some of their energy home with me.
***
We had an early start the next morning because we signed up
for a sunrise show complete with lights, narration, music, breakfast, and clear
viewpoints of both Uluru and Kata Tjuta. Dave and I both dragged ourselves out
of bed at the godforsaken time of 0330 because we needed to meet the coach bus
at the entrance to the resort at 0400. The bus drove us a short distance from
the resort to a hilltop viewpoint of both formations in the park. Boardwalks led people
to the top of the dune to a wooden deck, all bathed in red light in consideration of nocturnal
animals. A pair of men met each person on the platform and offered tea and
blankets which were useful in the chilly pre-dawn breeze.
The 15-minute light show was meant to be a chance to listen
to local Anangu storytelling about their lifestyle, which explained the role of
the seasons in this arid climate and how everything is tied together, from the
tiniest bush fly to Uluru itself. Each person took a seat on the steps below
the platform, all wrapped tightly with their own red blankets. While watching the
show, we also saw the first light of dawn develop near Uluru. Behind us in
almost the opposite direction was the imposing figure of Kata Tjuta.
Our main purpose for attending this show was to photograph sunrise colors at Uluru, so I faced that direction most of the time. Some wonderful golden clouds developed in that direction as time went on, and the whole time I knew this was a gift. I felt emotion fueled by gratitude which caused the tears in my eyes, and I successfully lived in that moment, right then and there. There was so much energy and overwhelming beauty in those moments, like it was the stuff dreams are made of; it's something I’ll never forget. Nearby, Dave was having an immensely profound personal experience, although he didn't share this with me until after we returned to America. How many people get the opportunity to watch the sunrise in such a highly spiritual location in Australia? I kept expecting the big rock to start glowing with the early morning light, but it never actually happened. Kata Tjuta was actually what caught all the sunrise color, and it turned a vibrant and deep red-purple color with the first light of day. Most of my photos were of Uluru, but thankfully I did capture its opposite in all of its splendor.
***
I got a bit of a late start on the drive to Kata Tjuta
because I tried to nap after the sunrise expedition. It was no use, especially
after such an emotional affair fueled by coffee, pastries, and adrenaline. So, I prepared to
leave from the luxurious apartment. Dave chose not to make the trip with me
because he wanted to rest; he didn't reveal to me the actual reason for his
bowing out until after I returned, but he did have me agree to a time for my
return. I told him 6 pm, and he countered with 5 pm. Fine. See you then.
Off I drove into the red wilderness with plenty of water and salty snacks on board. I scanned my park pass at the boundary again, my car the only one in line. With Uluru looming to my left, I passed the turnoff and headed towards Kata Tjuta and, eventually, the boundary between the Northern Territory and Western Australia. Just like what I experienced on the drive around Ayers Rock, there was suspiciously little traffic on this road. There were no buildings, no services, nothing indicating civilization, just a ton of spinifex grass, wispy desert oak trees, and the rock in the distance. The highway meandered through gentle, rolling sand dunes with Kata Tjuta steadily increasing in size on the horizon, and all the while I noticed splotches of purple from those tiny wildflowers I had seen near the airport.
This viewpoint provided an excellent view of the formation;
it was miles long with tall domes of reddish-orange rock, some of them leaping
out of the ground in a threatening manner as if they were warning any visitors to stay away, like a
fleet of enemy submarines. I didn't feel any particular energy at this point,
only the buzzing of relentless bush flies who were succeeding flawlessly at
eroding my sanity.
After passing a dead camel on the side of the road, short termite mounds, and areas
charred by wildfire, my next stop was the sunset viewpoint much closer to the
formation. Kata Tjuta is made up of a conglomerate of sedimentary rock and
debris cemented together with red sand.
It was actually “discovered” one year earlier than Uluru by Ernest Giles
who named it Mt. Olga after Queen Olga of Wurtemburg. Kata Tjuta is the Anangu
name for this formation which roughly translates to English as “heads, many”, and this
rock is sacred to the Aboriginal men of the area. The sign at the
trailhead for Walpa Gorge included an eerie warning:
“Kata Tjuta is sacred to Anangu men. Our people have always
shown respect when visiting this special place. They would camp a short
distance away and walk in quietly. They would not swim in the waterholes. Women
entered this area as well to collect food and water but always behaved
appropriately. It is the same now. It is the same for you. Hold in your heart
the knowledge that this is a special place. Walk quietly, tread lightly. Stay
on the track. Enjoy this place as it is.”
Along with the sign at the
tailhead with the wisdom from the Anangu and map of the area, there was a
covered sitting area and a water tank for the public complete with a warning
about the risks of heat exhaustion. On this day the temperature reached the low
90s. To protect myself from sunburn, I wore a long sleeve hiking shirt and long
pants, along with the mosquito net. From this trailhead, one could see one of
the deep canyons perfectly where the trail led into, surrounded by massive
orange domes spotted with recesses and imperfections; I saw faces in the rock,
but felt no energy at this time. The rough trail rose in elevation closer to
the gorge and supplied occasional benches for hikers to rest, but these came with no protection from the sun.
I encountered more unfamiliar wildflowers inside the gorge such as the fluffy mulla mulla. Besides the brief chatter from the few
other hikers, the gorge was silent. The walls were tall, massive, and imposing,
rising silently almost 1,800 feet around the surrounding plains. I
passed small bridges that help people progress along the trail in wetter
times and standalone boulders composed of a conglomerate of rocks and stones,
like giant pieces of red poop. It wasn’t a difficult walk nor a particularly
long one at less than 1.5 miles there and back. The challenge was the heat.
The end of the trail was a metal square platform that faced the
eastern side of the gorge where it was so narrow that it would be impossible to
continue walking. The platform was unprotected from the sun and there were three
square benches. I stood there for a while, just observing the stillness of the
walls. Still, nothing profound revealed itself to me. Meanwhile, a small
handful of groups of tourists joined me on the platform, including two women
who got their peace-sign selfies all while chattering away. They soon departed back towards the trailhead. Eventually,
I heard a sound.
It was birdsong. I don’t know where the bird was coming from or what species it was, but the haunting singsong call echoed amongst the walls. It was so notable that I caught it several times with a video on my phone. This must have meant something, but what? I had my fill on the platform eventually, and began the walk back to the trailhead, all while bush flies buzzed around me and landed on the mosquito net so close yet so far to my delicious eyeballs, nostrils, and ear drums. The light had changed amongst the gorge by this time, with the sun in a slightly different position. Halfway down the trail, the thought popped into my head that I had just found the entrance to another dimension. What a weird thing to think.
I returned to my car and had hearty helpings of water and
the trailmix in my backpack. It felt wonderful to be in air conditioning in the
car, and I drove to the next trailhead at Valley of the Winds farther into the
formation. This was a loop trail, approximately four miles in total. After
beginning the walk, I realized that I could feel some sort of energy on this
trail. I saw faces in the domes. The trail took me up to a hilltop of sorts
called Karu Lookout where there was a sign indicating that the trail ahead was
still open and the heat tolerable, and that tourists should not take photos. Of course, I took photos.
The rock itself may have taken issue with this.
There were few other people on the trail. I passed a young family at the Karu Lookout on my way down the other side. The trail was developed with stones placed strategically to create steps on the slope, but it was still rough. I was mostly alone in this area with only the gentle breeze and my footsteps creating any sounds. I reached a point in the trail that connected to a loop down in the valley, and there was a square wooden bench for walkers to rest in the shade of a tree. After setting down my backpack, I wandered to the trail and faced the section that led between two massive domes and said to myself that this reminded me of Utah and Arizona. I also noticed the gut feeling that I shouldn’t proceed farther, partly with Dave’s curfew in mind and a feeling that I was unwelcome here. I felt slightly uncomfortable. This was the first time in my life when I thought, “this rock doesn’t like me”. I felt as if the rock was trying to get me to leave, like I was an unwelcome houseguest. The energy was strong here; it felt slightly aggressive, territorial, and male, the first time I’ve identified a gender for energy that I felt amongst rocks. It was quite unlike the inviting feeling emitted by Uluru. Perhaps I messed up by taking photos at the lookout?
This gut feeling is not unheard of to other people who've visited Kata Tjuta. In fact, it seems to be more common than you think. When Dave and I visited the art shop at cultural center, I told the woman working in there about my experience. To my surprise, she nodded wisely and told me that another woman who made the trek felt the same thing. A friend of mine has visited the formation several times during his time as a professional geologist, and he told me stories of odd happenings within the walls of Kata Tjuta, such as tourists exclaiming that they finally found proof of aliens or of his stumbling upon a native ritual that featured the skulls of long-dead animals. So, it's not only me. Kata Tjuta is known as a place where you must use caution and be sensible because the rock does odd things to visitors. I have yet to hear of anything similar happening within the friendly confines of Uluru.
On my way back up to the lookout, I briefly lost the trail. I
spotted the actual path a few feet to my left, so I attempted to reach it by
crossing a significantly sloped stretch of rock. I lost my footing here and
fell down, suffering scrapes on my hand and knee and ripping a hole in my
hiking pants. After groaning, I stood up and spoke out loud.
“Alright, message received. You don’t like me. I’ll go back
to the trailhead.”
I stayed true to my word and hustled back to the trailhead,
taking some photos here and there. It was around 3 pm by this time in the warmest part of the day and some
fluffy clouds had developed, making the sky even more interesting. I returned to the
car and drove to the sunset viewing area, this time with what looked like a
field trip for a group of school children also at the parking lot. At the
viewpoint itself, I got the feeling that Kata Tjuta preferred me to be at this
distance taking pictures.
On the drive back to the resort, I encountered the same
suspiciously little traffic. I stopped once or twice to take even more photos
of Kata Tjuta in the distance, including again at the sunset viewing point; the rock told me it preferred me at this distance compared to within its valleys and canyons. Eventually, I retuned to the resort around 4 pm.
Dave was snoring in bed in our apartment and after he woke up, I told him about
what I experienced. This was when he revealed that he chose not to join me
because he could feel that aggressive male energy from Kata Tjuta all the way from the resort,
some 30 miles away. Impressive. We had discussions about what could possibly be out there and what could possibly happen. Because the rock's energy is so pronounced, the argument could be made that you enter as yourself but leave as someone (or something) else and bring something entirely unwanted home with you. Considering I'm still thinking about this rock six months later, especially when I wear the pants with the hole in the knee, perhaps I did bring something home with me...
***
Or final morning in the Central Australian Desert had arrived much too quickly. Before heading to the tiny airport in our rented vehicle to catch a flight to Brisbane near midday, Dave showed me a stretch of Uluru I hadn't seen until then. It featured many examples of weathering and erosion in the rock that formed lots of shapes and textures, one of which looked exactly like a brain to me. Was I looking at Uluru's brain? Eventually, we parked at the trailhead for the Kuniya Walk and Mutitjulu Waterhole, a highly spiritual place for the Anangu where legends say the ancestral beings are still living and damage from great battles can still be seen on the gargantuan walls. The trail leads visitors past petroglyphs and highly sensitive cultural areas closed to the general public. The trail ends at the waterhole itself with a square metal platform and a wooden park bench.
White sitting on the bench listening to the gentle breeze in the trees and soft chattering from a pair of men to my left, I felt immensely peaceful. The reflection of the rock in the water was like a mirror when the breeze died down, and I could see how water courses over several cascades to reach the waterhole in wet weather. This is one of the few places in the area that boasts a permanent source of water, so it's a special feature to the Anangu. Unfortunately, it was time for us to head to the airport and I felt irritation because I wanted to stay longer. Not until we had boarded the plane and were flying east towards Queensland did I realize that I had another personal experience at the rock. While sitting on that bench, Uluru was telling me that I was welcome to stay a little longer and that it was happy to have me there.
Someday I’d like to return to Uluru – Kata Tjuta National
Park because I have unfinished business there. I’d love to see if the energy
feels the same on the second visit, and whether Kata Tjuta still doesn’t like
me on the next visit. Perhaps I’ll take fewer photos then. I’ll never claim
that I understand why the Anangu have stayed in this area for tens of thousands
of years, nor can I claim that I relate to what they feel or sense at Uluru and
Kata Tjuta.
All I can say is that I got a taste of whatever is there in the red center of Australia, and I want another one.
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