the trail that still calls me back
i’ve been to 81 countries.
i’ve watched the sun rise over ancient cities, crossed deserts, hiked glaciers, slept on overnight buses and stood in places i’d spent years dreaming about.
and yet somehow, one of the places i think about most is a red dirt trail in the middle of australia.
the thing about the west macdonnell ranges is the way they get under your skin.
the colours don’t look real.
the ridgelines glow in shades of rust, ochre and deep red. light moves across the ranges like water. every sunrise and sunset transforms the landscape again.
standing there, it’s easy to understand why albert namatjira spent his life painting this country.
there’s a lustre to the land that feels impossible to capture properly.
the ancient quartzite ridges catch the light and seem to glow from within. photographs never quite manage it. paintings come closer.
our days became beautifully simple.
wake before sunrise.
coffee while the ranges slowly emerged from darkness.
pull on dusty boots.
walk.
swim.
walk some more.
repeat.
some mornings we’d wake to dingoes wandering through camp before dawn, moving silently between the swags.
at one campsite i rolled out my yoga mat as the first light touched the tops of the ranges, determined to embrace a moment of mindfulness.
a dingo promptly stole someone’s hiking shoe.
which felt like a fairly accurate reminder that this wasn’t a wellness retreat.
it was the outback.
the gorges became our reward.
after hours on the trail we’d descend into pockets of water hidden amongst red rock walls and river gums.
the water was always colder than expected.
the kind of cold that shocks every thought from your head and leaves you laughing as you surface.
for a few moments there was nothing except sunlight on water, red cliffs overhead and the feeling of being completely present.
i still remember the major mitchell’s cockatoos.
flashes of pink and white against the red ranges.
the sound of them echoing across the valleys.
another reminder that even in a landscape that can feel harsh and remote, life is everywhere.
the trail has a way of stripping life back to its essentials.
your world becomes water, weather, food and the next ridgeline.
the next step.
and somehow, in becoming smaller, your world becomes bigger too.
because when you’re standing on a ridge looking across endless waves of ancient mountains, it’s hard not to gain a little perspective.
the things that felt urgent before you arrived seem less important.
the noise quietens.
the trail doesn’t care who you are, what you do for work or how many followers you have.
it simply asks you to keep walking.
and perhaps that’s why i still think about it all these years later.
not because it was easy.
not because it was comfortable.
but because it reminded me how little i actually need to feel alive.
a dusty trail.
cold water.
a sunrise.
a pair of hiking boots that haven’t been stolen by a dingo.
some places leave a mark on you.
the larapinta was one of them.