H
EAD OUT ON FOOT just north of Uluru-Kata
Tjuta National Park’s Cultural Centre, along
the Liru walk, and you’re soon in mulga
forest – a typically stunted and harsh-look-
ing stand of trees that, I’m told, is frequently softened
by bursts of pretty wildf lowers after rain. Look west and
there it is: Uluru.
To some it’s Ayers Rock, the name explorer William
Gosse gave it in 1873. To many, it’s a place of beauty and
spirituality that’s been the ancestral heartland of the
Anangu people for more than 30,000 years. For 400,000
visitors annually from around the world, it’s a bucket-list
destination. This morning I can see about 80 people up
on it. The large number indicates conditions are favour-
able but also ref lects the surge in tourists visiting and
scaling the site before the 26 October deadline when a
legal ban on climbing Uluru will take effect. There are
138 steel posts drilled into the rock that, along with the
guide chain linking them, are set for removal then.
This is the first time I’ve come here to see this impos-
ing inselberg (island mountain), which is composed
geologically of arkose sandstone and rises 348m above
the largely f lat surrounding arid landscape, and it’s as
remarkable as I’d always imagined. Up on the climb
some people are doubled over, clutching the knee-high
safety chain. One person loses their wide-brimmed hat
and it comes to rest halfway down Uluru’s western face.
The contours and features of this rust-hued icon are,
for its traditional owners, physical evidence of Tjukurpa- the basis of Anangu knowledge, law, religion, social
structure and moral values. The living landscape here is
their Scripture.
An official sign at the base of the rock reads: “Please
don’t climb. We, the Anangu traditional owners, have
this to say: Uluru is sacred in our culture. It is a place of
great knowledge. Under our traditional law climbing is
not permitted... Too many people have died or been hurt
causing great sadness... We invite you to walk around
the base and discover a deeper understanding of this place.”
Under the intense sun, Mark and Jymie Totiel from
Esperance, Western Australia, step down, back onto f lat
land. As Mark gently rubs her back, Jymie describes her
recent health struggles. “That’s from skin cancer,” she
says of her skin, an angry red behind a black mesh f ly
veil. “The climb made me feel like ‘if you can do this,
you can do anything’.” Mark shows me a selfie they took
on the summit. “Look at that,” he says. “If it’s on your
bucket list, you better do it. It’s well worth the effort.”
Charlotte Greenaway, 18, from Melbourne, tells me
she won’t climb because of what she and younger sister
Bridget learnt at school about Aboriginal culture and
sacred sites. “One [high school history] semester was all
Aboriginal history, learning about giving back through
native title and the Eddie Mabo case,” Charlotte says.
“They started teaching us about it in primary school,”
Bridget adds. With them is their father, Alan, who, like
many people, says he was unsure how he felt about
climbing the rock. He admits he thought maybe he
would but his daughters told him he shouldn’t, and when
he laid eyes on it he decided the same.A tourist with the obligatory Uluru fly veil reads the Parks
Australia sign at Mala car park. The “please don’t climb”
request from the traditional owners is unmissable.76 Australian Geographic
PHOTO CREDITS, PREVIOUS PAGE: TILLMAN SCHLAGETER/ALAMY STOCK PHOTO; THIS PAGE: GREG WOOD/AFP/GETTY IMAGES;-
OPPOSITE: TOURISM NT/COLBY BROWN