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and ill-cautious. While not strictly subterranean,
with (usually) a thin sky-blue line above lighting the
way, sometimes it feels like you’re heading straight
down Mother Earth’s oesophagus.
A mouthful of the neutral water quenches like
25 isotonic drinks never could. A chilli-red dragonfly
slurps some, too, before it flutters away to wherever
chilli-red dragonflies spend their shady afternoons.
Along the streams, more wet seasons than anyone
can know for sure have sandpapered the rock
surface so much that at one point a narrow section
transforms into a slide, and a dog-leg means you’re
propelled off a four-metre drop completely blind,
into the waiting cool (temperature and ambiance)
deep-green pool below. The canyon walls here look
like they reach up all the way into the ionosphere.
The novice canyoner has to trust their guide like
they would a doctor or pilot. Case in point, the next
(seven-metre, again blind) abseil down a waterfall
that’s bashed its own exit hole through solid rock.
From above, it looks like you’re headed straight
for the mystical Orient, via the Centre of the Earth.
Water raps on your helmet like that annoyingly
consistent year seven bully. The big outback sky
reintroduces itself again at (the no-s***-Sherlock-
named) Red Gorge; a logical place to stop, take a few
breaths, and hoover up the last of your pre-packed
carbs and energy bar thingies.
Upstream, a few-hundred-year-old paperbark
is rooted into the flanks of the channel, which
obviously hosts ferocious torrents, come wet season.
There’s spectral cotton-wool-like foliage in the
tree’s upper reaches; its branches like eager hands
desperate to scale the gorge walls.
Turns out that it’s not foliage at all, but spider
webs, satellite suburbs of arachnids that somehow
know exactly how high to reside to avoid being
swept away into a Rescuers Down Under sequel.
The organic flotsam hanging from this grand old
dame’s shoulders is as good a future depth indicator
as anything modern science offers.
We plant bums in inner-tubes for a delightfully
dawdling paddle up the wide, sunny gorge; then
refocus for a scramble through, and (roped) rock
climb up and out of, the gorges.
Somewhere, in the canyon depths, we pass by
(but not through) an old Indigenous birthing pool,
a reminder that this is not just a gigantic outdoor
adrenaline junkie theme park, here purely for our
pleasure. For the Banyjima people in particular,
these gorges are their still-unfolding, living and
breathing story.
“We respect each pool,” says West Oz Active’s
energetic assistant guide Lauren Pember. “We
don’t jump and splash where we can help it,
and walk in where possible.” ‘Prone to wander,’
states a tattoo on Lauren’s arm. It’s the unspoken
mantra of those who actually live in this isolated
park. Super Dan probably has a similar one inked
directly onto his soul.
As a temporary home, Karijini National Park
has its shortcomings: stuff-all phone reception
and supermarket visits that are more quest than
outing top the list. “It’s quiet and we go to bed at
9:30pm many nights, but we get to watch the sunset
every single day,” says Lauren, who has also called
Albania and the Swedish Arctic Circle home. “It’s
the most amazing feeling sitting around in awe with
absolutely nothing, especially pubs, to distract you.
And now that the red dust is in my blood, I couldn’t
live in a city. Peak-hour traffic here is like one cow
on the road.”GETAWAYS | Karijini National Park
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