Australia

Australia’s wildest hike…

...delivers staggering views and lingering legends.

It’s 3 am when I’m woken by the sound of tents unzipping. The crisp, dry night air of April in central Australia is perfect for our pre-dawn amble up Mount Sonder. It may only be the Northern Territory’s fourth-highest mountain, but for the past four days, its silhouette has loomed in the background of our hikes: its sunlit peak like a distant beacon, quietly reminding us to conserve our energy for what lay ahead.

When we arrive at its base, the night sky is startlingly bright. Our headtorches light the path beneath our feet, while starlight softly reveals the vastness of the surrounding landscape. We hike for an hour to the saddle – a flattened section of the trail – where we pause to watch the sun rise, slowly igniting the ridges in hues of glowing red.

From there, it’s another two hours to the summit. I’m surprised by how jubilant and light-footed I feel, despite having only four weeks to prepare for this six-day, 67-kilometre journey with Tasmanian Walking Company along the highlights of the Larapinta Trail.

But as physics reminds us, what goes up must come down. The descent is deceptive – long, steady, and unforgiving. As the sun climbs higher, its rays beat down on the exposed slopes. Jagged rocks seem to materialise from nowhere, and I slam my toes into them again and again. The chattiest member of our group falls silent. Gaps between us grow. The downhill path feels endless.

That’s when it hits me: a surge of emotion wells up, unstoppable. Hot tears stream down my cheeks, a release of exhaustion and the heaviness of a difficult year. I keep moving – fuelled by adrenaline, sips of water, lolly snakes, and the distant promise of a seat on an air-conditioned bus. And I wonder: is this the emotional journey the Aboriginal elder was referring to by the campfire last night?

“We are not just storytellers, but teachers as well,” Benji Kenny told us. “And this is more than just walking from point A to point B. Our ancestors used to walk along here and rest,” he said, gesturing toward our fireside tents – luxurious by comparison, with double beds, comfy mattresses and linen sheets. He asked each of us where we came from and why we were here. Though the words varied, the essence of our answers was the same.

“You come out here to see the beautiful country and the place,” he said, “but in reality, there could be something personal or spiritual for yourself. And hopefully, what you found made you feel good. We’ve had people open their minds, feel so emotional – and they went back feeling better,” he tells, reassuringly.

Millions of years ago, the parallel ridges of the West MacDonnell Ranges were as tall as the Himalayas, but erosion has softened them into their current breathtaking form. They carry many stories, which Benji shares without hesitation. One of our guides, who lives in Alice Springs, tells us how young Aboriginal adults often seem glued to their phones. But out here, in the bush, they instinctively put their devices away. “Our ancestors are welcoming us,” they say.

In the gaps between the ranges, natural water holes have formed – our swimming pools at the end of long, dusty hikes. Each one is filled with still, icy water. Their very existence in such a rugged, arid landscape feels almost miraculous. Ghost gums cling to the red rock walls, growing at right angles, defying logic. Cue the bunyips.

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Just over the border in South Australia lie the Flinders Ranges – once part of the vast inland sea that covered this part of the continent around 120 million years ago. Over time, tectonic plates collided to form the dramatic mountain ranges, waterholes, and gorges that shape the landscape today. My father, whom I lost last year, loved the Flinders. He took us there often on family holidays, returning again and again to a place that clearly meant something to him.

Was this the connection Benji was talking about? That sense of belonging to a country, even if you weren’t born to it, even if you were just passing through. My dad would have loved the West MacDonnell Ranges, too. As I walked, my thoughts kept drifting to him – sometimes quietly, sometimes all at once, like a wave. Stubbornly uninterested in any overseas trips I made, he would have been wrapt that I had made the time to come out here.

While my Bunnings straw hat and fly net were no substitute for his well-worn Akubra, I felt that I could finally appreciate this harsh brown land as much as he undoubtedly did. This first walk of the season followed an unusual bout of rain, and life sprouted from the dry, red dirt, covering the ground in lush green grass. Waterholes are replenished.

Tiny flowers cover the basin of Ormiston Pound, the week’s most pleasant hike. Part of the 8.5-kilometre loop is walked in silence, allowing us to fully absorb the solitude of this sacred place, which can only be reached on foot.

During the warm afternoons when our legs start to ache and blisters bloom, our thoughts turn to the luxuries of our camp: hot showers, baked goods, chilled glasses of wine and home-cooked meals waiting to restore us each evening.

As the final kilometres stretch behind us and we draw closer to the hum of everyday life, I carry more than just sore legs and red dust in my boots. I carry a deeper understanding of this ancient land, of the people who have cared for it for millennia. I came here expecting a hike. I didn’t expect to find my father out here. But in the silence, in the stone and water and sky, he was never far away. And perhaps that’s what the Larapinta Trail offers – and Benji reiterated – not just a walk through breathtaking country, but a space to lay things down, pick others up, and keep moving forward.

In 2026, Tasmanian Walking Company will launch a groundbreaking new trek between Uluru and Kata Tjuta, offering visitors the rare opportunity to stay overnight within the World Heritage-listed national park for the first time.