In junior high I learned to call it Ayers Rock. Today, in acknowledgement of the original inhabitants, it is officially known both by the English name and by the traditional name the Anangu gave it: Uluru. After our long drive through the desert, we fortuitously came upon it just before sunset, when it put on an amazing light show.

Uluru is composed of layers of coarse sandstone laid down by some ancient sea. Back in geological time, the whole was turned on its side, so that the visible layers of rock are vertical, like slices in a loaf of bread. What we see is a tiny fraction of the formation; it extends below the surface of the earth for kilometers.

We arose at five the next morning hoping to see similar coloring on the west side of the rock at sunrise. Alas, the sky was overcast.

The sunrise was disappointing, but we had a more important objective for the day: the ten kilometer walk around the rock. The track is flat and would require about four hours to complete.

I always thought Ayers Rock was loaf shaped, but the map shows it to have the form of an arrowhead. The five black, angular areas abutting the outline of the rock, as well as the one surrounding the smaller rock labelled Toputji, are sites sacred to aboriginals. Visitors are asked not to enter nor photograph them.

Looking closer, the rock looks rotten. Erosion scars its face. The area receives twelve inches of rain a year: not much, but enough to wash away soft sandstone.

Some erosion is by spalling—the peeling away of layers of rock. I speculate that exposure to wide swings in temperature causes expansion and contraction of the surface, breaking it free from underlying layers. Daytime temperatures can exceed 110º F and can fall well below freezing at night.

The spalling is fractal, occurring at scales ranging from huge slabs to tiny flakes.

Sporadic waterfalls leave tracks and depressions on the surface. I saw a photograph of Uluru with several good-sized waterfalls pouring off it.

The rock contains internal flaws that admit lots of water. Eventually erosion leads to formation of eerie cave mouths.

Even in this dry land, water collects. This, the Mutitjulu Waterhole, is a reliable source of water for wildlife.

In places, the trail closely skirts the side of the rock, permitting a close look at its structure.

The overcast weather was a blessing of sorts. The noon temperature probably did not reach 70º F. Because of high heat and the force of the sun, the National Park provides shade and benches for walkers. I needed an occasional rest, even in the cool weather.

Visitors can get in trouble: dehydration, heat stroke, a twisted or broken ankle, a bite from something nasty. Emergency radios provide means of summoning help.

I saw two new birds. (I am NOT a birder. Honest.) The trio on the left are Crested Pigeons. I can’t identify the fellow on the right, but he’s perched on the arm of a bench, jamming me for a handout.

Ancient Anangu, the traditional owners of this land, left rock art behind. No one knows the significance of these sketches. They’re thought to be a sort of journal.

Visitors are given many reasons why they should not climb the rock:

• The climb is physically demanding, especially on hot days. Thirty-five people have died attempting it.
• The Anangu are deeply saddened when people are injured or killed on their land.
• The climb has great spiritual significance for the Anangu and prefer visitors respect this.
• The traditional owners explicitly request people refrain from climbing.

Nevertheless, climbers scale the rock every day, except on days when park management closes access because of heat, rain or wind, or because of conflict with an Anangu ceremony.

I tried to respect the wishes of the aboriginals with regard to entering and photographing sacred sites, and climbing. I was disturbed watching the climbers on the rock this morning.

William Gosse, a surveyor, is believed to be the first European to see the rock, during an expedition in 1873. Tourists visited for the first time in 1936, and a vehicle track was graded in 1948. The first tour bus arrived in 1950, carrying twenty-two students and four masters from Knox Grammar School in Sydney.

I would have loved to have been among them.

The 1958 season saw 2,300 tourists come here. Today the rock receives over five million per year. Visiting Ayers Rock has become almost mundane.

Uluru dominates the plain. Ancestral Anangu must have had a profound spiritual experience when they discovered it. I sensed a pervasive energy as I viewed and walked around it. There’s something more here than just a rock in the desert.

(About the sunset sequence photograph: What you see is exactly what the camera saw. I did no color tweaking. I used Photoshop only to crop and stack the individual images. The idea for the sequence is not original. I’ve seen it on postcards.)