I would like to acknowledge the rightful owners (the Arrernte people) of the Mparntwe region on which the Larapinta Trail crosses and pay my respects to the elders past, present and emerging.
I understand that this land was stolen, never ceded.
It was 11 am on my ‘halfway day.’
I was suspended somewhere in the middle of Alice Springs and Mt Sonder, and that somewhere just happened to be the trailhead shelter at Ellery Creek North.
Leaving camp at 7 o’clock that morning had been a late start but I’d powered through the short hike for the day. By now, I’d already set up my tent, washed out my clothes, and used my sleeping mat as a lie-low in the freezing Ellery Creek.
I rewarded myself for this productive morning by retracting my 700g bottle of peanut butter from my pack and whilst I chatted with the stream of hikers coming into the shelter idly spooned copious quantities of that stuff.
Regardless of whether a hiker was going East-West or West-East, it was a comparatively short day.
Draped around the shelter, other hikers were talking about all corners of the globe in the way that vast red landscapes and endless blue skies inspire.
But sooner or later, I could sense the question coming, as it always did.
'Why are you doing it solo?'
'It' being hiking 270km alone for two weeks, in a state I'd never been to before.
I wondered many times whether this question was directed so often to me because I was notably a lot younger than other solo hikers, or because I'm female.
One night at Hugh Gorge I camped with two solo blokes up an off-track gorge and huddled over our stoves for warmth, we talked solo hiking.
They'd both blown my stereotype out of the water- that solo hikers must be loners. People that didn't value community, that weren't sociable, or had something to prove to others.
We quickly established that people had reacted to them solo hiking more harshly than to me.
But really, these guys hadn't been the ones to change my perspective on solo hikers.
That had happened on the bus from the airport when another girl with a massive pack and I had gravitated towards each other and spent the succeeding forty-minute bus learning about each other's lives.
Bronte was in her late twenties.
She had a semester left studying Medicine. I could quickly sense she was a community-builder.
Her mates were at work and her partner didn't want to hike so here she was, doing what she wanted because she could.
My answer to why I was doing it solo didn't change throughout the trip. By the end of the hike, it felt like I was pressing ‘play’ on my little spiel, I said it so often.
There were two reasons.
I wanted to spend as much time taking photos as I wanted, prioritising high camps, sunrise and sunset.
And I wanted to become intrinsically motivated again.
Day two. I'd dumped my pack at the junction to Bond Gap and wandered in with my lunch to the small oasis, where I found a couple from America already relaxing in the shade, on their second last day.
'I'd turn around and go back if I could,' was the first thing she said to me.
I laughed but was inwardly dubious. The last day and night had been very liberating and very beautiful, but my pack was heavy.
I was exhausted from not sleeping well and my hips ached from the abrasion of my pack.
Every person I encountered going the opposite way I'd ask what their favourite place had been and the stored these little pieces of motivation.
Most people said their favourite day of the trip was Brinkley Bluff. I got up there by lunchtime on day five, stoked at my timing as my pack was the heaviest that morning that it was ever going to be; I had 8 days of food until Ormiston Gorge and water for 2 days, so the total weight was causing scandal amongst the ultra-lighters and quintessential Aussie hikers.
On top, I was shooting sunset and chatting to everyone else up there when a man in his sixties came over the last switch-back, unbothered by the slow glow on the horizon.
He had Vans. I said hi, but I was internally questioning his choices. He quickly set up an expensive Wilderness Wear tent.
The juxtaposition was not lost on me.
I quickly learned he was doing the track in 22 days and decided to thrift everything he was wearing on the hike.
To be more sustainable, but also to prove that you don't have to be that person to drop ten thousand on a full set-up. I observed that the soles of the shoes look adequate.
He pulled out spare Hydralite and insisted I take it for the coming sections, and then forked over handfuls of gratefully received macadamias.
Of all occupations, he seemed to have the coolest one.
He was a cameleer, doing a short stint in Alice before heading back to Adelaide.
This could be his last trip to Alice, hence the 22-day foray on the track.
He wanted to relish each moment.
I asked him what his favourite part has been so far.
'Today,' came the response.
I replied with something to the effect of, mate, I reckon you're the sort of person who thinks each new day is your favourite at the end.
He agreed.
The cameleer told me I reminded him of this girl he'd met in front of me a week ago. Pretty much the same age, doing it solo.
She had pink hair, he said. Tassie born-and-bred. Happy energy. And most interestingly had left the same degree as I had at a similar time.
'Are you sure it was a week ago?'
I just couldn't accept that there was absolutely no chance I'd catch this girl. A week was more than a hundred kilometres and multiple mountain ranges.
'Amelia, from Brisbane, huh.'
There were two of them - a ranger and a volunteer - at the Jay Creek shelter. The volunteer was reading the registration book whilst the ranger took a drag.
I had a brief chat with them and then ate morning tea as they filled up a tank, the ranger in agreeable silence whilst the volunteer's laugh echoed around the valley.
That night was my first high camp at Pravda Spur. The sunset over the Alice Valley and the sky lit up in fiery colours, including storm cells over the ranges.
My little tent was perched alone on the edge of the cliff and I was the only sign of man-made material.
I camped alone at a high point several other times; on the windy, sharp Razorback Ridge for example, but nothing compared to the absolute shock of the beauty of Pravda Spur.
Multiple times I remember repeating to myself 'how is this real?!'
The next morning after sunrise I meandered down the ridge and was soon startled by the crashing of rocks.
'It's Amelia from Brisbane!'
It was the volunteer from the day before, who I quickly learned was Damo, a guide exploring on his days off.
From Queensland, he was based in Alice Springs for the season.
We went our separate ways, but as a result of me spending an hour taking photos of zebra finches in the creek and him trail-running, he quickly lapped me.
On the remainder of the walk to Standley Chasm, I learned a significant amount about the native flora from Damo.
After a bit, he dumped his pack and ran to the top of one of the red rock columns, and then dropped into a plank position.
'I'm doing push-ups for mental health this month, always do in June,' he called down to me.
I took a photo.
Didn't do any push-ups.
Damo had stayed at Standley the night prior and already built a little community, including a detective who had worked in Alice for eight years and a retired Sydney lawyer.
Both had an interesting perspective on the role of the government in preventing crime in Alice, and the fireside discussion was quite... heated.
The trail was full of people living their best lives in the best way for them.
Justine and Josette were a mother and daughter crew from Sydney. Josette was seventy. Justine had done most of the Australian Alps Walking Track solo.
Heidi and Steve worked guiding onboard ships in Antarctica. They waited for me as I tried to navigate a creek crossing with my pack held precariously above my head, knowing that I needed help even though I didn't realise it myself yet.
Their help had been in vain as a few hours later at the shelter, a couple asked me what I'd thought of the little off-track gorge.
'What little off-track gorge?'
They informed me that it was the most 'speccy' thing they'd seen the duration of the walk and that was all I needed to turn around and head back up the gorge again.
Liam and Oscar, two solo guys, came with me.
I decided to rock climb around the side of the swimming section instead of wade at such a late hour.
Oscar stood there with his camera on burst mode.
Five minutes later, I coached him and Liam through it.
The next morning back at the gorge again, I found a lady halfway up the side of the cliff. Below where she was looked like it would disintegrate at any moment.
After coaxing her down, we ended up walking the morning together. I learned that her name was Alana, that she was a general practice doctor from Sydney, and that she committed to the solo hiker life last minute after her friend had severe ankle issues.
Alana went ocean swimming every morning and loved both her independence and sushi more than anything. Hiking the last few days solo had been absolutely terrifying for her, but she’d come out the other side liberated.
This was her last day on the trail, and we parted ways after we reached Rocky Gully and I saw a few crew I'd camped with multiple times now.
Shortly after she left, two more rangers came sputtering over the hill along the rutted four-wheel-drive track. I had a few questions about some of the burnt country I'd walked through around seventy-five kilometres back, so I wandered over to ask about it.
One of the rangers conducted the routine checks whilst the other leaned against the bull-bar and surveyed me pensively, taking off his Akubra and fiddling with it idly.
'I just moved here from out by Katherine way,' he informed me.
'Got a thirteen and a fourteen-year-old, came here for their schooling. Alice is the biggest place they've ever been to.'
Alice Springs. Population 27,000.
'They're scared of the traffic.' I laughed. The ranger frowned: He was serious.
He went on to tell me that the kids had grown up tracking through the bush, could speak multiple indigenous dialects, and were absolutely at home in the outback.
What a life.
The ranger also spoke of the consultation processes that the ‘white fella’ rangers had with the Indigenous owners. To do a simple hazard reduction burn, the owners were taken up in a chopper and asked about the location of sacred sites. With all the steps they had in place and the sway of the local community, the process took months.
After the rangers became like a toy car on the horizon, I began setting up my tent and was quickly joined by a trio from Sydney, who I would camp with each night for the next seven.
Nicola and Julia were friends from university, and Julia's partner Dennis had also come along for the ride.
You know those people that radiate joy? Nicola had a grin this spread across her whole face at any moment and was a source of endless gluten-free tortillas, olives, and quality chats in exchange for help pitching her tent and extra water.
That night, all of us perched on little rocks under the pin-pricked curtain of the sky, our voices lulling in and out alongside the heart-beat of the red earth beneath our bare feet.
Some people did the trail in ten days. Some in twenty-two.
I spoke to a few trail-runners who were attempting it in five or six.
Most notably, one morning I was resting on a rock when a guy in his late twenties came crashing down the hill. He had a vacant facial expression and carried a huge army pack.
'Mate, how much does that pack weigh?' I asked him.
The pack hit the ground violently, spirals of dust rising in rings around it.
I stepped back.
'Pick it up and see for yourself,’ came the challenge.
Using one hand, I barely heaved the beast off the ground.
My pack was 23kg; this was double at least.
He told me that he was carrying heaps of tins, and nothing dehydrated.
'Trying to do this shit in five days. Today's halfway. Slept at Brinkley last night and Birthday Waterhole the night before.' These locations were three hours walk apart. I was perplexed.
'You got hydralite mate?' I inquired. He didn't look in the best of health, and I was genuinely concerned.
'Yep.' He heaved the pack back onto his back and soon he was a little silhouette in the distance.
I was later telling Dennis all about this odd encounter; Dennis is a defence physio and told me that he reckoned this bloke was training for some sort of special forces recruitment; which explained the sleep deprivation, heavy weight, and extreme timing.
It made a lot more sense.
Near the end of the trail, I had a massive day where I went from Count's Point to Mt Giles Lookout, crossing the Alice Valley once again. The sunrise had been stunning, but bone numbingly freezing.
It was incredibly hot but made sweeter by a cooked lunch on the side of the track with a few ladies in their late twenties. They'd made the trail a gourmet experience and handed off oranges and avocados.
'You'll get an amazing view of Mt Sonder tonight,' a West to Easter informed me.
'Don't want to see that bloody mountain!' I informed him.
'Why not?!' The response was shocked.
'That's the gate out of here.'
The switchbacks up Mt Giles were one endless snake, and the wind was picking up. I could think of nothing but stabbing my hiking pole repetitively into the unforgiving earth, hunching my back against the gale forces that were trying to peel me off the cliff. The summit was but a glance; I was eager to get further down the ridge to camp.
Upon arrival, I was dismayed to see that it was incredibly exposed and that all the sheltered spots were taken; until an older couple called me over and offered a little sheltered grove right beside them.
They were Strat and Lyndall and they were some of the coolest people I’ve ever met.
We got chatting as I gratefully set up my tent. Both were in their late sixties and had been together since they were eighteen; then at nineteen they had summited the mighty Federation Peak in Tasmania. I heard from them that they'd passed the army guy the previous day and he had taken a minute to remember his name.
Even more concerning. He had also definitely been out there more than his goal of five days.
After making me a cup of tea, Strat turned to Lyndall.
'Shall we have a spot of music before tucker?'
In response, Lyndall pulled out a mandolin from a case and handed it over. The sun had cast an orange glow over Mt Sonder and their harmonies wafted over the whole campsite as others trickled over.
The smattering of applause after each song was quickly eaten up by the ranges.
I don't think I'll ever forget crouching with my little trail family as we swayed to the music, as the sky lit up on fire above us, perched high above the mountains running towards Mt Sonder in the distance.
Everyone did Mt Sonder for sunrise.
For two weeks I'd heard echoes of the elation, the full circle feeling... and the crowds. Fifty people, some said.
‘No standing room,’ said others.
I wasn't convinced that doing Sonder was anything more than an Insta pic; a tick off a list.
Ormiston Gorge was my second food drop and waking up that morning on Count's Point, the sunrise was only so good.
I wanted food.
Fastpacking it through rolling red hills, I notably passed a group of twenty-five.
Then, just as I thought ten kilometres had never felt so far, I passed two day-hikers.
‘At least two kilometres more, miss.'
Stabbing a rock with my stick, swearing alongside the aggressive rumble, I rounded the corner - and there it was.
Food, in the form of a little kiosk.
They were such cruel liars.
I shovelled down endless chips, as two groups of little kids circled around.
'Ten days!'
The parents couldn't believe it.
'Crazy!'
The kids were unimpressed.
'Pleeeeease?'
I forked some over.
Now full, I wandered over to the shelter and crashed. The options for the rest of the day were endless. Could do a day hike. Could keep going. Could do both.
Or nothing.
I decided not to commit and wander through the campsite instead.
On my return, I could see a few figures now making themselves at home.
One of them had pink hair. Was around my age. Was evidently solo.
Could it be...?
A lot of mates just fully laughed when I told them I was hiking for two weeks solo.
'You'll go loopy'. A pause. ‘Loopier, if that’s even possible!’
'You literally can't be quiet for more than two minutes.'
I've lived in the same suburb in Brisbane my entire life. Community was easy to stumble into through mates and family; almost hard to avoid.
This turned out to be the case on Larapinta as well.
The bus from Redbank Gorge to Alice Springs after the end of the trail took two hours and two weeks at the same time.
It felt like unravelling the effort of the last 270km and it wasn't a good feeling.
'You'll be fine in Coles,' declared the driver. He looked at me seriously as he heaved my bag out of his bus.
'But be careful. It's dangerous here.' He was referencing Alice Springs' high crime rates.
Certainly, there was a constant police presence everywhere and a variety of goods inside of shops seemed to be under lock and key.
Back in Alice, I walked into Coles and beelined into the fresh food section, marvelling at the choices. I believe I was amongst the vegetables when I noticed the tears sliding down my face.
Historically, I'm not a crier. Like, at all.
There wasn't really one reason why I was crying. I think it was the combination of so many choices and too many people.
But plastic people that were yelling into a phone, shoving their trolleys past others in the aisles, avoiding eye contact at all costs.
Scores of people in a small space, completely disconnected.
Instead of a few people in such a big landscape, but one family.
There was a solo male hiker slouched in the corner of the shelter as myself and the girl with pink hair met for the first time. Nomes was her name, she told me.
And yes, we'd quit the same degree at very similar times and yes, we'd had insanely parallel lives.
This was all discovered quite loudly, with the guy in the corner laughing at the chaos of it all.
It took one day hike at Ormiston Pound for us to get filled in on each other's lives. Nomes had experienced crippling blisters, forcing her to leave the track for a week to recover. But now she had returned for round two.
We set off the next day together unsure of how far we'd both walk.
Early on, we passed a family with two young teens heading in the opposite direction, which sparked an idea.
The father mentioned that Mt Sonder was off-track climbable from the opposite side, from which we could camp that night.
We decided to try.
Soon after we decided to hike until lunch solo, with her going first.
Somehow our plan to meet in two hours led me to run into camp in the rain that evening around four, as she sheltered under her sagging, upturned tent.
I'd passed a father and daughter duo which included an eleven-year-old carrying all her gear. Together they'd hiked the Bibbulman Track in Western Australia - over a thousand kilometres.
I found myself on top of Hilltop Lookout, which supposedly boasted terrific views of Mt Sonder. Instead, cold wet droplets beat a steady rhythm down my pack and rain jacket and the mountain was shrouded in mist.
Nomes was nowhere to be seen, but a lady going in the opposite direction stopped me as I trotted by.
'Your name Amelia?'
'Girl with pink hair says she's freezing and will meet you at Redbank.'
'Redbank! How long ago did she tell you this!?'
'Ah, five minutes?'
Surely I could make up five minutes fast enough. Redbank was so far. It was raining. We'd agreed on Rocky Bar Gap! What was she doing?!
I hustled down the switchbacks and quickly ran into a couple sitting on rocks on the side of the track.
Typically, I forgot about my hurry and instead stopped to chat.
'G'day guys! This your first day?'
It turned out it was but before I asked them about their plans, I had to ask about Nomes.
'She was lovely! Said she's stopping at Rocky Bar Gap.'
I reckoned the first lady was just confused between the two 'R' names and reassured, I continued chatting to these two.
'How many high camps are you guys planning?'
'Six,' came the response.
'Six!' This had been my approach too, although it was atypical.
'Same! I'm a photographer though, and wanted to shoot sunrise and sunset,' I explained.
'Ah yeah cool, same! Adventure photographer. Yourself?' The guy perked up.
We perched on wet rocks for the next hour and talked about business strategy, legality and logistics.
Daygin turned out to be twenty-one and had gone full time at my age - nineteen.
I pretty much ran the whole two kilometres into Rocky Bar, full of unbridled motivation and excitement.
Who cared if it was raining? I was so motivated.
'YEWWWWW!! COOOWEEEE!'
I hollered at Nomes, who had claimed a little spot in a dry creek bed under the cloaked Mt Sonder.
'How good is life?!'
She was clearly wet and freezing but a grin broke out and she yelled back.
'Pretty bloody good ay!'
We burnt the rest of my methylated spirits in my Trangia as a safe makeshift fire and talked options for our Mt Sonder adventure the next day.
But first, the rain just had to stop.
The following morning, I nervously cracked the zip open on the tent fly. The dripping had stopped although the mist continued to swirl around the mountain.
As we slowly stuffed damp gear into our packs, the sun broke through and the sky turned that brilliant unmistakeable blue.
And we were off, pushing through the scrub straight at the peak.
We were aiming at either at a gully on the left or the gentle slope on the right. However, upon arrival, we saw that these slopes were decidedly not what anyone would call ‘gentle’.
It had been a huge effort up to this point so giving up didn’t seem to be an option. Together, we decided to poke around to the right. Nomes soon found a lot more achievable, boulder-and-scrub-filled gully running directly up.
Off we set.
The wind had ramped up again, but the top was tantalisingly close. We were incredibly motivated by the thought of a track and the security of good old trail markers.
Every step our arms were attacked by aggressive scrub.
I swore violently and Nomes startled and turned around.
'I just stomped on a snake!'
At the time, it was so steep, and the wind was so high it was really a non-event. We counted our blessings and pushed on.
After the final ridge, we found ourselves elated beside the summit pole.
But not on the place we were planning on being.
Certainly, we on the highest point, but not the peak the tourist track went to.
There was a little box full of accounts of people who had made it here dating back to the seventies. Only two other groups had written in it this year. We poured over poems dating back fifty years and tales of the blood, sweat and tears people had experienced to get here; and then remembered.
We weren't on the track and the sun was hanging quite low in the sky.
Options were discussed.
Either we went done a crazy slope, down a gully, then bush bashed across the plains and then over a range. Or we hiked down a crazy slope and then up a crazy slope. Alternatively, we could edge across a literal tiny cliff were a mis-step was death, and then along a ridge.
We chose the second option.
It was silence as we navigated the shale that was the steep descent. And silence once again as we pushed ourselves up and along the slope. I felt like Nomes was miles ahead as she scrambled up this aggressive cliff-face. I wanted Tassie blood so bad.
Finally, we made it to the rock cairn at the official summit and allowed ourselves to fully appreciate the view - and our achievement. Alice Springs was but a little smattering of lights on the far horizon.
The rest of the trail was a blur.
We chatted happily on the track down, processing the fact I stood on a snake properly, and made into camp before dark. Nicola had waited to have dinner with us, and we could sense she’d been concerned about us. The conversation that morning when we’d told her of our plans felt like forever ago.
There was a couple who were about to start the walk the next day camping nearby. Nicola, Nomes and I breathed excitement into them through too many tales of sunrise, of huge flocks of birds, and red cliffs fully ablaze in the evening sun.
Nicola and I said a sombre goodbye, thinking she would do Sonder for sunrise the next day.
On my last morning I wandered into Redbank Gorge for first light, and found Nicola sitting there alone. The gorge was silent apart from the lull of our voices weaving together as we discussed life, the trail, and our futures.
Before I left, we took a photo together. We have the exact same smile, grubby faces, and matted hair.
The very last kilometre to the carpark was a rush as I had a bus to catch.
A day hiker stopped me when I was only 300m back down the path from the gorge.
'Is it worth it? Should I keep going?'
I looked at him incredulously.
'Yes? I mean maybe?'
This place, these places?
They are what you make of them.
The community didn't fracture after the trail ended.
Nomes and I met up for dinner that night.
A heap of us had brunch on my last day in Alice.
Damo drove me to the airport in his bosses' arborist truck.
Nomes and I send each other life updates every second day.
The community was real.
It was the 31st of July, 2022.
Music on, I'd wandered into the centre of Alice Springs from the hostel with no real plan. I bought brekkie and continued drifting, and quickly passed another coffee shop. I had no need for another coffee shop, but the vague strains of Tash Sultana's Jungle pulled me in, so I headed over to check out the menu.
I landed in the line right behind a familiar figure.
It was Bronte, who I'd met at baggage claim a fortnight ago. We had passed each other at the centre of the trail but due to the other people, hadn’t had a sustained chance to chat.
People at the coffee place came and went around us as we spoke of the different people and events that had occurred to us as we'd forged different paths on the same land.
Three weeks after returning to Queensland, I navigated to a suburb on the North side of Brisbane for the first time and got a tattoo of a ghost gum with a little Larapinta Trail marker.
I absolutely love it.
The ghost gum is the hardiest little tree, growing exposed on top of barren cliffs, battered day in and night by wind.
After touching it with your bare hands, the bark will scar. Damo taught me that.
They grow alone and in little clusters.
Multiple people since have informed me this is a dangerous precedent: ‘You hike so much, you can't possibly get a tattoo for every hike you've ever done!!'
The ghost gum symbolises resilience. It symbolises the ability to change and be influenced, and the value of independence.
These were all things I was battling with earlier this year, feeling forever stuck in a degree I truly despised, and in multiple overly negative environments.
Really, my tattoo speaks of intrinsic motivation, which was my 'why' that whole 270km. The reason I pulled myself out of my sleeping bag even when my hands and feet were numb and how I forced myself up a second mountain range for the day although my legs would have preferred to just… stop.
I cannot spend my whole life hiking. Unfortunately, it just doesn't work like that.
Larapinta re-ignited my intrinsic motivation. I have carried this new flame into updated routines, as well as an exciting new degree that makes me inspired to learn.
I am fortunate to work at an outdoor retailer. The same day I returned from the West I had a shift at work., which was purely a result of some poor planning on my behalf.
The second customer that walked in wandered over to the desk where I was sculling water in an attempt to be pleasant and alert.
'Hey! Can I help you with anything at all today?'
The customer nodded.
'Yeah. I'm heading out to the Northern Territory for a two-week hike in a few days! I need some gear. Reckon you could help me with some choices?'
I pushed myself off of the desk.
'It'll be the best thing you'll ever do! What direction are you walking? What campsites? How many nights?'
Perplexed, the customer followed me over to the boot area.
'Don't worry, I've got you! I was there this morning. And most of heart is still there.'
The customer lost their concerned look and broke into a smile.
It's now six weeks later. I can confirm that that piece of my heart is still there, tugging me back slowly but surely.