Uluru - Part 1

Uluru — also known as Ayers Rock — is one of Australia’s most iconic natural landmarks. Rising from the heart of the Red Centre, it holds immense cultural and spiritual significance for the Pitjantjatjara people, the traditional custodians of the land, known collectively as the Anangu. For them, Uluru is not just a rock — it is sacred, woven into their creation stories. It's no wonder this site has earned UNESCO World Heritage status for both its natural and cultural importance.

Composed of sandstone, much of Uluru’s mass lies hidden beneath the earth. What we see above ground is an immense monolith standing 348 metres high, with a total perimeter of 9.4 kilometres. What truly makes Uluru magical, though, is its ever-changing appearance — glowing vivid red at sunrise and sunset, shifting hues throughout the day and seasons. This dramatic transformation is caused by iron oxide in the sandstone, and it's this surreal visual dance that draws visitors from around the world to this remote corner of Australia.

We were fortunate to be among them — to see Uluru with our own eyes, to walk its sacred base, and to gently touch the ancient surface of this majestic rock. It’s an experience that imprints itself deeply.

Getting there is easier than one might think. A direct flight from Melbourne to the small Ayers Rock Airport takes just over three hours. Upon arrival, you can either pick up a rental car or take advantage of the free shuttle transfer to your accommodation.

We had booked an all-inclusive package that included return flights and three nights at the Sails in the Desert resort. True to its name, the resort is shaded by elegant white sails that flutter against the desert sky, providing comfort and relief from the sun. Guests relax by the pool, enjoy open-air dining, or curl up with a book on the manicured lawns. It’s a surprisingly lush oasis in the outback.

While planning, we debated whether we should hire a car. I did plenty of research online trying to figure out the best way to get around. In the end, we decided to go for it — only to find that all rental cars were fully booked. Cue the panic! I scrambled to find information on how to navigate Uluru without a car. How would we explore this vast, sacred landscape without our own wheels? As it turns out, you can experience the best of Uluru without ever turning a key.

Enter the Uluru Hop On Hop Off shuttle service — a flexible, reliable transport option designed for travellers like us. They offer several passes and we booked the Uluru Return pass, feeling relieved that at the very least, we’d be able to reach the rock within the Uluru - Kata Tjuta National Park. Still, we weren’t completely sure how much access we’d have, so to be safe, we also booked the Uluru Sunrise Base Walk tour — and it turned out to be a wonderful decision.

The walk was deeply informative. Our guide was a wealth of knowledge, explaining the geological formation of Uluru, the significance of its features, and the meaning behind the rock’s surface markings. It was the kind of context that deepens your connection to a place. After the walk, we felt confident and inspired to return the next day with our Hop On Hop Off pass and explore Uluru on our own terms, taking in the majesty of the landscape at our own pace.

There are so many things you can do at Ayers Rock — from the simple to the extravagant. To make the most of this once-in-a-lifetime experience, we booked the Field of Light Uluru Dinner — a magical evening that promised the full package: a stunning sunset view of Uluru, a three-course Bush Tucker–inspired buffet under the vast outback sky, followed by a walk through the ethereal Field of Light art installation by Bruce Munro.

But that wasn’t all. The evening came with some special touches — a live didgeridoo performance, and a captivating presentation by the Star Talker, who decoded the glittering southern night sky for us. It was an experience designed to stir the senses and the spirit, and with our Day 2 and 3 activities now sorted, all we had to do was wait in anticipation for the journey to unfold.

As the flight approached Ayers Rock Airport, also known as Connellan Airport, in the remote outpost town of Yulara, a calm voice crackled from the cockpit. “Folks on the left-hand side, look out your windows — you’ll catch your first glimpse of the rock.” A moment later, the plane banked gently, and the captain added, “Now for those on the right.” We all craned our necks, eager to spot it. And there it was: Uluru, rising from the rust-red earth like a sentinel, seemingly small from this height but undeniably majestic. It appeared almost smooth and sculpted, but we would soon learn how rugged and textured it truly is.

Stepping off the plane, the first thing we noticed wasn’t the heat — it was the red soil, fine as dust and clinging to everything. It painted our shoes and bags in its ochre tones, a vivid reminder that we were now in the Red Centre. A word to the wise: avoid white shoes — unless you want them permanently stained with the spirit of the outback.

Connellan Airport is modest — no long corridors or endless baggage carousels. Within minutes, we were outside, following the clearly marked signs to the shuttle bus transfer area. The sun beat down but not unkindly, and the dry desert air felt clean and bright. Soon we were boarding our transfer, joining a small group of fellow travellers all buzzing with the same quiet excitement.

The shuttle bus wove through Yulara, making stops at different accommodations — from campgrounds to high-end resorts — with the driver doubling as a local guide. “Palya,” he greeted us warmly, teaching us the local Pitjantjatjara and Yankunytjatjara word that means hello, welcome, thank you, and goodbye — all in one. Such a beautiful, all-encompassing word. He pointed out landmarks and gave simple but solid advice: “If you get turned around, climb to higher ground and look for the telecom tower — it’s the centre of town. And just nearby, there’s a lookout with a stunning view of Uluru, perfect for sunrise or sunset.”

Finally, it was our turn. The Sails in the Desert came into view — its elegant white canopies fluttering like sails caught on a breeze, contrasting beautifully with the red sands. Most passengers disembarked with us, and it was clear this was a popular place to stay. Check-in was busy, with a long line already snaking through the reception area. But the staff were efficient and welcoming, handing out cool, citrusy drinks and chilled towels — a small touch that felt like luxury after a dusty journey.

When our turn came, we learned that our room wasn’t quite ready yet, still being serviced from the previous guests. We didn’t mind. The resort grounds were inviting, and we took the opportunity to wander, exploring quiet garden paths, peeking into the pool area, and locating the on-site café and gift shop. Everything felt peaceful — a world away from city life.

And so we waited, not impatiently but with a growing sense of anticipation. The sun hovered overhead, casting long shadows over the desert floor. We were finally here — not just on a map, but in spirit. Uluru waited, not far away, and the next few days promised adventure, awe, and a deepening connection to a land that felt ancient, sacred, and alive.

We were in search of food and wanted to stretch our legs, so we decided to walk to the town centre instead of taking the complimentary shuttle bus that ferries visitors around Yulara — though it’s worth noting, it doesn’t go into the national park itself. The walk was short and easy. One of the many perks of staying at Sails in the Desert is its location — everything in Yulara is comfortably close by, stitched together with well-kept paths and shaded by desert trees.

As we strolled, we passed a flowering gum tree, its branches bursting with bright yellow blooms that looked like little suns. We paused for a moment, drawn in by its cheerful colour and the soft hum of bees flitting between blossoms. Even here in the desert, life blooms boldly.

At the town park, we noticed a few signs advertising free activities — a pleasant surprise. One in particular caught my eye: a dot painting workshop run by local Anangu artists. It promised an introduction to the traditional symbols and stories that form the heart of Aboriginal art. I was immediately intrigued. But, alas — it was already fully booked for the next couple of days, every time slot filled. I hadn't realised that these free cultural sessions could be booked online in advance, and it turns out they’re incredibly popular. A small lesson for next time: plan ahead, even for the free things.

We knew we had arrived at the town square when we spotted the large, colourful sculpted letters proudly spelling out Palya. It felt like the heart of Yulara, buzzing quietly with life.

Right at the square, the Visitor Information Centre is conveniently located. On our way there, we noticed several signs advertising free cultural and educational sessions. One in particular caught our attention — a Bush Food Experience scheduled to begin in just under half an hour. Curious but unsure how to register, we stepped inside to ask the staff.

The Information Centre doubles as a gift shop and gallery, featuring a stunning display of local Aboriginal art. The pieces were rich in colour and story — each one unique, each one carrying layers of cultural meaning. While many of the original artworks were beyond our budget, it was still a joy just to admire them.

As for the session, we were happy to learn that no registration was needed. It was first come, first served, and there were plenty of seats. We decided to wait — and we weren’t alone. As the start time neared, more and more visitors gathered around. There was a quiet sense of anticipation in the air.

Soon, we were ushered into the Arkani Theatre, located just beside the Gallery of Central Australia (GoCA). The Bush Food Experience was led by a passionate local guide who walked us through the astonishing ingenuity of Indigenous Australians when it came to sourcing food from this arid landscape.

I was genuinely fascinated. How did the ancient custodians of this land know which plants were safe to eat? Which ones needed special treatment to remove toxins? Which roots to grind, which seeds to roast? They truly were the original foragers and chefs, working with deep knowledge passed down through generations.

The session was both educational and inspiring — we left with a newfound appreciation for the desert flora we’d been walking past without a second thought. There was another session we would’ve loved to attend — the Indigenous Guided Garden Walk, where a local guide explains the traditional uses of key plants for food, medicine, and tools — but sadly, the timing didn’t fit our itinerary.

The Bush Food Experience ended on a delicious note — our guide passed around samples of snacks made using some of the ingredients she’d introduced. Earthy, aromatic, and unlike anything we’d tasted before, they were little bites of ancient wisdom. Simple, yet unforgettable.

After the Bush Food Experience, we wandered next door into the Gallery of Central Australia (GoCA) — a beautiful, quiet space dedicated to showcasing the works of local Aboriginal artists. The art here was nothing short of breathtaking.

Some pieces adhered to traditional styles — intricate dot paintings rich with ancestral stories and symbolism. Others merged ancient techniques with contemporary tools and modern perspectives, creating striking, thoughtful compositions that bridged the old and the new. Whether traditional or experimental, each piece was a powerful expression of culture, country, and identity.

Standing before them, it was impossible not to feel a deep sense of respect. These artworks were more than just paintings — they were living connections to an ancient heritage, carefully preserved and passed down through countless generations. A legacy of storytelling, observation, and skill honed over tens of thousands of years, now shared with the world.

It was humbling to witness this artistry up close — a quiet reminder that we were guests on land rich in history and meaning, still vibrant with the spirit of its first peoples.

There are only a handful of restaurants in the town square, and by the time we arrived, most were already buzzing with activity. Hungry travellers spilled out onto patios, menus flapped in the warm breeze, and the low murmur of conversations filled the air. We eventually settled on one that looked promising and found ourselves a small table tucked into a shaded corner.

The wait for food was long, but we didn’t mind. There was nowhere we needed to be, and we weren’t ravenous — just enjoying the stillness of the afternoon. Our only plan for the evening was to walk to the lookout to watch the sun set over Uluru, a moment we’d been anticipating all day. That was still hours away, and this slow rhythm suited us.

As we waited, we found ourselves people-watching — a quiet pastime that always sparks the imagination. Who were these fellow travellers? What brought them here, to this remote, sacred part of the world? Were they chasing adventure, peace, meaning? Where would they go next, and what stories would they carry home? The longer we watched, the more we realised how many different lives and journeys converged in this little desert square.

By the time our meals arrived, the restaurant had emptied out, and the rush had passed. We lingered over our food, savouring every bite and every pause. Afterwards, we made our way to the local supermarket — the only one in town — to pick up a few essentials for the coming days. Snacks, water, a few forgotten toiletries. Practical things.

On the way back to our accommodation, we passed a building that caught our eye. Inside were several small kiosks, each offering tours and experiences — day trips, camel rides, sunset viewings, guided hikes. Intrigued, we stepped inside for a closer look. It was a hub of possibilities.

One in particular caught our attention: a night walk designed to explore the stars. Unfortunately, like so many things here, it was fully booked. Other activities were still available, but none aligned with our mood or interests that evening. So, we left with our curiosity intact, but no new plans made — which was fine by us. Sometimes it’s nice to leave space in your trip for the unexpected.

Back at Sails in the Desert, we took our time wandering the resort grounds again — this time with a more curious, lingering gaze. It felt like the perfect moment to truly soak in the atmosphere of the place we’d be calling home for the next few days.

We noticed a row of long, white lounge chairs tucked beneath towering gum trees, their limbs casting dappled shadows across the grass. They seemed to beckon you to slow down — to bring a book, a drink, and surrender to the stillness. The gum trees themselves were striking, with pale, silvery bark that shimmered in the afternoon light like strands of ribbon dancing in the breeze.

The pool shimmered too — a clear, inviting blue that made it hard to resist the idea of a cool plunge on a hot desert day. Nearby, the open-air restaurant caught our eye again, its tables and chairs tucked gracefully beneath those iconic white sails. It looked so effortlessly elegant, and we quietly agreed that we’d treat ourselves to dinner there one night. It felt too special to miss.

Though the resort was clearly at capacity — a steady flow of guests moving here and there — it still retained a sense of peace. The design of the space allowed for little moments of solitude. It didn’t feel crowded or overwhelming. It felt calm. Spacious. Like there was enough room for everyone to breathe and have their own quiet slice of the outback.

We set off on the closest walking path to the lookout as the sun began its slow descent in the western sky. We didn’t want to miss a single moment of that golden hour — the time when everything softens and the outback seems to glow from within.

The red earth beneath our feet left its mark on our shoes, and in turn, our shoes left their mark on the land — overlapping footprints weaving their way through the dust, some fresh, some faded. Looking back, the trail resembled an abstract canvas, chaotic yet oddly beautiful in the gentle light. The low sun cast long shadows of our bodies ahead of us, stretching over the path like silhouettes in a moving painting.

The incline came quickly. As we neared the lookout —it already dotted with fellow sunset chasers — we quickened our steps. From the top, there it was again: Uluru, timeless and majestic in the distance, facing the opposite direction of the setting sun. The crowd was larger than we’d expected, each person seemingly having already staked out their vantage point. Still, we found a comfortable spot. While the front row — those prime viewing positions directly facing the rock — were taken, there was plenty of space to stand and observe without obstructing or being obstructed. It felt like everyone silently understood the etiquette: admire, capture, then step aside so someone else could do the same.

And then — the transformation began.

As the sun dipped lower, chatter melted into hushed murmurs, and then into silence. It was as if we were all under a spell. The rock began to change before our eyes — shifting through hues of rust and crimson as the sky behind it evolved into a soft blend of orange, yellow, pink, and lavender. Uluru became the centrepiece of this natural theatre, framed perfectly against the canvas of the desert sky. No clouds. No interruptions. Just pure, harmonious beauty.

We’d seen countless photographs and videos of Uluru at sunset — splashed across travel brochures, shared in blogs, hanging on gallery walls — but none of them captured what it felt like to be there. The subtle shifts in light. The reverent hush. The feeling that nature itself was putting on a private performance just for us. It was a moment etched deep in memory, where time seemed to slow.

And just when we thought it couldn’t get any better, we turned around. Behind us, the sky had ignited — a brilliant blaze of orange stretching across the horizon. Tree branches and scattered leaves etched themselves into the fiery backdrop, silhouetted like cutouts against the glow. It was cinematic. Breathtaking. And because the lookout offered a full 360-degree view, we could take in the entire spectacle — Uluru darkening into silhouette in one direction, and the blaze of the post-sunset sky in the other.

I’ve watched sunsets from rooftops in crowded cities, where the sun flickers between skyscrapers and reflects off glass. I’ve seen it from mountaintops, disappearing behind forests; from beaches where it melts into the ocean; and from lakes where it sinks behind mountain ridges. But this — this one — stole the show. Uluru at sunset, surrounded by a horizon that refused to be upstaged.

We lingered until twilight deepened, until the rock was just a dark shape in the distance. On the way back, we took the alternate path. Though the ground was much the same — red, dry, and soft — it felt completely different cloaked in darkness. A crescent moon lit our way, casting a pale glow over the land, while stars blinked to life above us. The air had turned cool and crisp, but still inviting. It was the kind of walk that felt like a gift — quiet, peaceful, and utterly unforgettable.

We were still full from our late lunch, so dinner that night was simple — just some of the snacks we’d picked up earlier. It was an early night for us, knowing the next day would be a long one. A sunrise walk meant we had to be up well before dawn, and with a dinner planned in the outback that evening, we wouldn’t be returning until late. We needed rest.