"Morning. Morning. Morning," Reg’s wake-up monotone sliced through the darkness with cruel precision. Could it really be morning? I checked my watch. 5:15am. I could barely move my neck and I couldn’t feel my toes. I looked over at Alison, now just two wide blue eyes poking out between the slits of her swag.

"I feel so horrible," she moaned. I was too cold to comment.

I ran to the bathroom and when I returned, my merciful camp-mates had started the fire. We huddled together around the blazing savior, slurping coffee and munching on toast, wondering why all of us had PAID for this kind of treatment.

"Listen, you’ll be thanking me later on," Reg promised.

We piled into the Wayward bus and drove about 45 minutes to Kings Canyon. The sky was just beginning its orchestra of blue, purple and pink when we reached the base of the George Gill Mountains. For the next three hours, we scoured the empty land and gazed down at sweeping views of the canyon. The sun rose in stages, lighting up the rocks and showering light in sharp angles on the deeply grooved sandstone. Out of breath most of the time (this was an 8 km hike mostly uphill, deemed "Heart Attack Hill"), I still managed to gasp at the expansive domes of the Lost City and revel in the tranquility of a watering hole called the Garden of Eden. When we reached the edge of the canyon we all lay down, heads poking over the gorge, quieted by it enormity. When you come across such natural grandeur, you begin to comprehend your own insignificance. I can’t explain why that’s comforting, but it is.

Robyn was really funny the entire time, having confiscated the communal chocolate chip cookies from the very start. "Cookies? Cookies anyone?" he asked in his Yorkshire accent, all while stuffing handfuls into his own mouth. It was a miracle that there were any left by the time we neared the end of our hike. As we climbed down the steep descent of loose rocks and shockingly rail-less edges, we saw tour buses pulling into the parking lot and hoards of people beginning the hike. I checked the time: 10:30am. I understood what Reg meant by thanking him later on.

That afternoon we drove for about three more hours to the highlight of the entire tour: the Uluru-Kata Tjuta (oo-loo-roo/cat-a-jew-ta) National Park. The second largest rock in the world (the first being in Western Australia), Uluru broke through the scrub-bush landscape as a fiery red rhomboid. To the west, Kata Tjuta rose in a dusty asymmetrical cluster of domes, captivating me as soon as I laid eyes on it. Before we could explore further, however, we had work to do.

We arrived at Ayers Rock Resort, a plastic 5-star Walt Disney World-type monstrosity. Thankfully, we were only CAMPING on the Ayers Rock Resort campgrounds. The juxtaposition of fake commercialism with the spiritual beauty of the rock formations in the distance made me feel uneasy and even slightly angry. When we arrived at our campsite, we noticed that it was already strewn with half-open swags, crumpled sleeping bags and towels flapping like flags in the wind.

"Guys, I’m really sorry, this is Wayward’s bad planning, but we’re sharing this campsite with another Wayward bus. This is their last night here, so I guess we’ll just have to keep our stuff separate from them. But don’t worry, tomorrow night we’ll be here alone. I think you guys should complain to Wayward. I only contract for them." Reg seemed mildly irritated, but was still composed enough to bark out orders in his usual army fashion: "I need the cooler out of the trailer. I need all the boxes out of the trailer. The swags are in the shed. Line them up. Pitch the tents in a line. Keep all our bags on this side. Unload the firewood. Some people have to boil the water and chop the vegetables." He really wasted no time. And our crew! I was amazed by how well we worked together as strangers, hauling equipment and cleaning the site with a seemingly experienced efficiency.

After everything at the campsite was settled, Reg drove us to Uluru to look around. We drove the circumference of the rock, about 10 km, as Reg explained its spiritual significance to us: it was a place of meeting, of rest, for the Aboriginals, the Anangu people, who roamed the stretches of the vast Northern Territory. They were completely nomadic and lived off the harsh land using their deft instincts and powerful minds. The more contact I had with the land, however, the more I realized that the land was also taking care of them. This perception stunned me. The Anangu people wrote nothing down – maps of the vast desert, including specific sacred sites like Uluru, as well as watering holes, were locked away in their memories in the form of songs and stories. These songs and stories were passed down through oral tradition from generation to generation. Included in these songs and stories were laws of conduct and ethics. This entire oral dogma was termed Tjukurpa (chook-orr-pa). Even in the late afternoon sunlight, behind the window of a bus, I sensed the majesty and sanctity of Uluru. It was thrilling and frightening at the same time.

We drove over to a parking lot marked “Tour bus sunset viewing area” and parked next to an Adventure Tours Bus. Reg directed us up a sand dune as we passed hundreds of other people who were sipping on champagne, sitting in fold-out chairs, waiting to witness their first Uluru sunset.

I was chilled with sadness. My camp mates got out their beers but I didn’t want to drink a thing. The sense of indigenous loss was devastating. Here was a place of antiquity, once revered by simple people who had respected the land and their place within it – it left a bad taste in my mouth to watch a bunch of people toasting to a sunset, forgetting about the original significance of the rock. Reg noticed my reticence and spoke with me for a little while about the Aborigines and how they actually co-owned the National Park with the Australian government.

"The rock was given back to the Aboriginals in 1985, and they leased it back to the government for 99 years," he told me.

"The rock was ‘GIVEN BACK’ to the people who ORIGINALLY owned it?" I screeched with disbelief. "Wow, how gracious of the Australian government." Reg smirked at my sarcasm, but soon it didn’t matter anymore. The endless rugged land was being painted in a blanket of pink and gray, and Uluru was glowing red and orange in the distance – strong and powerful, undaunted and omniscient.

~Hope