Trust in country

Another glorious dawn is streaked across the desert morning sky. My fingers, numb with cold, hastily pull another layer of clothing on and wrap themselves around my flask of tea, seeking some residual warmth from when it was filled last night, but finding none. My boots crunch along the red dirt path as I walk briskly through the bush and slowly my limbs warm to the sounds of the waking birdlife.

We are two weeks into our family camping trip and I am starting to crave some solitude; perhaps today I will stay back at camp and rest.

On my return I linger outside the caravan, enjoying listening to the tickles and laughs of my daughters' play and the slow, heavy shuffling of my husband as he makes his morning coffee. The temperature is warmer here outside but I don't call them, extending instead these precious moments of solitude, breathing deeply with my face upturned to the soft morning sun. Soon enough they burst outside, chittering excitedly about plans for the day's hike and swim. "We're going to do the hike with the class 5 section" they announce definitively - one uncertain of what this actually means and the other envisaging sheer walls of rock towering to the skies and requiring vast feats of mastery to cross. Class 5 is the classification assigned to the most difficult walks here in Karijini, requiring super fitness and agility and including "steep sections with vertical drops".

I frown, considering whether this plan is appropriate for our 5 year old - she certainly has physical prowess but her determination to refuse any sort of help under any circumstances coupled with her extreme reaction to even the tiniest of scratches are strong deterrents.

"Mmm" I start contemplating how to present my counterarguments but a little grin from the youngest stops me in my tracks. "I'm going to wear my wellies this time" she announces - remembering how I berated her for not wearing her boots on our last walk. My heart softens and I defer my decision and start packing our bags for the day.

We arrive at the start of the walk after a 30 minute hurtle along an unsealed road, trying to avoid the red dust thrown up from the car in front. The initial section of the walk is easy enough as we remain on upper ground level and navigate the rim of the gorge, skirting the top of the waterfall. After some manageable rock hopping down, we reach the sheer drops I had been fearing. A deep growl in my stomach pulls me away from the edge and I find myself stating definitively "Nope, Polly and I aren't doing this bit".

Instead we wait, eating our way slowly through the block of chocolate bribe and witnessing numerous parties come speeding to this point in the descent only to be brought short, slamming on the brakes, hesitating, forced to reconsider and plan for the next stage. Which route to take down? How to rearrange cameras and water bottles. Whether it is a good idea to continue at all.

Some elderly walkers stop and talk, reassuring me that I have made the best choice. Some young walkers look us up and down questioningly, not seeing any reason to stop at this juncture. They are halfway down the Class 5 section before their parents have even started.

I feel torn. Is this really about protecting my daughter or is it my own fear? Would I have done this climb without her as an excuse to stop? Should I face my fear and descend when the others return?

I wrestle with my insecurities, covering familiar ground as I reprimand myself for taking the easy way out once again. I wonder how much I was influenced by the story outlined at the visitor centre of a young boy who slipped underneath the fence at one of the gorge lookout points. His father reached out but couldn't stop him, instead wrapping his own body around his son's in protection. They both fell to the rocks below, the father to his death and his son to a paraplegic future.

I decide to let go, to enjoy the environment, to take in the spectacular views, the intricacies of colours and patterns in the rocks, the incredible purity of the air around us. I release any expectations for this moment to be anything other than what it is - me and my girl sitting enjoying chocolate somewhere amazing.

“Cooooeeee" a voice echoes from below.

"We're eating all the chocolate" Polly shouts back to her older sister, who is celebrating touchdown at the base of the ravine. They swim in the icy waters and, after a time, make their way back to our perch.

Reunited, we listen to their account of the descent and share our stories of the friends we have made on our ledge. Together we start the climb back out of the gorge. Polly, now buzzing from the chocolate, is reckless, can't concentrate and we bicker as she refuses help on the trickier parts of the ascent, helping me feel vindicated in my decision to avoid the Class 5.

Back at ground level we look down once more, hold hands together and make our way back to the car, safe and secure. I recall the quote from the local indigenous people, prominent at the visitor centre: "Wirlankarra yanamana. Yurlu nyinku mirda yurndarirda" or "Go with a clear, open and accepting spirit and the country will not treat you badly".