Finding My Way Through the Flinders Ranges

After driving through barren nothingness for the past several weeks, I was humbly surprised when I saw the first range of blue mountains over the horizon. Having grown up around the dramatic peaks of North America, I didn’t expect Australia’s mountains to affect me in the same way. But after months of Western Australia’s coastal plains and gentle hills, seeing those blue ridgelines appear out of nowhere unexpectedly reminded me of home. I pulled into Wilpena Pound to hash through the road conditions with a ranger at the visitor center. I was told that the road to Razorback Lookout (the iconic shot of South Australia) was only accessible by 4WD, especially after the recent rainfall. Since that viewpoint was half the reason why I came all the way up to the Flinders Ranges, I was heartily disappointed. After much contemplation, I decided to risk my life (and my van’s) and give it a go anyway. After all, I could always turn back, right? But deep down I know that once I start moving, my determination to finish whatever I set out to do only grows tenfold. So around 3pm with only a few hours of daylight left, I set out on the 4WD track up to razorback lookout. I stopped a few oncoming vehicles to ask their opinion on whether I could make in my van. They looked it up and down and gave me a feeble yes, if I took it slow and didn’t go past the lookout (the rest of the loop would be definitely impassable for me). Their little bits of confidence were enough to keep me going. And yes, I just took it really slow, like 16 kms in an hour and a half type of slow. It was definitely the most robust and technical track I’ve taken my van on, with mud pools and sharp rocks and those ungodly corrugations that seem to remove your soul from your body.

I was rewarded for my arduous journey with spectacular views at the first lookout over Bunyeroo Valley. Then I finished the distance to Razorback lookout, just in time to see the last of the sunshine fade away over the dusty “razor” like road slithering up through the valley mimicking the organic flow of the hills. I stayed of course for the sunset (which is always the priority for me vs using precious daylight hours to drive to my campsite for the night and getting tucked away all safe and sound. Sunsets always win, and I do dearly apologize to all the kangaroos whose lives I put at risk every time I drive in the dark. Sunsets always win. So I stayed and enjoyed the sky turn gold then pink, and the mountaintops following suit, and the rest of the valley slowly fading into darkness. While the sunset was spectacular, I was more elated by the fact that I had actually made it all the way out there, running on adrenaline and the thrill of an adventure.

But… there was still the task of getting back, and I had so coincidentally and irresponsibly not booked a campsite for the night… so I thought it would be in everyone’s best interest if I just well, stayed put for the night instead of putting my van to the test on that track again in the dark. After everyone else had left, I made my way back to the Bunyeroo lookout which was much less precariously perched on a mountaintop compared to Razorback Lookout, and decided that is where I would sleep for the night. Yes, it is illegal to sleep in national parks, even anywhere near the vicinity of this national park. And no, I did not have a lick of cellular service, and no, not a soul knew that I was deep in the Flinders Ranges by myself because I was too preoccupied with the journey of getting here itself it did not cross my mind to tell anyone. Oh well, some nights living in a van are just like this. A little bit risky. But without risk, there’s no reward. And my reward was the sunrise.

Eager for the morning, I made my coffee and enjoyed the stillness of being out there, completely alone. I spent the morning taking photos and walking the track past the lookout. Satisfied that I pulled off my free illegal night in the national park, I decided to celebrate by making a pancake breakfast. As I was washing up, a man popped up out of nowhere. Not just any man, a park ranger, and not just any park ranger, but a park ranger that I somehow knew?? Quite a weird spot to run into someone if you ask me. No, I did not admit to camping overnight, despite his suspicious glances at the remnants of my pancake breakfast, but he seemed to give me a pass once I brought up the fact that I recognized him from Kangaroo Island. I remember having a full conversation with him once at the cocktail bar I used to work at. He let me off the hook, and, quite content with how events had unfolded over the last 12 hours without a hint of a plan, only a will, I made my way cautiously down the 4WD track, trying to not pop once of my tires. Reaching the paved road, (my life force) once again, I yipped with glee. I’d call that a success!

For the next two nights, like a responsible adult, I had actually booked a station stay, which I was desperately thankful I had, so I could enjoy a peaceful night’s sleep. I checked in at Rawnsley Park Station, and snagged a sweet spot overlooking the lake and the ranges beyond. I wasn’t really expecting an incredible sunset, but boy was I wrong. The ranges turned green, then orange, then left an alpenglow pink on the peaks - it was honestly one of those sunsets that left me speechless. The Earth will surprise you in the best of ways, if you open your heart to it.

The next morning I got up bright and early to enjoy the sunrise view over the lake and the ranges, then got my butt to Wilpena Pound to start the St. Mary’s Peak 22 km circuit hike, which is the highest peak in the park. For some mysterious reason, all my anxiety about hiking alone in Australia seemed to vanish? Which was odd. Maybe since it was cool enough to wear long pants I wasn’t as scared of getting bitten by a venomous snake and dying on the spot (yes, that is my greatest fear, dramatic as it may be). So I was thoroughly enjoying the hike and thoroughly enjoying doing it by myself. I suppose I was reflecting on how far I’ve come - when I first arrived to Australia I was so scared about going on even short hikes alone, it would take all the enjoyment out of it. I think that the more scary things I do alone the stronger and more confident I become doing scary things alone.

The hike was a nice gradual incline the first 5kms or so, then all the sudden it turned into a violent scramble up the face of the mountain. Like clinging to the side of the mountain with narrow and steep foot grooves going up. It was so steep I told myself there was no way in hell that I would ever go back down that same way and thanked God that this was a loop hike and therefore wouldn’t have to. I was glad to arrive to the Tanderra Saddle, the point before continuing on to St. Mary’s Peak. However, it is requested by the aboriginal owners of this land to not continue on to the peak, out of respect for the sacred site. So, I did not go up to the peak, but continued on the gradual and slow decline back down, trekking across creeks and fields and forests. I made an extra detour to the Wangara lookouts, which were meh after the earlier views from the hike, and was eager to arrive back on sore legs and feet.

I made it back again to my station stay camp for the night, ready for the evening’s entertainment of a beautiful sunset over the ranges. I had a much needed hot shower, some wine that I had got in the Barossa Valley region, and my signature chicken pesto pasta - what a classic. Isn’t it so beautiful that each sunrise and each sunset is so completely singular to any that have come before, and any that ever will? The impermanence of it, the delicateness, the coming and going. A reminder that life, the Earth, is also living each day with us.

I think the Flinders Ranges reminded me how much I have changed since arriving in Australia. When I first got here, I was constantly aware of everything that could go wrong. Every solo hike came with a mental list of all the possible dangers. Every unfamiliar road felt intimidating and one wrong turn from being stranded. Every decision came with that protective and stubborn little voice in my head asking, “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

And honestly, sometimes that voice is still there, and I’m not suddenly fearless. I still worry about breaking down in the middle of nowhere, getting lost, making the wrong call, or finding myself in a situation I can’t handle. But I think the difference now is that I trust myself more to figure it out. Confidence doesn’t come from knowing everything will go perfectly, but from trusting yourself to handle things when they don’t. It comes from taking the rough road, moving painfully slow when you need to, admitting when you probably shouldn’t push any further, and continuing forward when you know you can.

A year ago, the idea of driving a 20-year-old van down a rough 4WD track alone, sleeping in the middle of nowhere, and hiking 22 kms by myself probably would have scared me more than I’d like to admit. And yet there I was, doing just that. Not because I wasn’t scared, but because I was willing to try. Maybe that is what traveling alone gives you, not the absence of fear, but the proof that fear doesn’t always get to make the decisions. I left the beautiful and breathtaking Flinders feeling a little more certain that, wherever the road takes me next, I can probably figure it out.