The Bungle Bungle Range is a field of hundreds of orange-and-black beehive domes in the Kimberley of northern Western Australia, and every walk among them runs along a creek bed. The banding is the first thing you look at, and nobody touches it. Orange is bare sandstone stained with iron. The dark bands are a living crust of cyanobacteria, and that skin is what holds the crumbling rock together, so a single touch leaves a scar. The Gija and Jaru have lived alongside the range for tens of thousands of years; the rest of the world only saw it when a documentary crew flew over in 1983. The Domes Trail threads between the towers, near enough to read the grain of the stone without laying a hand on it. It leads to Cathedral Gorge, where a dry creek opens into a chamber of curved red rock on a cathedral scale, holding a still pool on pale sand. The sound in there is good enough for the occasional concert.
Echidna Chasm, at the northern end, is two kilometres there and back with almost nothing flat about it. You crunch up loose cobbles, scramble over fallen blocks and climb a steel ladder set into the rock, and the walls close until you can touch both at once. Fan palms lean out of the gravel at its mouth, a kind that grows here and in one river valley away to the east. From the ground the domes are a wall. From a few hundred metres up they turn into a field fringing a plateau split open down the middle, with the five arms of Piccaninny Gorge spread like fingers. At dawn the low light rakes the cones and deepens every band; flat midday light washes them out completely. For a few weeks each wet season the floor you walked on is a river, and the park shuts while it runs. Along Piccaninny Creek the rock is pitted with wide round holes, each one drilled by a single stone caught spinning in a whirlpool, turning in the same spot flood after flood.