Uluru, or Ayers Rock, as non-Aboriginal Australians call it, sticks out of the near flat of the desert, an uncompromising, awesome structure. It and Kata Tjuta (the Olgas) face off over the desert like two ancient stone gods, unmoved and unmoving. To my eyes, the huge edifice of Ayers Rock fails to be shocking or beautiful. It‘ s just big. Even from a distance its presence is inescapable.

Black stripes streak down the rock, the paths of lichen marking the courses of occasional waterfalls. They look like Chinese calligraphy strokes. Over millions of years waterfalls have scooped out terraced basins from the top of the rock to the bottom.

The water lands in waterholes tucked in around the bottom of the rock, only one of which is permanent. Its shady, wet, green presence is a surprising relief from the dry, dusty heat that presses in on us when the sun has risen.

A rare permanent watering hole, Ellery Creek Bighole is a wonderful place to swim and picnic after a hike.

Only two people in our tour group of 18 decide to climb the rock. It is a steep, slippery climb aided by an anchored chain. In our brochures about the Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park, the Aboriginal people make a compelling case for not climbing the rock.

It is sacred to them, they say; even they don’t climb it, except for ceremonial occasions. Most of us have decided to respect their wishes, although refusing to climb the rock gives me the feeling of the proverbial stone holding the sea at bay. My gesture feels flat and useless against the tide of tourists who just want to say they’ve done it.

Hordes of them inch their way up the bare rock while hanging onto the chain, although most of them find the climb too precipitous to go far. The rest of us take the 5.6-mile (9 km) walk around the base, where we can inspect the geology and learn the Aboriginal stories that surround the rock. Most of them chronicle an ancient battle between two snakes.

It is easy to see why Uluru was a symbol of worship for an isolated people. Its red sides rise suddenly from the desert with no foothills or undulations. The rock is a buildup of sandstone left over from the erosion of a mountain range millions of years ago. It is only the first stop in our guided camping safari of the Outback.

Most people come to Ayers Rock or Alice Springs and take one- or two-day trips in air-conditioned buses. They snap pictures of the rock, then buy Aboriginal paintings, and perhaps a didgeridoo (a musical instrument made by the Aboriginal people from a long hollow branch that makes a deep drone when blown into) in a shop at their resort.

I signed my husband and me up for a five-day safari because I wanted to do some hiking in the desert. Now that we are away from the busloads at Uluru, onto the unpaved red dirt roads of the Outback, I am continually surprised by the changing landscape. I had expected the Outback to be empty, a flat, red, nearly featureless desert. It isn’t.

Our third day, our guide gets us out of our tents at five in the morning. After we’ve eaten our toast, drunk our tea and emptied the tents, we drive to Kings Canyon.