Solo in the Nambung District – May 2026
I returned to the Nambung District for the first two weeks of May — slipping back into my favourite corner of Western Australia to wander alone again. A year has passed since the fires, and the land is shifting quickly. The scrub is returning, the shadows are changing, and the places that were briefly exposed are already beginning to disappear. It felt like the right moment to come back, to see what the country was doing, and to say a quiet goodbye to the things that won’t be visible for much longer.
The weather was mostly kind, with a few rainy days that softened the colours and settled the sand. The nights, though — they were cold. Inside the truck, my little home on wheels, the temperature dropped to 11°C, the kind of cold that makes you pull the blankets higher and tighter and listen to the wind brushing past the canopy.
One Last Look Before the Bush Returns
There’s a set of pinnacles I’ve visited for years — shapes I’ve come to recognise like familiar faces. After the fires, they stood exposed for the first time in decades, maybe longer. This trip, I could already see the new growth pushing in around them. Soon they’ll be hidden again, swallowed by the regenerating scrub.
I spent a long time there, walking slowly between them, taking in the lines and the way the morning light still threaded through the gaps. It felt like visiting old friends who were packing up to leave.
Cross‑Country from Frederick Smith Waterhole
One of my goals was to walk cross‑country from Frederick Smith Waterhole — a place that always feels older than everything around it. Last year’s fires cleared the paperbarks and revealed the waterhole properly for the first time in ages. This time, the walk didn’t uncover much, but I did find the old fence line again — now lying flat, half‑buried, half‑visible, slowly sinking into the sand, hidden by the vegetation.
The vegetation has already hidden this part of history again, until the next fire goes through, amazing. I could not find the timbers of the old well or the old waterhole with its burnt star picket and wire fence.
It’s funny how the bush keeps its history. Even when it falls over, it doesn’t disappear. It just waits.
The Alf Passfield Quest — Finally Solved
For years I’ve been searching for one particular spot: the exact place where Alf Passfield — the first ranger here — was photographed peering through a pinnacle. It’s one of those iconic images that sticks in your mind, and every trip I’ve wandered around thinking, I’ll know it when I see it.
This time, I did. Peek-a-boo!
I came over a small rise, looked up, and there it was — the curve, the opening, the angle of the rock. I stood there grinning, feeling like I’d stumbled onto a secret handshake from the past. After all these years, the land finally revealed it. I took my own version of the shot, feeling a quiet satisfaction settle in.
Visiting the Alf Passfield Pinnacle
While exploring the northern tracks, I also visited the pinnacle I’ve long called the Alf Passfield Pinnacle — the very one he’s standing beside in his book Nambung Here We Come. It’s my favourite book on this area, full of stories, grit, and the kind of dry humour only a ranger from that era could get away with.
Standing beside that pinnacle again, knowing Alf once leaned on it in the same way, felt like stepping into a page of his book. A small moment of connection across time.
Molah Pinnacle — A Memory Rediscovered
Re‑reading Nambung Here We Come one evening, another shape jumped out at me — Molah Pinnacle, one of the formations Alf photographed and wrote about with his usual dry charm.
I stared at the picture for a moment before it clicked: I’ve been there.
Back in 2009, long before I understood the history woven through this landscape, I’d stood beside that very pinnacle without realising what I was looking at. Finding it again in Alf’s book felt like uncovering a forgotten memory, a small personal loop finally closing. It’s funny how the land keeps its stories — sometimes you just need a second look to recognise them. Yes standing on them in 2009, I have learnt so much watch NOT to do.
This is one of those things! I also remembered that when the Leyland Bros visited Cervantes, they also placed a foot on Molah Pinnacle in their video in one of their scenes.
Bee Hive Point — A Quiet Loss
I also made the walk out to what I’ve always known as Bee Hive Point, a place that once hummed with life.
Before the fires, the limestone pockets here sheltered dozens of wild hives, and even last year one stubborn hive was still holding on. This time, though, the silence was complete. The fires had swept through with a finality I hadn’t fully understood until I stood there again. Every hive was gone. The rock still remembers their shapes, but the life that filled them has vanished. It was a sad moment — another reminder of how much the fires took, and how long recovery will really take.
The Dunes — Flatter, Firmer, Different
The dunes were noticeably different this year. Flatter. Softer in shape. Pressed down by the weather and firmed up by the recent rains. Walking them felt easier, like the land had smoothed itself out for a while. The wind hadn’t yet carved them back into their usual sharp ridges.
And for the first time in a long while, the little lake on the edge of the dunes actually held water — a small, shimmering patch reflecting the sky. A rare sight out here, and a beautiful one.
The Tuart That Finally Let Go
There’s a huge old Tuart out there that I’ve been watching for years — a stubborn, magnificent tree locked in a slow battle with the dune creeping steadily toward it. Every visit I’d check on it, half expecting to find it gone, half admiring the way it kept holding its ground. But this year was different.
The fire had taken its heart, leaving the trunk hollowed and defeated. With its strength gone, nothing now stands between the dune and its long, patient advance. It was sad to see the end of something that had fought for so long, a quiet reminder that even the toughest survivors eventually yield to time, fire, and sand.
Fewer Goats, Quieter Country
Up in the northern end of the park, I noticed something else: far fewer goats. Last year they were everywhere, darting across tracks and grazing on the fire‑fresh regrowth.
Although, there was certainly evidence of the goats being around – this image shows the goats hoof marks on the fragile landscape.
This year, the country felt quieter. More settled. The kind of quiet that makes you stop and listen, just in case there’s something you’re meant to hear.
A Sad Sight — Damage in a Delicate Area
Not everything was uplifting. In one of the most delicate parts of the park — an area untouched by the fires, where fossilised roots lie exposed in the sand like ancient veins — a quad bike had been through recently. The tracks cut deep, crushing the fragile formations that have survived centuries of wind and weather.
It was a genuinely sad sight. This landscape heals slowly, and damage like that doesn’t fade quickly. Some marks stay for generations.
The Enduring Signage — Rust, Salt, and Time
I also took time to photograph the Alf Passfield National Park signage — still standing, still fading, still rusting its way slowly back into the landscape. The salt air and constant sand‑blasting have been eating at it for years, softening the paint, pitting the metal, giving it that weathered, stubborn look that only coastal WA can produce.
There’s something fitting about it — the first ranger’s name slowly being reclaimed by the elements he worked in. A quiet reminder that everything out here endures, but nothing stays unchanged.
The Weather, the Light, and the Last Day
Most days were clear, a few were rainy, and the sunsets — well, they weren’t as spectacular this year. The colours were softer, more muted. But the last full day rolled in with a heavy overcast sky, and instead of dulling the landscape, it transformed it.
The light went soft and even. The pinnacles stood out like sculptures in a natural gallery. The sand turned a gentle grey‑gold. I came home with some of the best images I’ve taken in years — proof that you don’t always need a blazing sunset to make magic.
Two weeks passed quickly, as they always do out here. The Nambung District is changing again — healing, hiding, reshaping. I’m glad I was there to see this moment in its cycle. And I know I’ll be back, wandering the dunes, chasing old stories, and finding new ones.
