Given that we are “a sunburnt country, a land of sweeping plains …” it’s unsurprising that Australia doesn’t really do easy access.
It does planes, trains, automobiles – and then a bit of “are you sure about this track, because there’s a pebble stuck in my sneaker” for good measure.
You don’t just arrive at the good views here. You negotiate your way in. Sometimes by car. By flight. Or by foot. Often a combination of all three … paired with a moment of questioning your life choices somewhere between “this was a great idea” and “why is my heart rate like this?”
The country will happily give you something incredible … but first, it wants to know if you’re willing to move for it. No shuttle-to-lookout situation. No cafe at the base. No gentle escalator easing you into nature. Just transport. Then terrain. Then a quiet test of commitment.
Wilpena Pound, SA (Flinders Ranges)
First, the drive. Long (about 450 kilometres north of Adelaide), open, slightly hypnotic in that “we’ve definitely left civilisation behind” way. Then the moment where the bitumen stops feeling certain.
From there, it’s you and the land. Every step feels like a slow exit from noise.
By the time you’re inside it, phones are irrelevant, conversation softens, and even your thoughts start walking a bit slower.
You don’t rush Wilpena Pound. Not because you’re told not to, but because everything else has already dropped away.
Wineglass Bay, Tasmania
Classic case of “you can drive most of the way… but not the point.”
The road gets you to the Freycinet Peninsula. The rest is yours to earn.
It starts as a walk. Then becomes a descent. Then a negotiation with gravity on the way back up that feels mildly personal.
The transport story here is almost funny in hindsight: plane to Tasmania, car to Freycinet, foot to the lookout, lungs to the limit.
And then suddenly … there it is. That perfect curve of sand and water that makes the whole logistical chain feel oddly reasonable.
You may want to forget the climb up. But you absolutely do not forget the views on the way back.
Ruined Castle, Blue Mountains, NSW
Train from Sydney. Car to the start point. Then foot. Always foot.
The Blue Mountains are only an hour or so from the city, which is deceptive – because the moment you step onto the track, the tone shifts completely.
Eucalyptus haze does its thing. The air changes register. The landscape starts feeling less like a day trip and more like a slow transition into another setting.
Ruined Castle itself appears gradually, like it’s been waiting for you to stop checking your phone.
You arrive slightly out of breath, mildly disoriented, and suddenly very aware that transport ended a while ago and this is now entirely on you.
Jim Jim Falls, Kakadu, NT
This is where the transport narrative stops being cute.
Flights to Darwin. Long drives into Kakadu National Park. Then the real question: how accessible is it this season?
Because Jim Jim Falls doesn’t operate on your calendar. It operates on wet seasons, dry seasons, road conditions, and a general sense of whether the land feels like cooperating.
Sometimes it’s 4WD only. Sometimes it’s guided access. Sometimes it’s “you’ll need to walk from here” and the “here” is already deep enough into the park that your sense of direction quietly gives up.
And then you hear it before you see it.
That shift in scale. That sound that makes everything else feel smaller.
Worth every form of transport it took to get there.
Lord Howe Island, NSW
This one starts with a flight – and immediately removes most of your assumptions about travel.
Once you land, cars basically disappear from the story. No traffic. No urgency. No “we’ll just drive there quickly.”
Instead: bikes, walking, boats. The original transport systems, quietly reinstated.
It takes about a day before you stop thinking in distances entirely. Everything becomes “a short ride” or “a nice walk” or “we’ll just head over there”, which feels almost suspiciously simple.
And then you realise that simplicity on Lord Howe Island is the point.
