Day Trip: The Pinnacle Desert in Western Australia

With only a few days left in Australia, I felt a growing sense of urgency. There were still so many places I hadn’t seen, so many experiences I didn’t want to miss. Determined to make the most of the time I had left, I scrambled to find any last-minute adventures I could squeeze in before my flight home.

High on my bucket list was a trip to the Pinnacles Desert, a place I had heard described as otherworldly, like stepping onto the surface of Mars. With its golden sands, and limestone spires, it was a destination I couldn’t leave Australia without seeing. So, with a sense of excitement (and a little bit of panic), I booked a day trip with a local tour company—my German friend and I hopping aboard a van that would take us on a winding journey up north toward this magical landscape.

Lancelin

We left Perth around 12:30 PM, and began the long drive north toward Lancelin, a small coastal town known for its towering sand dunes and laid-back vibe. As we rolled into town, I noticed it wasn’t much more than a cluster of buildings—a bubble tea shop, a cozy little café, and a few houses. It was the kind of place where time seemed to slow down, where you could feel the ocean breeze mixing with the warm desert air.

We decided to stretch our legs, stepping out of the van to grab a quick treat. As we wandered, my eyes caught something unexpected in front of the coffee shop—a single black chicken, confidently strutting across the pavement as if it owned the place. I turned to my German friend and exclaimed, half in disbelief, “Wow, there’s a chicken here!”

Before we could take another step, a woman appeared seemingly out of nowhere, as if she had been summoned by my words. She looked like she was in her early thirties, with sun-kissed skin, a messy ponytail, and an easy smile. Without skipping a beat, she pointed to the chicken and said proudly, “Oh, that’s my pet chicken!” Her tone was light, but there was a hint of affection that made it clear this was no ordinary backyard hen.

She told us that the chicken was only four months old, and that they went everywhere together. It was her pet, her travel companion, her little sidekick. It was such a small, random moment, but it stuck with me. Sadly, I didn't take a picture of this women holding her chicken, but I wish I did!

After one or two more stops along the way—pulling over at scenic beaches to stretch our legs and breathe in the salty air—we finally arrived at the Pinnacles Desert.

Our guide began to share the mysteries of this strange and beautiful place. According to her, scientists aren’t entirely sure how old the Pinnacles are—estimates range anywhere from 30,000 to 500,000 years. It’s hard to wrap your head around a number like that, imagining these ancient stones standing for so long, weathered by wind and sand, yet still so striking.

There are a few theories about how the Pinnacles were formed:

The Ancient Forest Theory suggests that this desert was once covered by a forest. The roots of the trees would hold water that was rich in calcium. Over time, the calcium mixed with the limestone in the ground, forming the strange spires we see today, while the ever-shifting sands of migrating dunes covered the formations further.

Another theory suggests a much starker origin. According to the another theory, there was no forest here at all—just an open landscape where heavy rains, rich in calcium, combined with the limestone beneath the surface to slowly sculpt these eerie structures, shaped over thousands of years by the wind and water.

But perhaps the most fascinating explanation comes from the Indigenous Story—a tale passed down for generations by the local Aboriginal mobs who have been visiting the desert for the past 6,000 years. According to this story, the Pinnacles were once the hands of those who disrespected sacred land. The story goes that the desert was a gathering place for mobs to train, and celebrate. However, there was a neighboring mob who wasn’t allowed to enter the desert without permission. They came anyway, trespassing without consent. The gods, angered by this disrespect, buried them beneath the sands. The Pinnacles represent the arms and hands of these individuals, forever reaching for the sky, trying in vain to escape their sandy tomb.

As I stood among the towering limestone spires, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of those stories. Whether shaped by ancient forests, rain, or legends, the Pinnacles felt like a place felt sacred in some way.

By mid-May, the sunsets in Western Australia came early, around 5:30 PM. As the golden light dipped lower, we found ourselves surrounded by a breathtaking, almost surreal scene. The sky was a canvas of colors—shifting from soft blues to warm oranges and deep purples—while the Pinnacles themselves cast long, dramatic shadows across the desert floor. The limestone formations, once sunlit, now appeared like ancient sentinels, standing quietly as the day faded.

As the light began to slip away, we hurried back toward the picnic tables, not wanting to get caught too far into the desert once darkness fell. The shadows stretched longer, and the air began to cool—reminding us that even in this dry landscape, the desert could change quickly.

But nothing could have prepared me for what came next.

Once the sun had fully disappeared and the sky darkened into a rich, inky black, it was as if someone had turned off a switch, plunging the entire desert into a quiet, peaceful darkness. And then—one by one, the stars began to emerge.

It started slowly—a few bright points of light scattered across the sky. Then, as my eyes adjusted, the entire Milky Wayrevealed itself, stretching across the horizon in a breathtaking display. The night sky was so clear, it felt like I could almost reach out and touch the stars.

I had never seen a sky like this before. No city lights to dull the brilliance, no sound except the faint whispers of the desert wind. Just a vast expanse of stars—shining brighter than I had ever imagined. It was a moment of pure awe, a reminder of how small we are beneath the endless universe.

Our tour guide pointed out a few stars in the night sky, connecting them with stories and bits of cultural wisdom passed down through generations. She spoke of constellations visible only in the Southern Hemisphere, like the Southern Cross, and how they had helped sailors navigate for centuries.

It felt strange, almost disorienting, to see that familiar shape—the pan handle—in a different position, tilted at an angle I wasn’t used to. It was as if the entire sky had been rearranged, the constellations I had looked at my whole life suddenly flipped, reminding me that my perspective wasn’t fixed; it was shaped by where I stood in the world.

The end.