“They’re called the Blue Mountains, but they’re not really blue, and they’re not actually mountains, so…yeah,” our guide, Luke, said easily. He couldn’t have been more than four or five years older than me, and seemed to fully embody the word “scruffy.” He sported a beard that looked far too patchy to be taken seriously, drove a van that couldn’t be too much younger than me, but his eyes…His eyes spoke of a wildness that wasn’t limited to western New South Wales. As we made the hours-long jaunt toward the Blue Mountains that really weren’t, he told us about his travels around the world, and how he had ended his journey right back where he started, if only for a little while.

The moment I stepped on that dubious van, I knew that this trip would have everything that the previous day didn’t. I traveled with a handful of people rather than a busload, and the trip was structured to interact with nature rather than photograph it. We even ate lunch in a wind cave:

 

A couple of people on the tour eating lunch with Luke, our guide (middle).

Throughout the day, Luke somehow navigated us around the crowds of tourists so that we merely passed by them instead of jostling amongst them. We learned that the Blue Mountains are older than the Grand Canyon, and are blue because of oils released from trees that provide a haze in the air to give the appearance of bluishness, and that they’re a series of plateaus interspersed with valleys rather than actual mountains, but hey, “Blue Mountains” is much easier to say.

 

The weather, where it was perfect the day before, was now temperamental, giving us a few rays of sunshine before turning windy and torrential, and then back again. A few of us wound our way down a narrow, snaking track in one of the more severe downpours, the hardy grass slashing at our faces and arms, umbrellas and rain gear long since useless. We emerged at a lookout point just as the sky cleared, and beheld something totally unexpected:

 

A spectacular double rainbow (look very closely) arching over the valley as the clouds cleared. The rain gone, and the returning flies forgotten for a moment (quite an event in itself, as anyone who has ever been to Australia can tell you), we grinned at each other and lingered on our little precipice a little longer, then made our return, Luke stopping dead every few moments to identify this half-seen bird, listen for that frog. This was the difference in my two trips. From the perspective of the staff, one was a job, and the other was a dream made reality, and it was that passion for one’s work—or lack thereof—that made or broke the entire journey.

Finally, we traveled to our final stop, a remote park that was often frequented by wild kangaroos. While we munched on some snacks that Luke had brought along, our group roamed the park, though it wasn’t long before we spotted our first kangaroos. How close did we get, you ask?

   

Pretty close.

A short while later, we chugged back to Sydney on the Little Van That Could in high spirits, though almost disappointed to leave that sanctuary, home to hundreds of diverse species, some of which are unique to the region. I wished we could have done a bit more hiking, but all in all, the trip was fantastic, and half the price of dolphin watching. Sunset in Sydney seemed somehow more soothing that evening as I made my now-standard rounds of Darling Harbour and Circular Quay. At last, the adventure addict in me had quenched its appetite and bedded down for a few days.

The next two days were a blur. The end of my week suddenly seemed a lot closer after dedicating so much time away from Sydney. I returned to many of the places visited before, including a return trip to Bondi Beach to see the rest of the Sculpture by the Sea exhibit, and to watch some random guy break the world record for the highest bungee jump by leaping out of a helicopter and plunging 300 meters (almost 1000 feet). Then once again my bags were packed, I was hugging my friend goodbye, and I was on an airplane watching Australia dwindle into the distance.