Climate change
Sharing the Ningaloo
There's a kayak trail running along the world's longest fringing reef, and almost no one knows it exists. But for the sake of Ningaloo's legacy, perhaps it's time more people did.
Words + Photography Joel Johnsson
Igrimly stuff dry bags into my kayak hatches with increasing speed as the lone figure proceeds down the beach towards me. It's the long weekend at one of the most hallowed holiday destinations in Western Australia, and despite the campgrounds heaving with holidaymakers, I have this stretch of coastline all to myself. In five days of paddling, this is the first person I have seen.
Other than the appearance of this stranger, it is an otherwise-perfect, serene morning. The remains of my camp are nestled within a natural bowl in the sand dunes, an amphitheatre that gazes out on all the drama of the sand flats. Coils of light writhe across the white sand like electricity, before the water deepens into broody blue hues where the coral begins. The reef is waking up, that liminal time when fish retain their dark, shadowy shapes before donning shimmering coats of splashy colour under the full sun. Two shovel-nose rays snuffle about busily in the shallows, their three-finned tails breaking the surface like the humps of the Loch Ness monster. They send a shimmering school of swallowtail dart scattering for the nearby gutter.
Apprehension and annoyance grip me as I wrestle gear beneath the hull. The figure is advancing quickly—by now they surely see the strange blue poles sunk into the sand behind me. It's not that I'm doing anything wrong—in fact, I have all the permits and permission necessary. But I know the inevitable questions will follow: What are you doing out here? How did you get here? Did you wild camp there, outside the official campgrounds?
I'm not ready to answer those questions yet.
I'm not ready to give up the secret.
It's ironic that I first stumbled on the secret in this very spot myself. Three months earlier, I too traversed these low dunes towards a craggy osprey nest. In the absence of trees on the arid coastal plain, the birds had built their own, constructing a rickety tower of driftwood that stood shoulder-high. Two chicks lounged like a pair of scruffy Rapunzels on the high platform, waiting for their next meal delivery. As I carefully positioned myself on the dune crest to take a photograph, I saw four bright-blue poles standing in the depression below me. Strange, on this wild coastline. This coastline is bordered by only a few remote campsites and a tiny tourism town. Its wilderness aura is strictly maintained—no superfluous infrastructure should exist. Was it a scientific experiment? Some sort of navigational mark?
That odd cluster of poles stuck with me, a riddle in the dunes I couldn't shake. Only when I pressed a colleague later at the Parks and Wildlife office did the truth about them finally slip out.
I need to go. With the last bits and pieces strewn around my feet, I push away from the beach and out into the safety of the quiet lagoon.
Morning
As I slip into an unhurried rhythm, the low sun gives the calm surface a mercurial sheen. Light ripples away from the bow, throwing reflections across the sand. The only movement is a small wave curling over a shallow sandbar ahead, but when I get closer, I realise it's actually a shoal of silvery fish. They shower across the still surface, catching the morning light like raindrops bouncing off the pavement in a heavy downpour.
Out at the remote edge of Western Australia, the Ningaloo is a thin blue line that separates the ancient desert of the Pilbara from the abyssal waters of the Indian Ocean. It is Australia's forgotten reef, overshadowed by its famous sister on the opposite side of the country. But where the Great Barrier Reef shies away from the coast, often taking hours to reach by boat, Ningaloo Reef hugs the shoreline. It is the longest fringing coral reef in the world, stretching almost 300km. The southern half of the reef is ragged and broken, aptly named the Shipwreck Coast. But as the reef runs north, it strengthens, forming a continuous reef crest which runs parallel to the shore, breaking the backs of the ocean swells and enclosing a long strip of coral lagoon. Behind this protective barrier is a mosaic of shallow reef flats dotted with coral gardens, waving seagrass meadows and sparkling sand flats.
Sheltered from the swell, and with a constant south-westerly breeze at your back, the reef also creates the perfect conditions for paddling. Recognising its potential, WA's Parks and