Lady Luck was with us when we visited Australia's Ayer's Rock. The weather was cool.

"Just 95 degrees," the guide said flippantly. "Shoulda been here last week when it was 114."

We were relieved. We left for Australia on Jan. 2 but two weeks before we began checking the world's weather charts. At 116 degrees, Oodnadatta in Australia's Red Center, consistently qualified as the hottest place on earth. And Oodnadatta isn't all that far from "The Rock."

Ayer's Rock, is, however, a morning's bus ride from its hub, Alice Springs, which, at 28,000 population, is the commercial center of the Outback. We had arrived in "The Alice" via the famed Ghan Train and had visited its sites: The Royal Flying Doctor's Service, School of the Air and the old telegraph station. Dating from 1871, the telegraph station is the Red Center's first commercial settlement. But now it was time to check out the vista on all those post cards and travel posters – that great red monolith rising abruptly from the equally red soils of the Outback.

Actually, Ayer's Rock, Uluru to the native Anangu Aboriginal peoples, doesn't emerge in the sense of a volcano or a mountain range pushed up by forces deep within the earth. Ayer's Rock got its start 650 million years ago as part of a massive seabed that occupied the land we now call Australia. That sea floor did rise, and in the eons that followed erosion wore it down, leaving a few bumps here and there. The Rock is the most famous "bump," followed by a set of neighboring behemoths dubbed the "Olgas." We visited both.

Getting there, however, involves a nearly five-hour road trip from Alice Springs. Or, folks can fly in to the Ayer's Rock airport. Cross country, however, is the way to go for those who want the real flavor of Australia's Red Center.

"Out here," Steve, the driver, tells us as he points our bus down a straight stretch for as far as the eye can see, "there's no speed limit. You can pass right by a highway patrolman, even wave at him, and there's nothing he can do about it."

Any bus trip worth its ticket touts some photo ops along the way, and the shutterbugs were ready. First stop: the camel farm at Stuart Wells. (Get this: Australia now exports camels to the Middle East. Go figure!). Down the road a piece came Mt. Ebenezer Cattle Station. Never did see a mountain, but took a picture of the rickety one-pump gasoline station that would have been right at home in the U.S.A., circa 1940. And, here's a site you don't see along any stateside highway: massive (2,000 gallon) water tanks positioned here and there along this two-lane paved road. Filled periodically by tank trucks, these reservoirs with faucets are for travelers who may have underestimated their distance between points A and B or overestimated their tolerance for thirst.

Then, the reason for it all: From 30 miles out arose The Rock. After decades of seeing it on post cards and calendars, the real thing is a jaw-dropper. There it is - Ayer's Rock! And those crinkled blurs farther in the distance are the Olgas - Kata Tjuta, which to the native Anangus means "many heads."

We tackled the Olgas first - not "tackled" in the sense of Sir Edmund Hillary's assault on Mt. Everest - but in the sense of two cityside softies who, nonetheless, make it to the local rec center most every day. Walking over slick rock into a gorge that almost cuts one of these massifs in half, we gazed up and up. The brilliant red formations against cobalt blue skies were dazzling. Utterly overpowering, however, was the sense that we -“ two hikers in this primordial wilderness -“ were the size of flies compared to these behemoths.

And, speaking of flies, clearly the little black devils were holding a convention and Australia's Outback was playing host. Tiny, irksome, pesky flies by the billions. An old Aussies saw follows this line: "Someone killed one, and all its relatives came to the funeral." Well, we were at the funeral, but the only thing we were mourning was our sanity as we swatted away. One traveler passed us wearing a green net over her head, face and neck. Vendors should make millions selling these.

Flies or no flies, watching the sun set over Ayer's Rock is one of life's great moments. People travel thousands of miles for the spectacle, and here we were. Arriving late in the afternoon at the viewing area, set off by rope and replete with signs, "Please do not pass beyond this marker," one couldn't help but wonder what an Aborigine of yesteryear, watching from the pages of history, might think. Luxury tour buses pull up and disgorge hundreds of passengers, who are greeted with a small feast. Set out on the red earth of the Outback is table after table, each covered with a crisp white linen cloth and bearing offerings of Australian wine, along with cheese, crackers and other crudites. Folks sip and munch, watching as the sun begins to settle in the sky, casting its shadow deeper and deeper into the rock. At 7:30 on that day, it was gone.

Though today's natives may not understand this ritual, they are at least familiar with it. If, however, an Aborigine of past "dream times," could watch this spectacle, he surely would be horrified and feel violated. These sites, after all, are sacred to the Aboriginal peoples. Every mark on their Uluru, every plant, animal and rock, is worshiped. And here are strangers trampling their red earth, shooting photos - a major violation of Aboriginal privacy - and eating, drinking, talking, laughing, then finally boarding those big sleek tubes that take them away into the night. To the ancients, the gods would be in sorrow and the earth would never be right again.

But for travelers that night, the earth was in perfect alignment. Never had a sun set been so spectacular and, driving to our headquarters at nearby Ayer's Rock Resort, the stars and moon never had been brighter.

Ayer's Rock, named after a South Australia businessman who made a fortune mining copper, has forever been set off as a preserved area, a national park. No commerce is allowed within 15 miles of The Rock and, even then, the commercial area consists only of accommodations, albeit snazzy ones, for visitors. Grand though our quarters were, considering our day's itinerary, we probably could have slept on a bed of nails.

Not to worry. Either way, sleep that night was in short supply. One of those luxury tour buses would stop at the hotel shortly after 4 a.m. to pick us up for sunrise viewing of the rock. Most of us would assemble behind a rope again, this time with a little breakfast of coffee, tea and cookies, but Barrie had other ideas: He would watch the sun rise as he walked the 6-mile loop around Uluru. (Author's note: Mary would have tagged along except for visions of her Boulder-based physical therapist, Sue Nakaoka, shaking her head no. "Not yet, Mary. We still have work to do.")

So Mary listened to Sue and she, along with her still-ailing back, stayed with the throngs. Morning came quickly to the Outback. Rising at 6:04, reliable ole sol painted The Rock in gold.

Our time spent there shed new light on Aboriginal beliefs and on Uluru. Never again will we view this icon as just another photo op. Viewed close up, with its cracks, crevices and caves, Ayer's Rock takes on a personality that never appears on a calendar or postcard picture.

Nor does the aerial view that comes with flying out of Ayer's Rock. Lessons in geography unfolded as we passed above craters, folded mountain ranges, ridges, mesas, gorges, dry river beds and - on a narrow, paved highway - exactly one white car, a van, making its way north through the red country. "And this is a busy day," wisecracked an Aussie passenger.

Next adventure: An all-day cruise onto the Great Barrier Reef – or so we had planned. Departing Ayer's Rock airport in 95 degree weather, we were ill-prepared for what came next: the monsoon. Not just any monsoon but the Mother of all Monsoons.

Alighting the plane and stepping onto the tarmac in Cairns, the skies opened. Curtains of water poured out. Drenched, soaked, dumped on - we grappled for words. Boarding the bus for our hotel, rain dripped through the air conditioning system onto our heads. In Boulder, such a storm would be the Hundred Year Flood. "Now," quipped Barrie, "We know why Noah built the ark." Indeed!

"Well never see the reef in this weather," I remarked.

"Yes, you will. Just wait and see," tour directors and hotel clerks insisted.

We didn't see the reef. "Too stormy," announced the captain of our catamaran, after all passengers had been loaded the following morning. Barrie and I will have to content ourselves with the new IMAX movie, "Coral Reef."

Australia is a vast country. Bill Bryson, writing "In a Sunburned Land," returned there time and again, spending months traveling the continent, but not even he, in his 331-page book, could cover it all.

But one doesn't leave Australia without mention of its animals, said to be the strangest collection of creatures on earth.

The cute koala, for example, is not so cute when frightened. After petting one of the cuddly looking fellas at a conservation park, we learned that the wildlife official who had captured him had earned 300 stitches for his efforts. The koala has long sharp claws and they bite. Approach with caution or not at all.

Then, there's "Jack the Ripper," the salt-water crocodile who now lives in his own private pool near Cairns. Turns out that Jack was a bit snippy in his native digs on the Cape York Peninsula, so wildlife officials rounded him up and flew him to Cairns via Quantas Airlines - first-class no doubt. Once in his new abode, his keepers decided he needed a girlfriend. Wrong! Jack killed his lady friend and ate part of her. Likewise with girlfriends two through 12. Now, the nasty-tempered croc lives the life of a confirmed bachelor. The big question: Why did it take 12 females before Jack was committed to a life of solitude?

And last, but certainly not least, is the kangaroo, a creature that reputedly got its name when an English explorer asked an Aborigine, "What is that animal?" "Kangaroo," came the reply meaning, "I don't understand." Thus "kangaroo!"

'Roos, especially females, are amazing. They are perennially pregnant with a joey in the pouch, a fetus in the womb and an embryo in waiting. ("I'm not coming back as a kangaroo," our tour guide, Carol, bantered.) In times of drought, mama can halt the reproductive process until the rains come. She also can control the sex of her offspring. Daughters arrive early in life so they can help with the sons who come along later.

The great seal of Australia features engravings of the country's great bird, the emu, along with the kangaroo. This image was chosen because neither animal can move backward, only forward.

Moving forward. For these two travelers, that is Australia.