When I was growing up it was normal to hear about people climbing Uluru, the giant red monolith in the middle of Australia. Back then I never thought much of it, probably because it was being summited well before I was born. Last October, 34 years after Uluru was handed back to Anangu, it's traditional owners, the climb to its summit was permanently closed. I decided to visit the week before the closure, where thousands of Australians came to complete the climb at the eleventh hour. I found myself drawn to the quieter moments more than the event itself, where nothing officially happened but something more broad and immanent became visible.