Some 317 kilometers south of Darwin, the mirror-still waters of the Katherine River cut a path through towering sandstone cliffs in Australia’s Top End. Here lies Nitmiluk National Park, where land, legend, and time are inseparable. The red rock walls sculpted over millennia glow in the sun’s passage, and their ancient presence speaks to something deep and silent in the soul.
In the language of the Jawoyn people, traditional custodians of this land, Nitmiluk means “cicada place”. Legend says, the Rainbow Serpent Bolung, a powerful creation spirit, carried water in his dilly bag and carved the gorge into being. It was Nabilil, a dragon-like ancestral figure, who named the gorge after hearing the nit-nit song of the cicadas echoing through its stone corridors. Formerly known to outsiders as Katherine Gorge, the park was officially handed back to the Jawoyn in 1989. Since then, the name Nitmiluk has reclaimed its place—not just on maps, but in the cultural revival of a people whose connection to the land spans tens of thousands of years. Today, 17 Jawoyn clans collectively manage the park, reinvesting tourism revenue directly into their communities.
Boats now glide quietly along the gorge’s tranquil waters, winding through a labyrinth of chasms where mist rises like breath. Beyond the waterways, the park expands into a rich mosaic of paperbark forests, swamps, woodlands, and sandstone plateaus, each terrain home to stories older than history. “This land has always been a gathering place,” says local guide Rob Davis, as he gestures toward a weathered rock shelter. “The Jawoyn and Dagoman people met here, shared knowledge, celebrated life. You can still feel their presence in the art they left behind.”
Etched onto over 500 marked sites across the park, rock paintings—some dating back 20,000 years— depict spirit beings, animals, and daily life. Made from ochre, animal blood, and tree sap, these works are not merely decorative but a living archive. “The Jawoyn made brushes from long grasses,” Davis explains. “They’d chew the ends into fine bristles. The clapsticks in ceremonies are crafted from local ironwood. Even the didgeridoo, carved from termite-hollowed gum trees, carries generations of song.”
Andrew, a Jawoyn elder and guide, shows how her ancestors once stripped screw pine leaves to make bags and mats, using needles made from sharpened kangaroo bone. “We still know how to do these things,” she says, gently placing wild lemongrass in a woven basket. “But not all our young people remember. That’s what I worry about. That we’ll forget.”
Her voice trails off as the cicadas begin to sing again—an ancient chorus echoing through the sandstone gorge. In Nitmiluk, the past is not past. It’s alive—in stone, in water, in memory.