It is a sandstone formation that looks like a cleanly cut tofu. It stands 348 meters high, with a circumference of 9.4 kilometers.

Legally you are still allowed to climb it, but your guide will do anything to talk you out of the idea, citing the number of deaths from falls and the mysterious deaths that occurred shortly after the climb. You see, the rock is sacred to the Anangu, the Aboriginal people of the area, who still perform certain rituals that even our guide is not supposed to know.

Anyway, the best way to marvel at this highly recognizable natural landmark of Australia is from a certain distance and at sunrise or sunset. I partook in both a dawn and a dusk tour.

The first and last rays of the sun seem to wave a magic wand over the rock, changing its colors from moment to moment as the light sifts through clouds of ever-changing density and form. There's a glow that almost seems to be from another world, something lifted from scenes of a fantasy film.

The day of my sunrise tour, just before the sun peeped from the horizon, there was a drizzle—a rare event, I was told, in this dry land. As a result of the sudden moisture, two parallel rainbows leapt from behind the rock, with a third struggling to emerge from the mist.

Sure, luck had something to do with it, but the magic of the location seemed to manifest pretty strongly.

Kata Tjuta, or Mount Olga as it was previously known before the name reverted to the Aboriginal term, is 25 km west of Uluru and seems to be a less distinguished cousin.