Don Rowlands is the keeper of Central Australia's vast Simpson Desert.
Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander readers are advised this story contains images of people who have died.
When he closes his eyes, the wind gives way to older sounds, of feet dancing in the sand, as the echoes of his ancestors carry across the "big sandhill country" they know as Munga-Thirri.
For more than three decades, he has been the ranger in charge of Munga-Thirri National Park, Queensland's largest protected area near Birdsville in the state's far south-west corner.
Being Birdsville's ranger is a role he has defined. Each day is a delicate balance of managing conservation, visitor access and preserving culture.
But the time has come for the lone ranger to hang up his uniform.
"Despite having to move on, my heart is still in the desert and it's my traditional lands and I have a responsibility to care for it and I will."
"No matter where the path takes me, I will always be walking in the desert."
Freedom and identity
Queensland's slice of the 1 million hectares of the Simpson Desert's sand dunes, this year awash with floodwater and wildflowers, was gazetted as a national park in 1967.
A lot has changed in the desert since; much of the bush tucker Don found as a kid is gone and birds have thinned out.
Feral animals such as cats continue to wreak havoc, and early on it was millions of rabbits.
"When the calicivirus came along in 1996 and wiped them out that was a big thing for me," Don says.
When Don became the first Queensland Parks and Wildlife ranger employed to care for Munga-Thirri National Park in 1994, he quickly set about reshaping its future.
He pushed for the park to be recognised by its traditional name and became a leading advocate for native title recognition, a fight that took two decades, culminating in a determination in 2014.
The work placed him in a space he knew well, navigating the ground between two worlds.
"Most of my mob were so entrenched with growing up with white people that they didn't want to upset them," Don says.
"I did a lot of the work by myself."
Growing up in Birdsville as a ward of the state, Don's earlier life was dictated by government authorities and police.
The quiet routine of putting on his ranger uniform every day for the past 32 years marked a shift in Don.
"It gave you identity; you're identified with a group of people who care for native animals, for the landscape."
Constant in community
No-one knows the desert like Don; he can distinguish every dune and reads the shifting sands like a well-worn map.
He has been involved in dozens of rescues, many of those alongside Stephan Pursell, who was Birdsville's police officer for almost a decade.
"He always joked that he could actually now sit up in the front of the police car rather than in the back," Stephan says.
Beyond working together, the pair became mates.
"I don't think he's replaceable to be honest," Stephan says.
At the Birdsville Hotel, Ben Fullagher says Don's retirement is going to leave a huge gap in the community.
"We call on Don usually around conditions in the desert, what the creeks are doing, what the floodwaters over the summer might be doing," he says.
"It's a very important part of the local economy, ensuring access is open and regular for the tourism across the desert."
All for family
It is a lifetime of knowledge Don has shared with anyone who comes seeking it.
He hopes the next ranger will too.
Don has followed and researched his people's songlines through the desert, the pathways that connect places, people and stories.
"I'm the only one that knows where they are," he says.
The reason behind everything for Don is family.
"It's all about preserving our story … it's really important that I leave my message here for my kids."
Through every success and setback, his greatest support has been his wife, Lyn Rowlands.
"I was really proud of him to be wearing that uniform … that he had a job in government after the way he was treated."
There have been times when Lyn has worked as a ranger too, along with their daughter, Peta Rowlands.
"I was very young at the time … it hasn't been until a lot later in life that I've sort of appreciated what the job has meant not just for me, his daughter, for him and our family but more for our culture," Peta says.
"I don't want to stay at home and just do nothing. I'm toying with a few touring ideas, tag along and go off into some of this wild country," he says.
"I want to talk about the bad times and the good times but the fight I've had in the middle to not erase the bad times but improve the good."
"You can have a voice, and people should have a voice. For too long we didn't have a voice."
