Even in the middle of nowhere, someone decided to paint a tree.

In the desolate expanse of Lightning Ridge, where the land stretches out like an old parchment under a brooding sky, I came across an arresting sight—a solitary white tree standing defiant amidst the arid landscape. Its stark branches reached out like skeletal fingers against the backdrop of dense greenery on the horizon. The ground beneath my feet was a meticulous arrangement of rocks and pebbles, forming patterns that seemed almost deliberate in their labyrinthine design. It was as if nature itself had conspired to create this tableau of contrasts—a testament to resilience and isolation. The sky above threatened rain, casting a somber mood over the scene, yet there was a certain tranquility in the air. In this remote corner of New South Wales, where opal miners toil and tourists seldom tread, I found an unexpected moment of reflection—an encounter with the sublime in its most unadorned form.