One Night in a Secluded Cabin Deep Within the Australian Bush

Welcome to One Night In, a series about staying in the most unparalleled places available to rest your head. 

I want to see kangaroos. It’s December 2022 and I’m "on holiday," as they say Down Under, in Australia’s southeastern state of Victoria, home to an estimated 2.4 million kangaroos (and around 6.6 million humans). While here, I want to watch a mob of kangaroos hop around through grasslands. I want to see a tiny, wide-eyed joey peeking from its mother’s pouch. I want to see that joey climb out of that pouch.

That’s why, back when I was planning this trip, I did a quick Google search for remote-but-not-so-remote-that-I’d-get-scared-to-stay-alone-there accommodations in the Australian bush. This brought me to DULC (Down Under Log Cabins), a collection of three private cabins built on five acres in Grampians National Park in 2006. Each of the rough-sawn timber structures—two single level, one double—features floor-to-ceiling windows that face the nature reserve known for its dramatic waterfalls, sandstone ridges, and Aboriginal rock art sites, as well as wildlife including emus, wallabies, and of course, kangaroos. Naturally, I booked my stay.

Wednesday

1 p.m. (or 13:00, as they say Down Under): Having landed in Melbourne a few days prior, my jet lag has passed. I’ve been hanging out northeast of Victoria’s capital in the Yarra Valley wine region, where the driver I hired to transport me to the Grampians is picking me up for the three-hour drive west. (From the Melbourne airport, the drive would’ve taken about three-and-a-half hours.)

4 p.m.: We stop for a quick pint and a bite to eat in Halls Gap Village, a small tourist town known as the gateway to the Grampians with a smattering of restaurants and mom-and-pop businesses. From there, the drive to DULC takes minutes. 

I check in at the front office and receive my door code, then hop back in the car to follow the dirt road to my cabin. There’s no mistaking that I’m in the bush; eucalyptus trees form canopies above, and I can hear the bird songs of who knows how many species (there are about 350 in the region). As we approach my cabin, called Mountain View, I admire its earthy hues and stylishly sloped roof. DULC’s original owners, Ruth and Shane Allen—who sold the property to current owner Janene Coutts in 2021—wanted the cabins to blend seamlessly into the environment. To minimize disruption to the surrounding nature and cut as little vegetation as possible, wooden stilts allow for space between the structures and the earth.

I let myself into my single-level, one-bedroom cabin. As a chronic loser of keys, I appreciate the keyless entry. I can’t see the two other cabins, nor can the other guests see mine, as far as I know, but I read that the Mountain View Deluxe cabin has two bedrooms, and the two-story Treehouse, a single like mine, has a lofted sleeping area. 

I walk inside to a spacious open plan bookended on the left by a stocked kitchenette with a breakfast nook—a table and banquettes pushed right up against a glass wall for maximum wildlife viewing over coffee. If guests request it, Janene will deliver a "breakfast hamper" (what Australians apparently call a picnic basket), so I asked for bread to make toast in the morning. The basket she left for me on the kitchen counter contains a freshly baked loaf, plus a giant Kit Kat bar and a note telling me to enjoy my stay. 

On the other end of the cabin, a sleeping area with a king-size bed is separated from the central living room by a gas log fireplace with built-in storage. Polished concrete floors span the layout. I quickly learn that the WiFi connection doesn’t work, or is, at best, unreliable, so I relax into the next two days of unplugging, ready to commune with nature.

5:30 p.m.: It’s dusk and something is screeching. I walk out onto my wooden porch, which is equipped with a barbecue and a sleek outdoor spa bath—lush, wild greenery and a pond mere inches from the lip of the deck—and see them above me: great swarms of white cockatoos, calling out in the sky. No sooner have I settled into one of the outdoor wicker chairs than a wallaby (more or less a mini kangaroo), appears beside the pond, eats some grass, and then stares at me, sussing me out. I’m mesmerized as the wallaby perches on its hind legs, little front legs dangling, ears perked.

5:33 p.m.: The wallaby breaks first from our staring contest and hops away.

8:30 p.m.: As night falls, I take a shower below the massive skylight that makes up the entire ceiling in the en suite bathroom. The shower is partially enclosed by a tall glass partition, and the parallel wall to the outdoors is a floor-to-ceiling window. The soaps and shampoos, made by local brand Orana, smell of lemongrass.

9 p.m.: My joy in communing with nature takes a turn. I realize that upon arrival, I broke the cardinal rule of cabin-living and left the front door open for around a half hour, so as I’m pulling back the covers of the king-size bed, admiring yet another large picture window—this one behind the sleeping area—a fire ant bites the crap out of the top of my foot. Nonetheless, I doze off a few minutes later.

Day 2

7 a.m.: I wake up feeling well rested, thanks in part to the blackout curtains, but mostly because nothing is more relaxing than a deep forest quiet punctuated by the lullaby of bird calls.

7:30 a.m.: Today, I’ll spend the day hiking in the Grampians. But before I head out, I want to soak up a moment on the peaceful porch, enjoying my "breakfast hamper," and listening to the birds sing.

While I’m quietly sipping my espresso and eating—I’ll admit it—the Kit Kat, it happens: a family of kangaroos bounces through the bush, just past the pond, no more than 20 feet in front of me—father, mother, and joey in its mother’s pouch. Afraid of spooking them, I sit as still as possible, watching the parents bend to nibble the tall grass, their tails resting on the ground, hoping they don’t notice my un-bush-like jeans and pink Converse. Suddenly the kangaroos raise their heads and turn toward me. Like the wallaby, they stare me down for a moment before hopping away, their powerful hind limbs propelling them through the tall grass so effortlessly, they almost seem to be floating.

Top Image Courtesy DULC

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