However, sour opposition and twisted bureaucracy forced him into premature closure.  He made the mistake of selling a cold can of beer to a thirsty traveller.

At Yamarna we made time to adjust and repair our gear.  A combination of a rough track and excess weight was beginning to rip the straps from the saddle bags.  Gaffer tape to the rescue.

Local rain had given the country a green tinge and left trackside puddles, gholes and quagmires.  Just out of Yamarna I felt confident enough to grab a large handful of throttle.  Wrong!

I rounded a blind bend to be confronted by large sheet of water. 

George was close behind and had only a moment to react.

At the second camp
 

He cut right, wrapped on the throttle and threw mud everywhere as he found a way past the 100 metre “puddle”.   Mmmm!   Now my turn.  I took a wide berth to the left and picked my way through the spinifex and mulga trees to firmer, drier ground.  Mud plugs are for mugs.

Further down the track the sign said “4WD Only”.  Bike riders translate this to mean “soft sand, difficult riding”.  This was no exception to the rule.  Heart in the mouth terrain.  It was only a matter of time before I went down after a quick “tank slapper”.

George helped me pick up the bike, brush off the dirt and regain some lost pride.  At least he didn’t take a photograph of my first fall!  Very soon after I hit a kilometre of the toughest bit of riding encountered so far.  I was on the foot pegs, fighting to stay upright.  Loose, deep sand was dragging down the bike.  I kept telling myself to keep the front wheel pointed in the direction I wanted to go and everything would be all right.  The sand seemed never ending.  Fatigue overcame my fitness.  When would this ever end?

Hard breathing, aching legs, arms and lungs.  And then suddenly the ground firmed.  Phew!  Stop the bike, helmet off, jacket off, get my breath.  Where’s George?

As I later discovered, George had also fallen.  Not wishing to again tackle the soft dirt on the bike, I walked back about a kilometre

After a short discussion about perhaps calling it day and selecting a campsite in the spinifex we decided otherwise and pushed on.  Just on dark we reached the Great Central Road where the Laverton Shire grader driver, Rod, was camped.
 

Rod and George around the campfire, Great Central Road
 

It seemed that the Shire President, who ran tag-along–tours out to the Connie Sue, wanted a more comfortable ride for his clients.  We sat around stoking the campfire, telling lies and contemplating whether the distant flashes of lightning heralded rain for us before hitting the sack early.
 

We made an early start across the big, wide-open spaces of Australia.  First stop was Tjurkayirla Roadhouse (known locally as “Chooka”) with its caged bowsers (as with all the fuel bowsers in the "Lands").  The price on the gauge was a reminder of the isolation - $1.15 per litre.

By the time we reached Warburton the day was heating up.  We had an icecream while sitting on the concrete verandah of the Roadhouse, chatted to fellow travellers (who, curiously, were ignorant of the country through which they had just travelled and, perhaps not so curiously, were insensitive to the sensibilities of Aborigines with regards to photographs), stretched the muscles and checked the gear on the motorcycles.
 

The ride east from Warburton was uneventful.  The light failed just short of Giles.  We set up camp in the spinifex of the Great Victoria Desert with the red desert sands for a floor, the horizons for walls and the galaxies for a roof.  And a spade for decoration! 

What would be the odds of turning off the Great Central Road at a random spot in the huge expanse of the GVD and finding a spade?

Bowser security was tight at Tjurkayirlia Roadhouse

As we lay back in a clearing of spinifex under a sky shotgunned with stars I ruminated on the fact that the “countless stars” one sees in a clear sky number no more than a few thousand.