Pictured through the branches of the fallen tree.

Having foolishly neglected to pack the heavy-lift twin-rotor helicopter, becoming at one with the mud became the order of the day.

I swear: at one point, it was actually raining mud.

After a heap of hours' digging, winching, sweating and worrying, and then a 30-odd kilometre slide back to the tarmac, we were smiling again. With everything plastered in a thick layer of red Aussie-outback clay.

With a feeling of accomplishment, even if we hadn't actually accomplished the original goal of reaching a famous railway line, Norseman, and the end of the Nullarbor road was picked out through the rain by the headlights.

A week later, Perth popped into the same headlight beam. Mike exchanged his set of truck's keys for a flight ticket, and jetted back to Sydney. In four hours he'd covered more than the distance we'd traversed in over two weeks on the road.

But with the merest fraction of the enjoyment.

Roughing it on the Nullarbor.

Mike, with a glass-of-wine and a side-of-cow.

The camera's autofocus unfortunately thought the water dots on the 'screen were the main subject of the shot. The concept of clay-mud still shows though.