Diary of a Bush Fire
A sense of calm descends as I pass through the blue green canopy of gum trees lining the road on my way to Inglewood, a farm on the far side of the Blue Mountains in Australia. I’m coming home. Wallabies look up from their grazing as the car passes. Once the paved road ends and the ride becomes bumpy on the packed dirt, Lyrebird calls and kookaburra laughter fills the air: the welcoming committee. Inglewood has provided refuge and restoration to my family for as long as I can remember.
This year, a very different landscape lay in front of me. Trees naked of their leaves with smoldering trunks evokes battlefield images. The normal grey/green palette is transformed into camouflage khaki brown. A black carpet of crows spreads across the paddock, sounding their ominous caw, as they rest from a recent feast of dead wombat and wallaby littering the landscape.
Renee is behind the wheel. Her normally relaxed face is etched with worry as we drive. There is an eerie silence broken by the sound of crashing trees. Two Rural Fire Service (RFS) trucks have cut a path where a huge grey gum has fallen, blocking the road. The potential of being trapped between two fallen trees with no ability to cut free adds another layer of uncertainty to the drive.
We arrive. I notice that a strip of watered grass around the house is the only green. The gutters overflow with dripping water and each porch post has a tub of water at its base. My spirits are buoyed; the familiar house is still standing; I think that perhaps the worst is past. I hope to help clean and repair.
Gay emerges from the house and one look at her face shatters my optimism. The dirty face mask and lines of fatigue are clues to two weeks of constant vigilance and unrelenting threat to her life, family and home. Gay is one of the strongest women in my life, courageous, determined and independent. Our friendship began over 40 years ago when I fell in love with an Australian Army helicopter pilot and followed him to Toowomba, a small town in outback Australia. Gay’s husband Terry was also an instructor pilot at the Army Aviation School in nearby Oakley. Gay and I shared a common disinterest in following the proscribed rules for Officers wives, involving teas and social events. Instead, we bonded over scouring the countryside for old furniture that we would drag back to be lovingly refurbished. Weekends were often spent with the four of us tromping through the bush or sailing boats on a nearby lake.
Over the decades, we’ve shared adventures on the water and land. River trips on the Clarence and Grand Canyon, sailing down the Australian coast, road trips and skiing in the U.S. have brought laughter, challenge, confidences and a deep respect for our strengths, hopes and fears. We have stood with each other through the deaths of our husbands, health and parenting challenges. We now stand together to face this voracious fire monster, eating everything in its path. The bushfires are pushed by winds and fed by the drought-dried landscape. No one has any idea what part of the country might be the next victim to its destruction. The only constants are its erratic path and the exhaustion of firefighters and all who have been on the front lines for months.
With Gay’s welcoming hug, I feel the exhaustion in every part of her being. We head into the house where masks are loaded on the dining table along with radios, maps and walkie-talkies. Instructions are given that if the grass near the house catches fire, we retreat to the house and let the burn go around us (hopefully). The enormity of the situation begins to sink in. Being in a fire zone has become very real.
An RFS truck is on the property standing by. The Rural Fire Service is staffed by volunteers: men and women who come from hundreds of miles away, often leaving their own homes to help others. Renee, Gay’s daughter, is catching up with the RFS captain about the path of the fires. Suddenly she shouts, pointing to a new plume of smoke rising from the river, only 200 meters from the nearest structure.
Renee is an amazing young woman. A Blackhawk helicopter pilot in the Australian Army, following in her father’s footsteps, she’s taken leave to help save the family farm. Her management skills and situational awareness have been invaluable in corralling resources and coordinating volunteers. She is fierce, beautiful, smart, resourceful and compassionate.
Her brother, Kyle, has left his wife and job in Sydney to bring his skills of logic and calming conversation to the situation. His quiet determination when tackling a problem gives perspective and space when others might panic.
The two of them head to the fire with rakes and hoes across their shoulders. Raking away underbrush robs the fire of fuel and can keep it from spreading. The RFS truck maneuvers as close as possible to the fire, dousing the edges with water to keep it from engulfing the entire ridge. If it takes hold, it would crawl up the pasture and to the houses, barn and structures.
I don a breathing mask and head to the river to see what can be done. I’m ill equipped to make any difference at this point with no idea of next steps, just watching in horrified and helpless fascination.
Several hours pass and the firebreak holds; the blaze is contained. Fortunately, the wind is blowing the fire back on itself, meeting the already scorched forest behind. This walk to the river and the swimming hole is our usual afternoon jaunt for a quick dip on a hot day. Now the entire forest is alight, flames reaching into the air, thick with smoke.
Everyone stands down to watch and wait. I begin to find a purpose; passing out the rose scented face wipes and eye drops I’ve brought with me to those standing by, on steady alert. My skills are limited to cooking and replenishing water and breathing masks. The winds calm as evening comes. The RFS trucks will stay parked outside the house until late at night, by which time an uneasy calm descends.
This isn’t the only part of the farm that is burning. The 80-acres with paddocks, a rough airstrip and hanger are also on fire. A fire truck is nearby, helplessly watching a fire that is far too big to fight. Bulldozers and excavators cut roads into the paddocks to create a line of dirt to deter its slow advance. The drivers of these mammoth machines risk life and limb as they maneuver the behemoths through burning swaths of trees.
When the RFS trucks leave, the four of us take turns at watch. Looking for any new fronts, we patrol the farm boundaries. An eerie quiet descends as we move through the night. Darkness allows us to see what the smoky daylight hides … the dangerous beauty of the flames dot the hills like red flickering fairy lights.
When relieved of night watch, the ubiquitous smoke in eyes, lungs and hair make sleep fitful and elusive even with complete exhaustion and jet lag.
The next morning is calm and the night has seen no new fires. Gay and I head to town some 40 kilometers away to replenish food, fuel and water. The thermostat climbs over 100 degrees F and keeps rising. The wind has shifted and picked up...conditions are getting worrisome. We pass two RFS trucks on the road and stop for a brief chat. As we return to the farm, we see Kyle and Renee rushing to the spring to refill the water tank that sits on the back of the utility truck. The “Ute” is a solid workhouse on any farm, a truck with dropping sides, it makes its way slowly through the roughest terrain. There’s a new blaze closer to the house. We race back to alert the RFS.
Kyle and Renee are moving almost as one, no words necessary as they race the Ute to the outbreak behind the water tanks only 150 meters from the house. RFS rolls in and begins dumping water on the blaze edge to contain the creeping flames. It’s decided that a back burn is necessary and I watch in horror as they light the grass. It seems crazy to start more fires, but I quickly begin to understand as I watch the trees catching fire and moving back towards those already burned.
Now we watch and wait. There is fire in the trees all around the house. When Renee lays her head on my shoulder, I share the sense of despair that comes from her deep sigh.
The cattle are in the paddock closest to the house as the surrounding paddocks are either burning or under threat of catching fire. Gay and I jump in the truck to check on them as a wall of fire has seemingly spontaneously combusted in the field and catches nearby trees in its grasp. Gay lays on the horn to alert the crew of the new blaze but it’s also the way she calls the cattle at feed time. I jump out and run towards the crews to let them know. Kyle is already driving the Ute towards the blaze. Renee jumps on the back as it moves past her, smoothly as a bareback rider mounting a galloping horse. There is no panic, everyone moves with precision and speed to contain the new outbreak. Fortunately, there is an excavator on the road and the driver swings into the paddock creating a new line against the fire. Renee and Kyle dump water on the trees closest to the house while the RFS attacks the copse from the other side. Finally, after what seems an eternity, the immediate threat to the house is contained. The front edge of fire has retreated drawing its battle line back into the eucalyptus forest in the rear.
The adrenaline is replaced by the realization of how close we came to losing the houses and barn. A subdued silence takes over as we all fall back to reassess. The RFS keeps watch while Gay and I go inside to make a midday meal. No one is talking about the close call, each of processing in our own way. The threat is far from over but we’ve been saved for the moment.
Gay heads to let the chickens out of their coop. On the way, she quips, “We almost had roast beef, don’t want to have roast ‘chook’!”
The heat and wind are unrelenting, but the fire lines have held. Every few minutes there is a loud crash as another giant tree is claimed. As the sun sets, the winds have calmed but it’s with a sense of dread that we watch the departing crews. Words from the children’s book Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak spring into my mind, “Oh please don’t go, we’ll eat you up we love you so. And Max said No!” I feel like one of the wild things that are willing Max to stay, knowing that they will not be safe without him as their leader.
It’s just the four of us now. We begin the watchful waiting as night closes in. I recognize the feeling of acceptance that washes over me. There have been other times in my life when life and limb are under threat and danger is real and imminent. When we are at the mercy of forces of nature there is no control to be had; rather, fate, luck, or destiny are in charge.
Another RFS command truck rolls into the yard and with it, our hopes are given a boost. Rick, the fire captain has come to give us a UHF radio so that we can contact him in the event of a new front. He tells us that he will be further down the road but close enough to get to us if needed. Knowing that there is some help allows for a brief sigh of relief.
Tonight, we will patrol the area closest to the house only, looking for embers. With headlamps and a large heavy rake over our shoulders, we walk the perimeter through the night. I text my kids in the states with information about travel insurance that I’ve purchased and to tell them that I love them. Gay and I are on the first watch but knowing that adrenaline will keep sleep away, I continue with Renee for another shift.
After a few patrols, she suggests that we drive up to the airstrip to see what is happening. Driving past the paddock, the embers and burning trees are an eerie yet strangely beautiful sight. The fire creeps up the trunks of towering trees and spreads out to the branches like arms opening to embrace the world in its evil grasp. The entire landscape is on fire, burning with a voracious appetite for all in its path. We see the command truck, keeping watch long after they had been relieved of duty. This is not the first act of courage, compassion and generosity exhibited during these fires but it was exactly the breath of air that we needed to lift the overwhelming dread, if only a bit.
The temperature has dropped 20 degrees and a storm is brewing to the south. Rick explains that those two factors have taken much of the heat out of the fire and back burns are likely to hold. His calm explanation and experience give us confidence to head back to the house and fall into a deep, exhausted sleep.
Morning brings calm winds and a slight easing of smoke. Renee and Kyle set off on patrol. After feeding the cattle, Gay and I head up the track to join in the effort. We run into Ken, a weathered and wise neighbor who has been fighting bush fires for most of his 80 years. After watching our steps to control the fire he gently asks if he might make a suggestion. His counsel is happily accepted, and he shows us how to create a triangle to contain the fire. Raking the underbrush away in a line that skirts the largest trees, he lights the border of shrubs and grasses and we watch as it merges into the flames behind. Falling to the task, I stand on the fire hose to quench anything that might even think of crossing the path while Gay follows his direction to move slowly and methodically. “You’ll wear out in an hour at the pace you’re going, love”.
As I stand at the ready with the hose I keep an eye out for falling branches. It’s then, for the first time since I’ve arrived, I thought, “Snakes!” I haven’t even thought about the threat of snakes! Usually, when we’re tromping around the bush, there’s always an eye out. I first think that the absence of snakes is a small silver lining in all of this, until I start wondering about the fate of all the wildlife, realizing that their food and habitat have been destroyed. Wallabies are uncharacteristically resting on the veranda of the house, drinking out of the water tubs. Wombats, normally nocturnal, are out in daylight looking for food. Koalas in other parts of Australia are being decimated and might never recover as their habitats disappear.
Renee and Kyle head to create another side of triangulated defense. The forest is burning with more ferocity and Renee expresses her concern to Ken. His response, borne of a lifetime of working with nature’s fury was powerful; “You can always escape a fire if you just don’t panic”. An important and succinct truth for many of life’s challenges.
By days end, the fire is contained, the threat to farm largely over and we head back to the house for showers, food, a debrief accompanied by a very stiff drink!
We are out of danger and the farm is saved but we know that nearby neighbors are living through the nightmare. Kyle returns to Sydney and the three of us turn our attention to emergency repairs on miles of fences to separate the bull from the cattle. It seems he’s the only one who has been conducting business as usual, quite happy to be with the herd.
Christmas Day dawns and Gay decorates the stump of a holly tree with tinsel. A blessed day of rest feels luxurious as we brunch on the veranda, sharing space with the wallabies.
The following days, Gay and I inspect the perimeter of the farm, driving past acres of smoldering stumps and fallen trees. The landscape is open, and we can see far more than ever before. Large swaths of brown cover the horizon. Fences are down, paddocks bulldozer churned with fire lines, tree fern bulbs lie like blackened cannon balls. Ash clings to our boots as the heated remains soften the soles. It appears that 80% of the farm has burned yet we are lucky. A combination of preparation and planning along with wit, wisdom and weather allows the farm to stand while much of the nation is on fire. When these fires end, the rest of the world will likely forget the carnage. But the earth will remember these wrongs.
My final day on the farm arrives with a myriad of emotions: guilt that I will be returning to a place that is not yet experiencing the devastation of natural disaster-though it will inevitably come, sadness for the fragility of life and the destruction of our planet, reluctance that I can’t stay to do more; but, my overriding emotion is gratitude.
Gratitude that my choices and destiny brought me long ago to this far away land. Gratitude for a body that is strong and healthy enough to be able to contribute. Gratitude for learning new skills. Gratitude for experiencing life firsthand rather than through the electronic screen of others’ perceptions. But mostly gratitude for the connection of friendships that are deep and lasting. Friendships that renew our strengths and buffer our weaknesses. The connection that reminds us that we are not born into the world alone and that we are better and more powerful when we come together than we could ever be alone. Grateful that my friends recognize that accepting my help honors and nourishes me rather than depleting me.
For decades I have practiced, taught and shared the tenets of yoga. The practice isn’t about a group of movements or breaths…it’s a powerful reminder that how we care for the present moment shapes our future. That living with the rhythms of daily experience creates an authentic, rich and purposeful life.
Our final hugs goodbye hold the uncertainty of the future. Her work-gloved hand gives me a pat, “See you soon, my friend”