It’s the last day of a mild Queensland winter and nights are still chilly, even though the days have been gentle and bright with sun. A planned cool burn has been scheduled in the suburb next to mine, but now it’s out of control. All afternoon I’ve been smelling smoke and there’s a greyish-brown haze over the mountain I see from my back deck. As evening falls the red glow to the south intensifies, stronger than the light from the full moon.
I’m becoming anxious as summer approaches, because last year, in the first week of November, my house almost burned down. The bushfire which started in the national park behind my home spread fast with the dry heat and wind until it engulfed the entire semi-rural region. When I evacuated with my daughter and our dog, spot fires from raining embers blazed on the back lawn. Mobs of kangaroos and screeching lorikeets fled the flames. As I sped down my driveway, the roar of the fire was as loud as an oncoming train. Neighbour’s horses stood in their paddocks, dimly seen through the smoke, stunned. Then everything went black in an instant, like an open palm had blocked out the sun.
We left in such a hurry that all the windows were still open. My computer still sat on my desk, our only shoes thongs, and we still wore pyjama shorts and singlets.
My daughter and I stopped on the side of the road when we realised my husband wasn’t right behind us in the other car. It wasn’t until we got to the evacuation centre that he arrived, shirtless, sweating, smeared with soot. He’d been trying to pull out the gas bottles from under the house, fearing that if they too ignited, they would create an even bigger conflagration. We left in such a hurry that all the windows were still open. My computer still sat on my desk, our only shoes thongs, and we still wore pyjama shorts and singlets.
We came back down that same driveway three days later. It was unrecognisable. Every banksia, she-oak, paperbark and eucalypt carbonised. Wooden fences charred in some places, completely obliterated in others. Our citrus orchard, rainwater tanks, grey water pipes, compost bins: blackened or melted into puddles of plastic or piles of ash. The firefighters told us that the fire had come as close as one metre away from the eastern wall of our house.
Since then, our five-acre property is on its slow way to recovery. But I’m still apprehensive about the coming summer.
Since then, our five-acre property is on its slow way to recovery. But I’m still apprehensive about the coming summer. The planned cool burn on the last day of winter got out of control fast — and it wasn’t a hot day, nor was there any wind except for the one hour when it picked up. And that hour made all the difference. The fire jumped the road, threatening property. It required two water-bombing helicopters and ten firefighting trucks. The burn displaced wildlife: many species of birds, koalas, echidnas, snakes and lizards, who have already suffered enormous losses in the last fires.
My land has changed irrevocably since the bushfire. Where once there was lushness and established native trees and shrubs, now there are blackened stumps. Yet there is also a surprising, intense hope in new growth. I care for tiny seedlings and marvel at tender green shoots. I walk through groves of wildflowers; purple, palest pink and royal blue so exquisite they take my breath away. The fragrance of spring – honey, crushed grass and dew – in the crisp pre-dawn air.
Since the fires, we’ve had to cut down countless trees. I have cried over them. These were venerable natives, habitat to possums, corellas and koalas, that would never come back to life. Council advised us to clear eleven metres around any new dwellings. Now, to prepare for the coming summer, we sweep gutters, prune branches, burn enormous piles of deadwood every week. We have three new water tanks to capture every precious drop of rain. But, more important than the practical steps we take to ensure we suffer less in the coming months is the new mindset we’ve cultivated since our baptism of fire.
We love this land with a depth and ferocity like never before. We only moved in two months before the fires came.
We love this land with a depth and ferocity like never before. We only moved in two months before the fires came. Now, I know every tree and shrub and shady corner the same way I know my own face. I’ve wept and cursed and sweated, nursed injuries and aching muscles and bones. I feel the land as if it’s an extension of my own body. Something good, at least for me, has come out of this devastation. Yet as we see in the recent bushfires in California and Oregon, climate catastrophe, biodiversity loss, land clearing and deforestation have impacted all of us, and will continue to do so. This is a global problem we’ve created.
When I kneel in the dirt, weeding the invasive grasses that have proliferated since the fire, I still choke on the stink of charred wood. My anxiety lodges in my throat and lungs, as I remember the terror of fleeing, the sting of smoke in my eyes and the overwhelming odour of burning when we came back. I kneel on a thick layer of black ash – still there almost a year later. Dappled with light, I’m sheltered from the rising sun by a latticework of fresh new leaves. I would hate to see them burn again.
