The Exclamation Mark
The billowing, black finger punctuated the parched, sun-bleached landscape like an infected wound. As I descended the Range the plumes stole my focus and hijacked my thoughts: those poor buggers are in for a hard time: that’s a nasty one. Clouds of dark smoke swelled angry and violent, promising devastation. No wind though, at least they had that going for them.
With each twist of the descending track, with each turn heading south on the plain, the pillar of smoke was like a pin on my GPS marking, “Home”. The battle of hope was lost when I turned onto our road and saw the flame-hued storm aligned with our property. Rational thought fled as my foot flattened to the floor.
Clouds of dust merged with smoke as I slid into the driveway. On my dash to the gate, I noted the cattle had been moved, the roof sprinkler system was activated, and the buggy, pod and pump stood in the doorway of the shed: on hand for spot fires around the house. Relief that our place was still safe was short lived when I saw the savagery of the beast stampeding toward us. My naivety stung like the smoke assaulting my eyes: the firebreak I’d been maintaining between our place and the neglected nature reserve next door was a mile too insignificant.
“Clear the driveway. We need access.” The fiery had to yell to be heard over the rolling thunder of the fire. Stunned, I turned and saw a chain of vehicles lined up behind me: lights flashing, sirens blaring and volunteers edgy. At my inability to comprehend, the guy yelled again, “We need access to the water.” He pointed to our dam: our evaporating reservoir required to see us through this drought.
“But I need it for the cattle.”
“Love, if you don’t give us your water, you’re not going to have cattle, land, or a house. Now, move. Please.”
We stood on the veranda watching the team cut our fence and siphon our water. Smoke smothered every scent that I’d ever associated with the place I loved. The fight leached out of Mum as she slumped over her walking sticks and collapsed into her chair. The thought of her being here by herself, trapped, turned my stomach. “Why didn’t you call? Why did you stay?”
Her ragged voice battled against the roar, her breathing at war with the fumes. “I knew you were on your way. And I know how you drive. I needed you here alive.” All fair points, but I still wanted to strangle the woman.
“You ready to head to Kerm’s?” Her head dropped; her arthritic body moved as if lined with lead. I helped her into her Ute: the cat already in its box on the back seat. Scout whimpered from his crate on the tray. I wanted him with me, but I wanted him safe more. With the three of them gone, a small weighted shifted from my shoulders.
Stationed by the buggy, I watched the crews battle hard and eventually meet up with the teams working the far side of the blaze. Those men and women were pure, fire-refined, gold. Not only had they broken the back of the beast and saved our home, they’d left me a drop of water in the dam.
Turned out divine judgement wasn’t the cause. Rather, a lethal cocktail of boredom, ignorance and teenage curiosity. The retired old Queenslander decaying in the scrub behind had been too great a temptation. When the blaze caught hold it had become the perfect storm in the perfect conditions: high temperatures, low humidity and one hundred percent fuel. Not the ideal way to control undergrowth, but an exclamation mark for our next conversation on the issue of land management.
