Chapter 20 - Friendly Fire - Part Two
Saige excited by the first fire being lit, but possibly more interested in the chilli.
Note safety features: Ute with water cube. Helpers with rakes. Mown grass all around.
When it came time to burn our stacks, I was hyper aware of fire safety, not just our own, but the wildlife’s and our neighbours’. I rang the Fire Warden, partly to find out what our obligations were, but also so I’d have some ammo when it came to discussing fire safety procedures with Smash. In the course of the conversation, the warden suggested he might visit our property to run his eye over things. (Read: make sure we weren’t going to burn down the entire Granite Belt.) Over a beer at our dining table, he advised us to have at least five people in attendance, a 1000 litre water cube and fire hose, and rakes, for scraping up wayward embers. We also had to let our neighbours know what we were up so as soon as he left, I went up the hill to ring Jim.
Jim didn’t seem very interested in our fire – all he wanted to know was whether our new dam had any water in it. We talked about that for a while, then settled in for some drought gossip. Apparently ‘some people’ had been stealing water from dams. One bloke had run a hose from a dam, right across the road. Another bloke, (there didn’t seem to be any female water thieves) had even snuck in with a water truck and drained a recently filled house tank. Cheeky bugger. I showed the appropriate amount of disgust for that kind of behaviour, then reminded Jim we would be lighting the fire next Saturday.
‘Go for your life, Kate,’ he said, not meaning it literally, I hoped.
After completing my fact-finding mission with the Fire Warden, I sat Smash down to make a sensible plan, but before I could lay down any rules, Jackson dropped in and joined the discussion.
I have to say, Jacko would not be my first choice as a Safety Consultant. As a child, there’d been many incidents of risk-taking behaviour. A curious lad, he’d ‘just wanted to see what would happen’ a lot, and not just with fire. Once, he pressed a toilet plunger firmly against his chest to see what would happen. He couldn’t get it off, is what happened. He was impressed with its powerful suction capacity for a bit and showed it off proudly, strutting around the kitchen with his arms up Charles Atlas style, then less so as it started to hurt. I had visions of the plunger being stuck to his chest for life – off he’d go to Toowong State Primary with the stick poking out between the buttons of his light blue shirt. Later, kissing girls would be a challenge…job interviews awkward. Then it really started to hurt, and he wanted us to ‘Get it off. Get it off’. We needed something thin and strong enough to slip under the rubber to break the seal, but not so thin and strong it would cut Jackson. I tell you, pushing a butter knife into my son’s chest to dislodge a toilet plunger was not something I’d imagined having to do when I’d cradled my beloved newborn for the first time at the Paddington Women’s Hospital nine years earlier. We finally got it off, and he wore his perfectly circular bruise of honour for weeks. When asked by my sister why on earth he’d stuck a plunger to his chest, he replied with a good-natured shrug. ‘Just to see.’
So, in our conversation with him about burning the stack, talk quickly veered away from safety procedure to ‘What do you reckon would happen if…’. There was some discussion about fire bombs (tins filled with petrol and secreted inside the stack for surprise explosions). Molotov cocktails were mentioned, as were flaming spears (aimed at the firebombs).
Do you reckon you could hold of any fireworks? Jacko’s face was aglow, and the fire hadn’t even been lit.
I sought sane counsel from Ray and Ceccy who’d lived in the bush for a long time and done their own burn-offs. They suggested we mow 6 metres or so around the perimeter, offered to bring their water cube over on the back of their ute and gave good advice on how to deal with spot burns and escapee embers. I felt much better, knowing they would be in attendance and Josh and family agreed to come too, so we would have plenty of hands on deck.
It rained the night before, which dampened the tinder dry grass; the wind, a slight south-easterly, meant most of the embers would float off to the dam. I had a big pot of chilli simmering on the wood heater to feed everyone and around 4PM helpers arrived.
The boys were right: the anticipation of an explosion is thrilling - a lot more thrilling than the actually explosion as it turned out. Jackson circled the stack lighting kindling around the edges with a burning rag on the end of a stick. We stared wide-eyed, watching the flames grow, move, twist and flick over the wood, saying, Here we go-oh, and Any…second…now. As the fire grew in height, we stepped back, then further back from the intense, eye burning heat. Here we go-oh! Any second now! We stepped back a bit more, straining to hear the eruptions, but by the time the fire was big enough to reach the hidden bombs, its own wild roar drowned out any whoomphs from within. It wasn’t a let-down – the blaze was spectacular. We lit the other stack and moved between both, keeping an eye on embers. There were no spot fires; it was a still night – we were able to relax, drink, eat, and enjoy.
Hours later, it was still burning when everyone went home and continued to do so for days. Josh came over with his excavator and pushed it in all around the edges, moved some big trunks and stumps around. Sparks flew, coals pulsed. I loved watching it from the kitchen window, or going down close at night, seeing how it changed, staring into the molten core and despite all my paranoia, the night of the bonfires remains one of my favourite experiences on our block.
When I next visited my Aunt at her nursing home, I took my laptop loaded with pictures of our action-packed week. She’s a tough old bird, intolerant of fools, well-educated and often ill-tempered. I struggle to find common ground in conversation with her; she prefers talking politics or finance with men, which is why I take photos with me – she’s always interested to see what the family have been up to. I showed her pictures of the fires and gushed about what an amazing night we’d had, the mischief Jackson and Smash had gotten up to, how awesomely beautiful the blaze had been.
When I turned to see if she was appreciating my presentation, I was surprised to find her looking upset. She made a grunting noise, pushed at my laptop and turned away. ‘I don’t like fire, dear,’ she said.
She told me a story of a terrifying experience she’d had as a child in Emerald, watching her father trying to put out a fire on a roof, wondering if the whole structure was going to collapse and take him with it. ‘I was sitting all alone in the car’, she said, and this detail seemed to upset her the most. Lightning strike fires were fearsome and common around that part of rural Queensland; they weren’t something to be marvelled at or enjoyed with a glass of wine, friends and chilli beef.
I put my laptop away and told her I was sorry to upset her.
She flapped her hand at me, told me not to be stupid – a favourite phrase of hers. She wasn’t upset. She just didn’t like fire.
‘Just be careful, dear,’ my Aunt said as I left, and I promised her I would be, but in all reality, these days there is only so much one can do. There was no lack of care in the case of the Wytaliba fire. It was nobody’s fault – despite what the point scoring politicians tried to infer with their comments regarding land mismanagement and arson, comments meant to distract from what is really going on. The fire came so quickly, taking everyone by surprise in hellish leaps and bounds.
When I told Smash what my aunt had said, we discussed what more we could do to protect our property and he decided it was time to push back the bush from behind the shed. But to do so, he’d need to get The Tractor. It was the sensible thing to do, he said, and while I’d never heard him say those words before, I agreed with him.
Four hours of burning.
