A Story from Close to the Fire Front in Pictures and Words
Travelling about an hour east from the nation’s capital, I pass through Bungendore towards Braidwood on the King’s Highway. The pungent smell of bushfire is already thick but as I mount the last rise on the approach to Braidwood the air suddenly becomes heavy with smoke and everything eerily quietens. The traffic is sparse, during this, the busiest holiday season of the year. Most of the vehicles whizz past on their way out of town, travelling smack bang on the speed limit, drivers looking wearily, faces pressed up close to the windshield and hands tight on the steering wheel.
The road out from Bungendore.
Braidwood, an historic town on Walbanga and Wandandian country, is a trendy stop-off for Canberrans on their way to the coast, popular for its olde-world lolly shop and stylish cafes frequented by locals, some of whom have chosen to move there in recent years to escape the cut-throat property prices of Sydney. Braidwood’s main drag is usually bustling with tourists and townsfolk on a Saturday, even more so during Christmas holidays, but today, it’s like a ghost town. Because of the smoke, it’s difficult to see from one end of the street to the other, a distance of about 500 metres. For the last few days, the main highway from Braidwood to the coast has been closed because of the fires.
Braidwood.
Smoke fills the main drag at Braidwood on a usually busy Saturday morning.
But Braidwood is not my final destination. I’m on my way to visit a friend, fellow photographer and artist Rowena and her partner, sound editor, Paul, who live in Mongarlowe, a tiny hamlet, 13 clicks outside of Braidwood. It’s a social visit, but I’m also going there to be a presence and help out around the house while the Charleys Forest fire, part of the massive 330,000-hectare Currowan fire system, is raging out of control not far to the north east, and as other fires threaten to the west and south. It’s also a chance to get close to the frontline of the fire catastrophe which is unfolding across this country - the flames have reached within 4km of where I’m heading. I’ve brought my camera, but I understand that I might be called upon in case of an emergency during my two-day stay. I’m excited but as I drive towards Mongarlowe, I grow increasingly anxious.
I get stopped at a roadblock just outside of Braidwood. Brett and Shen, out-of-town contractors, are half way through their shift guarding the roadblock to “stop the idiots”. It’s a little cryptic, but I hope they don’t mean me. “Just on my way to help out at Mongarlowe,” I explain. They smile and wave me through with a parting, well worn, “Stay safe”.
Shen and Brett at the roadblock to Mongarlowe
The smoke nestles on the gently rolling hills like mist settling on a lush green Scottish moor. But the hills are blighted by drought and the grass scorched yellow by the unrelenting heat. Soon, the hills give way to a thicket of low-lying gum trees, bent by the prevailing winds, forming an elegant canopy over the road. In another scenario, it would seem idyllic, but as I get closer, towards Mongarlowe, all I can see in these beautiful but thirsty trees is fuel load.
The approach to Mongarlowe.
A sign warning about grass fires.
Mongarlowe is a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it type of town consisting of no more than a handful of houses as you cross the bridge. At the crossroads, there are more letterboxes than there are buildings, indicating that most of the properties in the vicinity lie hidden deep up gravel driveways and dirt tracks branching off the main road - little slices of tree-change heavens-on-earth obscured in the bush. It’s an eclectic but tight-knit community that lives here: farmers, artists, public servants, ex-military, mechanics and so on. The days of gold mining on which the town was established are long gone, taken over by those seeking a different type of fortune amongst the trees, far from city-life. But this summer, times have turned tough. Drought has hit hard – for the first time in living memory, the Mongarlowe River has stopped flowing – and the bushfires are looming from several directions.
Letter boxes at Mongarlowe.
The bridge over the Mongarlowe River.
River markers at the Mongarlowe River. For the first time in living memory, the river has stopped flowing.
Looking back towards Mongarlowe.
I arrive at ‘Edge’ on Half Moon Road just up from Mongarlowe town, as the blood-orange sun sets ominously behind a veil of smoke. Edge is an architecturally designed house built in 1975 for poet and activist, Judith Wright. Its sleek modernist lines of wood and glass are striking amongst the hundred acres of dense bush on the property – a conspicuous reminder of the central focus of much of Wright’s work: the complex relationship between nature and mankind. Rowena and Paul moved here 2 years ago from Sydney, not so much as a way to get into the property market but for a desire for an affordable home. They’ve sunk their lives and dreams into this place.
‘Edge’ at Mongarlowe.
The sun sets behind smoke at ‘Edge’.
Paul has been active at the fire frontlines with the volunteer Rural Fire Service (RFS) for the last month, ever since the fire threat descended on Mongarlowe. When he’s not doing 12-hour shifts fighting fires, he and Rowena are frantically preparing their property for the worst-case scenario. Sprinklers, water tanks, pumps and generators have recently been installed, and a complex array of fire hoses lie at the ready. The gutters have been cleaned and the area around the house has been cleared of debris. It seems they’ve done everything they can to fire-proof their property. They need to - they’ve made the heavy decision to stay and defend their home, rather than to evacuate, as others have done in Mongarlowe.
A sign at their driveway in case of emergency: Rowena and Paul have decided to stay to defend their home.
Rowena and Paul check the sprinkler system installed on their shed.
Rowena fires up a water pump as Paul looks on.
Paul fills the gutters up with water to prepare against possible ember attacks.
A fire hose lays at the ready.
It’s an agonising waiting game for the couple, with no end in sight. The so-called ‘mega-fires’ at their doorstep are so large and intense that experts say that the only chance to extinguish them is substantial and sustained rainfall. In this ongoing drought and climate emergency, that is now not expected until February – some say not until May. This is the new, terrifying ‘normal’.
Rowena at home in her studio.
The next morning, we go to the daily briefing at the Fire Shed up the road in Mongarlowe town. Three fire trucks are parked out front and busily being attended to in preparation for the day ahead. Paul snaps into work mode peeling off from us to join his crew’s preparations. There are about 15 men and a few women, all locals, of all ages, dressed in yellow RFS uniforms. It’s a bit of a rag tag unit, but they look hardened from experience. Most of the women are busy inside the shed. They are the unsung heroes in this war against the fires. While most of those at the frontline fighting fires are men, the women who stay behind work just as hard, supporting the logistics, organising catering and more often than not, at home alone, readying the defence of their properties - fires could strike homes at any time. The only reason why houses are still standing in Mongarlowe is because of this co-operative effort. If one thing reassuring can be drawn from such grave circumstances, it’s how well a community can collectively organise, operate and cohere on its own.
Mongarlowe fire shed.
Community signs at Mongarlowe.
The hubbub quietens down as those present gather around for the briefing. People look determined but also very weary. The brigade captain gives the usual rundown for the day: the latest on the fire fronts, updates on weather conditions, crew rosters and task assignments. The forecast for the week is dire and it will peak on New Year’s Eve. But there will be countless ‘peaks’ in coming weeks. It’s been like this day after day, for more than a month. There are 12-hour day shifts and 12-hour night shifts to be filled: the brigade runs 24/7. The physical and emotional toll on everyone is enormous. It’s relentless and it shows on people’s faces. No one is getting paid, but everyone is professional.
Rowena and I head back to Edge. There’s a precious delivery of water expected, and someone also needs to be at home to guard the house. While we wait, Rowena is glued to the fire updates on her phone. The various apps give her the closest thing to real-time information on the fire fronts, wind conditions and forecasts, and also provide occasional live streams from incident controllers across the district. There’s even an ability to tune into regional emergency radio chatter in the hope to glean some additional information to help add to the picture of the unfolding situation. All the while, one eye is suspiciously cast through the window towards the horizon. I get the sense that every living moment is orientated towards the fires. It’s the unknown which is so disconcerting. I can only imagine how unrelentingly exhausting it must be after more than a month of life on hold, waiting and wondering when the flames might arrive as much of the surrounding region burns to the ground.
Waiting and wondering: Rowena at home.
Wildlife also suffers under the conditions, often seeking refuge, food and water.
The water truck finally arrives that afternoon. It’s the first time Rowena and Paul have had to buy in water since they’ve moved to Mongarlowe. The drought has been steadily chipping away at their supplies and now with the impending fires, a shortage of water would be disastrous. Nearby Braidwood is on Level 4 water restrictions, so the water has had to be trucked in from Bungendore, almost 100kms away. Eddie, the hauler, has just bought into the business. Transporting sprays and wind turbine components have been his usual stock and trade, but an offer was recently made and the time was right to move into water. Not that he wanted to. He tells me he’d rather see rain than have to truck water, but in lieu of a downpour, it’s a service that people are desperate for.
While the 17,000 litres of water pumps into the underground tank, we sit down for a cup of coffee to chew the fat. The conversation is, of course, directed around the fires, which naturally finds its way to the issues of drought and the environment. Eddie tells us he’s “not so sure about climate change”, explaining the current crisis as part of long term “weather cycles”. But Rowena is adamant that the science clearly points to man-made contributions towards a dangerous and unprecedented change in climate. In some ways, the discussion is emblematic of the wider polarisation about climate change in some quarters of Australia. Unlike others, however, Eddie is no ideologue and despite his doubts about climate change, he has a real concern for the environment. I sense that, while their positions are maintained, the immediacy of the bushfires has moved Eddie’s and Rowena’s arguments closer together. The stakes are high for both of them - for all of us.
Eddie and Rowena chew the fat.
With the water delivery done and Eddie off to his next delivery, we turn our attention back to the fire updates – radio, television and of course the ubiquitous apps. The heat is stifling, so I step outside to take a look around. A blanket of thick smoke has suddenly crept into and around the property, and the air is acrid. It’s arrived from nowhere. The wind is still so the smoke just floats, menacingly, amongst the trees. I call out to Rowena. She rushes out, carefully surveys the scene and rechecks her phone. A gust of wind picks up, disturbing the tree tops and we retreat back indoors. No fire arrives that afternoon, but it’s unnerving.
As the smoke sets in, Rowena checks apps on her phone for information on nearby fires.
Bushfire smoke fills the sky at ‘Edge’.
By the time Paul gets home from his shift, it’s past 11pm and Rowena has just gone to bed. It’s been more than 13 hours since we last saw him at the briefing that morning. He’s spent the day mostly putting out smouldering tree stumps and protecting a property just to the south. His face is sooted and his eyes bloodshot. He eases his way into a cold beer and begins to wind down. We try to talk all things other than fire, but the conversation inevitably returns to the task at hand. He’s worried about the days and weeks ahead. Paul is meant to return to his paid job soon, after the summer holidays, most of which he’s spent volunteering with the RFS. He can’t be in three places at once and without an income, he can’t pay the mortgage. And he’s worried about leaving Rowena at home alone. Paul will crash on the couch that night. He has trouble sleeping after a day of fire-fighting – the jangling nerves persisting into the early hours of the morning. And then he’s up again for another 12-hour shift which starts at 8am the next day.
Paul in his workshop after arriving home at 11pm from his shift.
Paul after 13 hours on the job.