The One That Got Away

- a story by Darcy Moore

Lighting fires is a way of life in our neighbourhood. No, we're not arsonists, we merely respond to the environmental circumstances of rural south-east Queensland. By the end of a typically dry winter, when the grass is too unappetising for the cattle, the paddocks are tinderboxes. Rather than wait for really hot weather, lightning strikes or legitimate firebugs we obtain a permit from the local fire warden and conduct controlled Spring burns. Well, they're mostly controlled.
          I thought I did everything right. Confine it to a manageable area. Slash a 6' wide firebreak, rake off the cut grass. Wait til the still, damp of evening. Have water and hessian bags on hand. I also wore a pump spray pack. I sighed, fired the long grass into the wind on a modest front, then played cat and mouse with the flames creeping onto the break. I covered it easily so, to speed things, I extended the front.
          With the extra fuel, the fire created its own drafts. Suddenly there were tongues licking right along the break. Coughing and sweating I raced frantically up and back the smoky line. With a roar the fire caught the long grass over the break and began feeding in a great arc towards neighbouring properties and our house and orchard.
          The next 15 minutes (Or was it 15 hours?) were surreal.
          I raced to our house to get my family's help. With bags and buckets of water they battled the planned burn and the approach to our house while I started up the slasher to clear a path around the approach to the neighbours'.
          A friend who lived a safe distance away called in. He eyed me curiously - I was cursing and wrenching furiously at the walk-behind slasher caught in fence wire.
          "Is this a controlled fire, or the other kind?" I stared at him incredulously. "Want me to ring the volunteer brigade?"
          "Please," I gasped, ".. if there's anything left when they get here." He rang from our house.
          I seemed to be surrounded by flames. Though I had visions of the slasher fuel tank exploding I had to give up on it. I grabbed a hessian bag.
          More neighbours came, unsolicited, to help out. We attacked the edges of whatever we could access while, blessedly, the night kicked in. Gradually the wind died and dew dampened the flames.
          In the distance we heard fire engines. At least, I thought, they'd have no trouble finding us. But they did. The first drove past our gate. The second knocked over our letterbox, flattened a small tree and almost hit our electricity pole. The drivers, I've since discovered, have a deserved reputation as cowboys. By the time they rode up with lights flashing and axes and hoses drawn the fire was out, bar smouldering logs and fence posts. It'd been a slow fire season so far and their disappointment showed. Half-heartedly the crews set about clearing up while the brigade commander handled the paperwork.
          "Who's the property owner?"
          I was too black to look guilty, but I felt it. I was ticked off for fire mismanagement; especially for not getting a permit. Didn't I mention that? Pleading ignorance I made amends by inviting them back to do a controlled burn on the lower 5 acres. I thanked the helpful neighbours, untangled the slasher and commiserated with my unsympathetic wife. My 14-year-old daughter thought it had been fun!
          In local folklore there's now a fiery trinity:
          the Pistol club fire of '82. Lit by anonymous members it somewhat singed a dozen properties;
          Day's horse stud fire of '87. Started on the windiest day that spring it reached the horse manure dump and smouldered for, well, days;
          And us. I still blush fire-engine red if I run into the wrong person in the local supermarket.