The Fitzroy Crossing Fire

The Fitzroy Crossing Fire

Shana and I are drawn to water. We can’t help it.  On this trip we’ve been surprised to see that ‘the outback’ has a lot more water than we’d expected.  We thought the outback would be dry and dusty, and a lot of it is, but generally water of some description isn’t too far away.  Unfortunately you can’t swim in most of it.

 That’s our understanding of water torture. 

Because, in the outback, most substantial bodies of water generally house a croc or two.  Probably.  Maybe.  How would you know?  And that’s the point.  I’ve began hating crocodiles solely because they lurk undetectable and that stops us from swimming.  Just the possibility of them causes us to remain dry.  They may be nowhere near the place but you can’t swim in that deep river, inviting billabong or cool creek just in case.  Wankers.

But you can swim in the Fitzroy River.  Several reliable sources have told us so. Naturally we arranged our itinerary so as to stop there and rest a while.

We set up at The Fitzroy Crossing Hotel Caravan Park, a tumble-down pub come caravan park with green grassed sites on the western riverbank.  It provided access to the river and safe places to swim.  We pulled up, did a few chores, a load of washing.

It was past midday and bloody hot when we finally got the chance to ‘hit the water’.  We gathered our hats, towels, dog and water bottles and started walking through the scrub trees and long grass, following a mud path down the water’s edge.  The scrub was above head high and the path was winding so you couldn’t see much. 

Morrissey was bouncing along ahead of us and, as we came around a corner, a large rushing man in a Manchester United Football shirt almost tripped over him.  He had a fishing spool in his hand.

“Sorry” Shana said, referring to him nearly tripping over our unleashed dog. 

“Catch anything” I said, disregarding the whole dog thing completely and wondering if I should get my fishing rod.

“There’s a bushfire coming” the guy said, all English accent and urgency, “I’m going to alert someone.”  We stood aside and watched him go.  Whatever.  He was undoubtedly over-reacting.  Probably just a burn-off of some sort.  We’d been to Kakadu.  We knew about fires.

But you could see flames from the river’s edge.

It was a big fire, not just a burn off.  The river bent to the right and right where it bent we could plainly see fire running up tree trunks, big orange tongues consuming the trees.  Black plumes of smoke stained the blue sky.  It was on our side of the river, and we were directly downwind.  It was being blown directly towards us.

It wasn’t very far away either.

The fire was making us feel hotter and water was lapping seductively at our toes.  Possibly there was a wall of flames heading towards our van but, really, in the long run, a little swim wouldn’t make much difference would it?  Just a little swim.  We were in our togs after all.

We waded into the Fitzroy River and watched as the fire built in intensity.  “Hope we don’t get trapped down here” Shana said.  I didn’t answer.  My head was under the water as I sat cross-legged like a Buddha on the bottom of the river.  (I must admit that at this stage I was still more concerned about crocs than any fire).  Morrissey was churning through the water between us like a furry ferry. 

Towelling ourselves on the bank we could plainly see that, in the five minutes we’d lolled about in the water, the fire had progressed a fair way further around the riverbend, and a fair bit closer to our caravan park.  It was burning with gusto and a whole section of the canopy was now ablaze.  It seemed to be getting serious.

The Englishman reappeared with his fishing spool.  “So?”, Shana and I asked him anxiously. 

“They’re not worried at all” he said.

It wasn’t exactly true.  When we got back to the park the staff displayed a heightened sense of urgency.  The official line may have been to say that everything was okay but all the body language indicated they didn’t really know.  While I started assembling the ingredients for toasted sandwiches (it was my turn to make lunch and, in times of uncertainty, food offers me comfort) Shana remained outside, narrating the goings on around her.  Before I’d even turned on the sandwich press the owner and a staff member tore past the ‘bago in a little green John Deere buggy.  They drove at pace out of the park and down the road in the direction of the fire.  Shana said they looked concerned.

Then a female resident of the park met with a male resident, just off to the side of our site.  Their voices sounded worried and unsure.  Arrangements were being made between them about how to evacuate; about what to take and where to go.  They agreed that their vans would probably have to stay, nervous laughter reassuring each other that the vans were probably insured for more than they were now worth anyway.  They were each going to gather their most important items and put them somewhere easily accessible.  “Better safe than sorry” the woman said.

Shana started taking her own precautions.  She disconnected our hose from the pressure valve on the ‘bago and started filling the water holding tank.  “If we have to rush out of here at least we know we’ll have enough water” she told me as she strode past the window.

The toaster had reached the required heat.  The green light was on.  I could hear Shana disconnecting the hose as I sliced the ham, tomato and cheese.  I concentrated on getting the slices even.

 The wind was now blowing soot across the caravan park and the sky had become blacker still.  A guy came out from his van directly opposite us.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

Shana told him about the fire and roughly where it was in relation to us all.

“So the wind’s pushing it this way?” he asked.

Shana confirmed that it was and asked “Should we be worried?”

“Nah”, the guy said, “there’s a creek between us.  That should stop it”.  He then took note of the strength of the wind. “That is, unless this wind fuels it enough to jump the creek.  Then, who knows hey”.

He went back into his annex.  Along the road behind us two police cars rushed toward the fire.

“Should we pack up?  Just in case?” Shana asked me.  I didn’t know.  How would I know?  All I knew was that the sandwiches were nearly toasted.  No point letting them go cold and soggy.

 “I don’t think so” I replied.  I really hoped my desire for crunchy toast wouldn’t be our undoing.

A tour bus pulled into the reception carpark.  People alighted, confused.  We could hear snippets of conversation, some voices angry; some agitated; some concerned.  The road had been closed.  The police were turning people around, sending them back and away from the fire front.  The tour was headed for Gelkie Gorge.  People had paid $75 per head to take a boat trip along the river and through the rocks.  The fire had denied them access.

We sat and ate our sandwiches hot and crispy, the cheese melted beautifully across the tomato.  We heard somebody say that the road would be closed for at least two hours. 

“I wonder what happens now?” I said to Shana, “Do you think they get refunds?”  We both shrugged our shoulders and watched as another mini-bus pulled into the carpark, unloading its cargo of confused and disgruntled tourists.  The air around us smelled like smoked almonds.

My phone whistled at me, the sound I ‘ve set to say a text message has arrived.  I read it and became worried anew.

 The message was from the Department of Fires and Emergency Services.  I’ve no idea how they got my phone number.  I’ve no idea how they knew that my phone was in the area near the fire.  Some sort of satellite savvy I suppose.  Whatever, they were concerned enough to initiate contact with me.  The message read exactly as follows: Bushfire EMERGENCY WARNING from DFES for Junjuwa Community.  If the way is clear, leave now.

I had no idea how to interpret this message.

For us the message posed more questions than it answered.  Who or what was the Junjuwa Community?  And where was it?  Obviously they were being told to get out IF THEY COULD.  Bloody hell.  That was full on. But what did that mean for us?  Why’d I get the message?  Should we pack up now and go?  Was that the sensible thing to do?  We’d received a warning.  Surely it would be foolhardy and dumb to ignore such a warning.

I took another bite of my sandwich, chewing faster than before.

 I noticed that smoke in the sky had  lessened.  I noticed how nobody else in the caravan park had displayed any renewed sense of urgency. I wondered whether I was the only one to receive the message and should I therefore tell someone?  Or everyone?  Should I gather everyone around and read the message aloud?  Fuck! I didn’t know what I should do.

Then, as if on cue, the little green John Deere buggy drove back into the park. 

“He’s not driving as fast” Shana said.

 The park owner displayed two thumbs up as they drove toward us.   “No worries” he yelled as they drove past, “it’s all okay”.  He was gone before we could ask any questions about the text.  We’d just have to trust him.

We finished eating our sandwiches.  We each sipped on a glass of ice water.  The tourists and tour buses remained in the carpark.  I wondered where Junjuwa Community was.  I hoped the people got out okay.  I wondered how sooty our washing had got, bummed that it probably needed re-washing.