Wyndham Weekly, October 2013

An enormous cloud of smoke is billowing into the sky just to the north of us.
A grassfire has caught in the dry, crunchy Little River paddocks that, only a few weeks ago, were still reasonably lush pasture for the spotted cows and twitchy kangaroos that dwell there.
The kids and I are standing on the front step of our brand new home, only three months lived in, nervously watching the layers of smoke go from white to brown to black.
A hundred thoughts are rushing through my head; we’ve slashed our firebreaks, I’ve paid the home insurance and we have a clear road out of here if we need to leave.
But one thing strikes me; despite the years of fire tragedies, advice and living on 17 acres of scrubby land, I’m not really sure what to do.
Eventually my brain kicks into action and we pack some belongings in the car and I ask a friend to take the kids away from the property.
Numerous Lego sets are deposited by my son, while my daughter collects her treasured One Direction memorabilia.
Apparently, these things are more valuable than clothes, photos and the poor old dog.
When I next check, the northerly is still blowing the fire away from us and the alerts are pouring off the CFA website and social media.
The bright orange body of Elvis the firefighting helicopter dances around the edge of the smoke cloud, its water pipe dangling from its belly like an overgrown umbilical cord, spouting water onto the blaze below.
Slowly, the alerts change focus to Balliang, Eynesbury, Exford and I start to relax and silently give thanks for time to think, firefighters, Elvis and northerlies.
For these are luxuries not everyone in fire affected areas get.

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