Hide and seek

The currawong is strutting around under our bird feeder. I can see him from the kitchen. Every now and then he pokes his long beak into the softened ground and pulls out a tasty worm.
I grab the left overs from yesterdays dinner - morsels for the birds, and walk towards the bird feeder.

The currawong spots me. He's hoping that I'm heading for the hills hoist. I'm not heading for the hills hoist, he decides, and jumps effortlessly behind the stalk of the bird feeder. For a moment I can't see him.

Then his head pops out to the left of the feeder stalk. Quickly it darts back. I take another step forward. His head darts out to the right, then back, to the left, to the right, to the left. I continue to advance.

The currawong flies to the nearest tree, as I let the morsels fall onto the feeder. I go back and watch him from the cover of the kitchen.

He flies back to his well tested picking ground, every now and then eyeing off the feeder platform. Finally, he gets the courage to inspect the morsels, but he is ousted by the two crows, regulars, who fly in from nowhere. He watches from under a nearby tree, while they feast.

When they are gone, he returns to his slim, or perhaps slimy? pickings.

"But Mama, why didn't he get the meat?", asks Sabina. I gaze at her with that patient adult gaze "The early bird gets the worm".

The farmer's wife

Amongst our family and friends, my husband gets title of "the farmer". Why? Because he builds fences. He chainsaws, collects and splits the wood. Because he's taken the jockey wheel off the trailer and rolls the contraption by hand when he wants to attach it to the tractor. Because our daughter says "Papa's hands are rough. Not smooth like mine or yours."

Me? When it came to rolling the trailer by hand, I gave it a single heave, and said "oh no, too heavy". We won't even mention my effort at building fences.

Today, the farmer is getting ready to go on a bike ride. Farmers do that, you know. And I need to get 12 bales of hay out for the horses.

The farmer is still in the garage tuning his bike when he hears the rumble of the tractor. He pops his head out to see the tractor towing a trailer full of hay. By the time he's returning from his bike ride, the tailer and tractor are standing quietly side by side in the shed.

The carriage

Our daughter has seen backpacks of various shapes and sizes. Yet, when looking at some hiking photos with Papa, she sees a photo of me carrying a full hiking pack and says "But Papa, why has Mama got the carriage on her back?"

They keep looking through the hiking shots. Sabina looks on with great interest then says "Papa, when do you take a break?"

At this point I can no longer hold back. "Yeah Papa!" I holler from the kitchen, "when do we take a break?"

The compost heap

I drive the tractor (glorified lawn mower) towards the compost heap. Scoop down. I plunge the scoop into the heap, showing no mercy. When the tractor stops moving I scoop up and drive backwards. The contents is dropped off a mere 3 metres to the right. Every now and then I see steam rising from the heap. I put my hand against it. Not too hot. Good. I smell it. Smells divine. Not anaerobic then. Excellent. I keep doing this until I see soil and roots poking through it.

But, hang on, hang on. Soil? The bank there was very compacted earth and/or rock. So I haven't hit the bank yet. But it's definitely not horse poo. It's soil. Beautiful 70% cocoa chocolate brown soil.

And the roots? Whose roots? Well, the compost heap was originally built between two eucalypt trees. Then they were sprayed with poison. They have a few brown leaves, but they are far from dying. Now I know why.

Soil Fertility in practice

Okay, okay, I'm sold. How do I do this on my farm?

Well, today we get several presenters who have applied Dr Elaine's method's in Victoria. There is no shortage of volunteers keen to share their story.

One thing becomes obvious. Brewing a compost tea is a science, and these guys, are ... well ... farmers. No surprises there.

Getting the brew right is tricky, time consuming, and can be very disappointing when your perfect brew is destroyed by your machinery as you spray it out on the paddock. Those poor fragile fungi just cannot be squeezed through certain pumps. And even the bacteria suffer. If you can afford to backpack spray, then do so. Do I see a job coming up for some volunteers?

If brewing the perfect tea is tricky, then getting enough fungi in there seems impossible. Wonder if the scientist in me can change that. I won't quit my day job just yet.

I also manage to get my compost samples under the microscope. Sample one is 2-3 weeks old. Some bacteria there, not much variety, a few spores, and one ciliate (bad guy). Sample two is 4-5 weeks old. Heaps of spores, some nice fungi, although still not much variety. Now I'm excited. Wonder what the 1 year old stuff looks like?

Soil Fertility Seminar - Day 2

So we have now covered more chemistry than at first year uni, and the words bacteria, fungi, protozoa, good guy nematodes, flagelletes, ciliates and microarthopods roll off my tounge like butter.

Now we start covering food and healthy environments for the good guys. Bacteria love nitrates (NO3) while fungi like nitrites (NH4). But get too much food, and you have bacteria and/or fungi growing too fast, and you run out of air. Then you go anaerobic and lose all of your good guys. So, hello!, when a horse does a poo, it drops on the ground, there is a high concentration of NO3s, bacteria multiply too fast, soil goes anaerobic, good guys die, bad guys prosper and weeds flourish. Go capeweed!

If you do go anaerobic, you get bad smells. Rotten egg gas, sour milk, and so on. Trust your nose. If it stinks, leave it alone. It is bad.

If you have a worm farm, and you get liquid coming out the bottom, watch out! This is not compost tea. This is anearobic residue. Compost must be 70% moisture in order not to go anaerobic. (Add some shreded paper to your worm farm. Worms LOVE paper.)

This brings me to worms. Worms (can be seen by the naked eye, yay) eat everything in their path. Bacteria and fungi included. Good guys and bad guys. But then the good guys are nurtured in the worm's stomach, while the bad guys are destroyed. Then the worm's casting contains just the good guys, ready to grow and play. In addition, worms are covered by a light layer of slime. This slime allows good bacteria and fungi to grow, and get this, it kills e.Coli. Yep. Dr Elaine did an experiment testing just this.

We also cover mycorhizzal - an innoculant for plants. This is so cool. And apparently, if you have good guys in the soil, you will have good guys on the leaves. The good guys destroy pests. Yes, flies and mites become white fuzz balls. I told you it was cool.

Soil Fertility Seminar

I am at a Soil Fertility seminar today. My husband went to this seminar last year, got all inspired, gave me the brain dump, then said "Next year you have to go".

Since during the entire year the best we've done for our soil fertility is build a compost heap, here I am.

The seminar is intense, and goes right into microscopic details of micro biology, and chemistry. I'm keeping up, just. The overall message is clear. Don't ever ever ever use pesticides, herbicides or fertilizers ever again. Yes, those 20l of MCPA 500 we bought last year are heading for the bin. You don't need them. Just make your own compost, compost extract, and compost tea, and you're self sustainable. Yes, it's that simple. And Dr Elaine Ingham has heaps of examples to prove it. Oh, and did I say reduce your garden's water consumption by 70%? Yes. It's true. Have a draught year and don't water. Not one drop.

Don't believe me? Go and attend the seminar. Or, come and see us at the farm some time after we've done our first spray.

The method can be applied to a garden, a pot, or thousand acre farm. And anything in between. It's based on maintaining healthy soil. What's healthy soil? Well, depends. Depends on what you would like to grow in it. What's healthy for a weed is not healthy for a vegetable. What's healthy for a vegetable is not healthy for a tree. So yes, where you have trees you spray a different mix of compost tea than your lawn or your vegie garden. If fact, you may spray a different mix for carrots, and different for broccoli.

I must admit I am a bit wide eyed about this. I put up my hand. "So say you spray a compost tea on your paddock full of capeweed," I ask. "What happens to the capeweed?" "Well, assuming you got your mix right, the capeweed wilts", says Dr Elaine. Wow. This I want to see.

One mouse down

I check the mouse traps in the morning. They haven't been touched.

I check the mouse traps in the afternoon. They haven't been touched.

I go out at night to feed the horses, walkie talkie on my chest. Carefully I look behind the feed bin at the traps. One of them is gone! My heart pounds. Where is it? I find it behind the oaten chaff bin. Mouse caught. Such a pity it's not the rat.

So now I need to get rid of the mouse. Carefully, with appropriate long range utensil, I open the trap. The mouse gently tumbles onto the floor, still soft in its movement. It's definitely dead, but as I put it onto the dust pan I half expect it to twitch or speak up. It does! "Are you right out there?", says Pete over the walkie talkie. I get such a fright I almost bounce the mouse straight into my face.

Rat!

We have a rat in the big shed. No doubt about it. We've always had mice, and I don't like them, but they don't cause much harm, and they do clean up the odd flake of oaten chaff. But a rat. He stinks. Big time. And he causes harm. He's already chewed through three plastic containers with fish fertilizer. And now he's chewed through my plastic container with barley. Enough is enough.

I set mouse traps. We've got a rat trap somewhere, but we can't find it right now. So mouse traps will have to do for now. Even if he just gets his paw stuck in it. How's he going to squeeze through his little escape hole with this trap dangling off his paw?

The packaging for the traps prides itself in high quality. One of the traps breaks as I'm setting it. I position it together with the other traps. Just in case. Fingers crossed.

Holiday Diary: The Prawn Fishers

As an extended family, we've been to Merimbula before. And every single time we've been here at new moon time, when the prawns swim out to sea as the tide turns. An ideal time for prawin fishing.

The fist time, we talked about prawning. The second time we got 37 prawns. By the third time we were up to 44 prawns.

Being of a kayaking family, we catch the prawns with a net, from a kayak. This year, for the first time, we're using two kayaks, one net each.

The high tide peaks at 11:30pm. It's a late start for a family with young kids. Deep down, we all think we're mad, but no one says anything. The price of determination.

We're at the bridge a smidgin before the set time. The tide is still flowing in, but I manage to get a large prawn from the bank regardless.

Pete taps me on the shoulder. We put it. In the darkness, by torchlight, the paddles quietly lap the water. It's unusually romantic.

The first half hour is filled with using far too much torchlight to see the odd prawn, only to find that they quickly float to the bottom.

I look around. Where is my husband? I can hear his paddle. He banks 5 or 6 prawns with R and H on the bank. Damn. I haven't even got one. On the other hand, I feel really lucky that I haven't yet lost my net, or my paddle, or fallen in the water. Actually, amazing.

Then R points to a clump of seaweed and foam floating not too far from the bank. "What's that?" he calls. I paddle over. Gold. I return with three prawns. I return to the pointed spot many times. Sometimes, H and R on the bank cannot keep up with emptying the nets.

At about 1:30am I start feeling the cold night creeping in. And the romantic feeling returns. But I keep catching prawns. In fact, I get so cheeky, that as I see them approaching I choose the ones I will get. "I'll have the one on the left, and these two big ones on the right". The odd one gets away.

At 1:55anm my chin is starting to wag, and we cast our final net. Back at the house, R is busily cleaning and counting the catch. "Somewhere between 115 and 120. I lost count", he says.

Holiday Diary: The Cuisine

I offer to make dinner, which lands me in the shops. Not that I mind. I've got all day.

I return just in time for lunch. After lunch is "story time" for the kids, who sit around me with wide eyes shoving their favourite books under my nose. (Not the little tacker, he's asleep).

Then the entire contingent departs for the beach, and I am left to my cooking. "Chicken Cacciatore" is on the menu and I get onto the slicing and dicing. The oven heats up, and the sun warms up the kitchen.

Everything is just about ready, when the beach contingent bursts noisily through the door. They set the table, make the salad, and we serve up. It's hard not to smile at the "ums" and "ahs". Even the kids seem to appreciate the special love put into the meal.

Afterwards they run back and forth along the deck, laughing. Then off to bed, while the adults plot plans for prawning.

Holiday Diary: The Beach

The children don't let us sleep in too long. They bounce out of bed infused with holiday energy. They don't even care where they are. They just have a ball being together.

After breakfast, fathers take their children to the beach, and the women go shopping.
Lunchtime is an adhoc affair, with a few tears. Then the obligatory afternoon siesta. For young and old.

In the afternoon Pete, Sabina and I wander down a bush path to the local playground. Sabina only has eyes for the sand, and as soon as she's allowed she becomes a yellow haired, bronzed body in a pink swimsuit, dancing and running along the sand. Running, running, running. Her hair swept back by the wind. Running along the long bar of sand thanks to the low tide.

Pete and I run after her, yelling that the icecreamery is the opposite way. She stops lightly, gazes at us, a huge smile breaking across her face. Then she giggles and runs off again along the bar of sand.

The running is followed by a similarly communicative episode of swimming.

Eventually we manage to get her changed, and walking in hand. She loves the rainbow ice cream.

Holiday Diary: The Drive

Doing a 6 hour drive with three kids under six is never an easy ask. Thank goodness we have them split across two cars, with Oma and Opa having the pleasure of travelling without the little treasures.

Having left the big smoke at about 9, we rock into Barinsdale just in time for lunch. The kids finally meet up in the Fish and Chips shop as we order lunch. They cause a tornado. The fish is cooked, and we break open the paper packaging in a park. Devoured in minutes.

The park is famous amongst travellers boasting a huge slide, swings, play equipment, and the best flying fox I have ever seen. Kid heaven. Even the little guy, just turned two, is running from one bit to the other with glee.

When the kids aren't watching, Oma and Opa take their leave. Some excuse about "get there early and set things up". Maybe just as well. The kids have just discovered the flying fox and wild screams of semi joy, semi fear pierce the air, as the little tuckers ride on a toy designed for teenagers. Yes, the little guy too. Even the parents have a go, with likewise similar screams.

When the heavens open up, we make the excuse that it's time to go. Sabina has actually already exhausted her lunch energy and sits in the back munching on grapes. "Mama, I'm finished", she pushes the grape container under my elbow. Five minutes later she's asleep. Bliss.

Now we drive through beautiful forested countryside, chatting and reminscing about the days before children and marriage when we used to travel with much more gear than just two kayaks. "Smoke over road". We pass the sign unfussed. Not so the oodles of campervans.

Finally we apprach a big yellow mushroom cloud. We get the works as we pass through the back burning area. I nearly hit the roof when I see flames in a tree, and shout with joy pointing to the smoking bushes. We wave to the CFA attending the area. After a month of fire activity, and being on alert, and cleaning up, and, and, and ... we get to see a fire! Well, remnants of it. Yay!

We arrive in Merimbula and pick up a stiff drink in the pub. Then to the holiday house, where Oma and Opa have things in control. Until the kids start running around that is. The stiff drinks come in handy. The house is a screaming mess as underexercised but overtired kids race around incoming baggage.

We all sigh relief when they are finally in bed. The pizza goes down a treat. The view is great. The holiday begins.

Three cheers!

This morning the raido is unphased, the world normal. I gaze at the photos on our neighbours web page. I see blue sky with a few fluffy clouds. No sign of smoke. No sign of fire. No sign of burnt grass.

Three cheers for the CFA. Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray, hooray, hooray!

If it wasn't for their back burning over the last 3 weeks, it may well have been a different story.

Three cheers for the Outpost Restaurant in Noojee. For feeding over 400 CFA fireys every night.

Three cheers!

Two winds

The winds are late, but they come. First the north westerly. Blowing the hot dry air. Then the south westerly. Bending the trees, rattling the roof tiles, fanning, fanning the fire. With anxiety we keep turning the radio on. "The Bunyip ridge fire has spotted out of control lines, but the CFA believe they can control the flare ups, and no communities will be impacted." Radio off. Breathe. An hour later, Radio on. Same message. Radio off. And so on throughout the evening. On the one hand nervous, on the other hand brave and defiant. Believing. Believing in control lines. Believing in the CFA.

Too much fire coverage

How do you know when you've been exposed to too much fire coverage in the press?

When you're looking at a document, and the minute you scan the word "engine" your brain immediately interprets it as "fire engine". Alarm bells! Enough said.

More Dragon

I come back into the house after my morning horse ride, only to be met by a very white faced husband. "Have you heard the forecast? They're expecting gale force winds, that will fan the fire in our direction!"

"Right. When?", I ask.
"Monday night, Tuesday, persisting into Wednesday".
"What more can we do to protect the house?", I query.
"I'll mow the grass. You and Sabina gather up all the leaves. Throw them in the dam paddock."

I get to work. Sabina is reluctant at first, but she gets into it quickly enough, and soon the backyard is squeaky. I grab some serious tools and start raking under the trees. The tractor roars past. I rake, I trim the lower branches, I make a few trips with the wheelbarrow, and create a nice pile in the dam paddock. I haven't had this much fun for ages.

One hour late, I run into the house panting, ready to make lunch. I glance out the front, and tsk tsk at the little bush growing under the eves. It's my height. Fire hazard.

After lunch I re-inspect said bush. It's half my height. Phew!

For the second time in two weeks, we evacuate. We don't take the sentimental items. We just take the very useful, really expensive items. And Sabina's books.

Admissions of fear

We put our daughter to bed, and eat our dinner. A heaviness hangs in the air. Since Saturday, we've been the tough guys. Prepared for anything, unphased by everything. Whatever emotions we have felt, they have been our own.

I gaze up at my husband, across the table, across the now empty plates. "I was pretty scared on Saturday", I attempt to slice through the air. He looks up, "me too". We get up and embrace. The stress lifts. "Actually, make that, I was very scared", I dig deeper. "I was so scared, I cowered behind the water tank", he opens up. We dig deeper still. We joke. We laugh. We cry.

Adrenaline Junkie

The fear of Saturday's fire has worn off. The low and the tiredness has passed. The adrenaline junkie in me awakes. I have a burning urge to become a CFA volunteer.

I want to go back into the smoke, I want to feel the fear, I want my mind to walk the tightrope. I want to hear the fire.

I know it's only the adrenaline junkie talking. I resist.

Out of the Ashes

I get up and check on Sabina. She's still happily asleep, the wind-up wonder torch still shining in her room.

Outside everything is covered with ash. It sticks to your shoes as you walk, to your hands as you open gates, your clothes as you brush past fallen branches.

On the ground I spot a piece of burnt bark as big as my fore arm.

Several branches are lying on the ground. Some of them have flown at least 20 metres before hitting the ground. They are just light enough for me to drag. Fodder for our SES friend and her chainsaw.

I check on the horses. They gaze at me with big eyes, and wander if there is any food coming. I look back at the buckets in the garage, all full of water. That's their feed buckets. No breakfast guys, sorry.

The water in Sabina's shell, which was left outside, is black with ash. Pete's silver car is peppered.

I wander back inside. There is a weird sense of suspension. On the one hand, the fire is still raging nearby and the radio actually lists us on alert. On the other hand, the wind is barely lifting the wind sock, and the likelyhood of the fire arriving at our doorstep is fairly small. There is no reason to not live normally, and start cleaning up.

Sabina wakes up and notices the power is back on. "Yay! Mama, we saved the house from the fire, and elctricity is back, and we're ok! Yay!", she cheers.

After breakfast, John Fayne comes on the radio. We cheer. I take the radio with me outside and commence cleaning. First the shutters get a complete sweep down. Once they are semi clean, we lift them. The house brightens up. I clean the windows. The radio keeps blaring alerts for Neerim East, and messages from friends come pouring in. My mum rings "Are you ok?". "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Settle down. Nothing's happening."

In the evening, Pete decides to stay and keep cleaning up. I drive back. As we pack the car, emotional sparks fly. The smoke may have come and gone, but the emotional air is yet to clear.
At Kevin's milking sheds I realise that our whole road had been totally blocked off by broken pine branches. The neighbours had already been out clearing.

At the end of our road I meet some of our neighbours. The Westerley brought them live embers and they didn't sleep all night. They've been driving around the area, checking out the smoke, and listening in to CFA communications on their CB. They reported a fire starting in the state forest to our East.

In the middle of Neerim East, a huge tree had come down across the road and the power lines. A new sort of shock and numbness set in. The full realisation that during a fire the world around you often isn't what you're used to, and escape may not be possible, crashes upon me like an uprooted tree.

At Rokeby, I screech to a halt in front of a "Road Closed" sign. I back up and take the road to Warragul. The Police hold a tight roadblock at Brandy Creek. They wave me through, but entry to the area is restricted.

Eventually I'm on the freeway. The Warragul detour has added at leat 10 minutes to my trip. My eyes gaze keenly in the dark, as I try to find the spot where the fire crossed the freeway. Eventually, I think I see some ashed grass. Not 100% sure though. Then the burnt smell knocks me out.

When I get back into town, I am greeted by my family like a "survivor".

Enter the Dragon

The awakening

"That's the best you've ridden so far", says my coach as we finish off a horse riding lesson. I smile. I pack up the car, put the horse on the float, turn the radio on, and commence the 50 minute drive home. Mainly up hill.

"The Bunyip Ridge fire is likely to impact on communities in Labertouche and Jindivick. Residents in those areas need to be on alert for flying embers. If you're going to leave, leave early ..." the radio blares. Jindivick! Far out, that's just next door to our farm! I choke on my sandwich. "... Conditions are expected to be worse than Ash Wednesday, and possibly worse than Black Friday ..." Black Friday?! Our whole region went up in smoke on Black Friday, the entire Olsen family perished.

The phone rings. "You may want to get some more dragon tea on your way home," says my husband. We're going to need more than dragon tea today, I think to myself as I glance at the mere whisp of smoke that is the Bunyip Ridge fire. The phone rings. It's my girlfriend Christine who agists her horse at the farm. She wants to know if we're ok with the fire. "Well, not exactly. Can someone put it out please?"

The car loses power up a hill. Strange. I glance at the console. Oh my! The temperature is right up. Almost on the red. I check outside temperature. 41C. Ouch! It's only 11am! I turn the air conditioning off and we limp home. The radio blasts me "leave early". I can't move my horses. I can't tow one, and I need to move six! I can't leave until my horses are at least in the "safest" paddock. And which one is that? Why isn't someone offering a horse truck? Why isn't someone offering a refuge for horses?

I unpack the car, and glance west. The whisp of smoke has been replaced by a massive, pulsating, mushroom cloud. I take my most expensive saddles and bridles and put them in the house, the car in the garage. Inside, the house is nice and cool, the air conditioning blasting, Sabina playing with her trains, Pete studying maps.

"I don't think it will cross the Princess freeway", Pete looks up, his finger firmly on the map. "Then the wind will change, and the fire will go here." His finger glides over Jindivick, Neerim South, Neerim Junction, but misses Neerim East. "We will be fine", he concludes. I glance at the ferocity of the north westerly and wonder how much of a "PeBo Epic" we're in for this time.

We eat lunch in some sort of a blur, while listening to the radio.

"The fire has just jumped the Princess Freeway and is heading towards Drouin." the radio interrupts "Residents are advised to implement their fire plan." Pete and I glance at each other, then at the map. Pete redraws the fire path with his finger. It stops on Neerim East. We dart outside.

Fire plan

Implement fire plan. Right. Now what was it? Where is the piece of paper that tells us exactly what to do? There isn't one.

Fill buckets with water. But our tank is low. If we don't get to use the water, what a waste! Indecision. Too late to get the horses out. Too late to leave. Fill buckets with water. Fill the bath with water. Fill Sabina's wading shell with water. Get all the horse towels, and all the woollen horse blankets. We gaze at the shed, full of this year's hay. "Do you agree that the shed is on its own?" Pete asks. I nod.

Where to put the horses. What's good? Small paddock, or big paddock? We look at the lenght of grass in the paddocks, and move them into the small dam paddock. We turn the electric fence off.

One car is in the garage. Where to put the other? On the driveway, out of the way, away from the house. Done.

Shutters. Up or down? Once we lose power, we won't be able to change our minds. We choose four doors as fire escapes. Every other window is under full shutdown. The house goes dark.

Waiting for the Dragon

The huge plume of smoke in the west builds and builds. Our stomachs churn. The adrenaline pumps. Sabina wants us to play a game with her. She becomes the only normality in the midst of internal chaos and the impeding danger.

John Fayne comes on the radio. Our regular weekday presenter for whom we have so much respect. We cheer. All normal programs have stopped, and the radio continually repeats fire updates, one region after another. Victoria burns.

We sift through our box of fire fighting clothes. It's a nice try, but it's not as complete as it should be. I run to the little shed to get gloves. On the way I do something distinctively stupid. It doesn't matter what it is. But I realise that my mind is starting to walk a very fine line between sanity and insanity. My heart beats fast, my stomach churns.

Pete walks past the little shed with Sabina. "Come on", he says "lets have a final look at the smoke". I follow. The air has turned a light orange colour now, and burnt leaves are flying in on the north-westerly. We are standing on the edge of the bonfire paddock, in our shorts and t-shirts, taking photos. Somewhere behind the ridge on the western horizon, rages a dragon.

Back at the house we change into our fire fighting overalls. We exchange sms's with friends. Sabina plays, Pete goes to the toilet, I sit on the bed and meditate. I feel the intense power of the fire, it's destructive uncontrolled energy, it's rage. Then a calmness - my mother praying for us. I refocus on the situation, and on the job ahead. "Mama, come and play with me." I open my eyes, and follow Sabina into the play room. Sabina sees what is happening, yet somehow, she seems oblivious to the danger. Playing with her brings me peace.

Should I make dinner? Is there a point? Will we have time to eat it? I put some pasta and beans on the boil.

The Westerly

The Westerly comes and the sky goes blood red. A heart wrenching wail pierces the air as 12 black cockatoos suddenly emerge from a nearby tree. Most of them cannot hold their own against the strenght of this wind, and are swept away towards the state forest. One cockatoo just manages to hover for a few seconds, then he too, is gone.

"Listeners are advised that our transmitter on Mt Tassie may be affected by the fire. Please switch to 828 AM", John Fayne advises on the radio.

Outside it goes black. Darker than on a full moon night. A friend calls offering help. Then, bang, the power goes. Blackness. Silence. Sabina grips my leg in panic. "Mama, can you put the light on?". I turn my torch on. Pete runs into another room. "I think the power surge blew the backup radio", he comes back busily winding up the other backup radio. Within seconds we're listening to John Fayne on 828 AM.

I give Sabina her torch, yet another wind-up wonder. I curse it under my breath. A couple of dolphin torches would be really good right now.

Pete goes out on ember patrol. No words can describe the ferocity of the wind.

"Mama, please put the light on". Sabina refuses to let go of my leg. I explain to her about electricity and power, and power lines. "Mama, make the elctricity come back on RIGHT NOW!", insist Sabina. I call the power company. After 30 seconds on hold I hang up. I text my sister in-law with the numbers, asking her to let the power compnay know we've lost power. "But when will the elcricity come back Mama?", Sabina feels somewhat better. "It might come back on in the morning".

Sabina's anger and frustration reminds me that she needs to eat dinner. I sit her bowl of pasta and bolognese sauce in the saucepan with pasta. The hot plate is off, but the water is still hot. The food heats up. I present a spoon to Sabina. "Mama, I don't want to eat". Tears well in her eyes. Most likely from hunger. "Sabina. I've managed to get your food warm. We don't have power. If it goes cold I have no way of heating it up again. There is a lot of danger right now, and it's very important that you eat your food while it's warm. Please eat sweetness. I need you to eat, and I need you to eat right now", I insist. She opens her mouth and accepts the spoon. Another conversation about electricity and power follows. But she eats.

It gets a little bit lighter outside. Just enough to show us just how much the wind rages. We hear its full force as Pete returns from his patrol. I serve luke warm pasta and beans, with cold meat for dinner. We consume in silence. Then Pete is off again.

Sabina and I sit by gas lamp and candlelight, cuting out shapes from an activity book. "Our transmitter on Mt Tassie has been destroyed by fire", John Fayne announces on the radio. "Oh, my ... Kinglake. Kinglake is burning. Get out! Kinglake is going up in smoke! Kinglake! Kinglake! Kinglake!" It rings mercilessly in my ears.

Pete returns from patrol. Still no live embers. He goes out again.

I bath Sabina in cold water. More explanations about power. She lies in bed and I read her a story. "Mama, put that light on." "I can't, there is no power." "But, when will the power come back?", she quizzes. "Hopefully, in the morning". "In the morning. The power will come back, and we'll be alright", she says cheerfully. "Maybe it will be back, but maybe not", I realign her expectations. She lies quietly in bed by torchlight, and falls asleep.

The cool change

The cool change comes through. The wind dies down. The smoke lifts.

I look at Pete. His face is covered with ash, except where his goggles were. Thank God for the goggles.

We wander outside and see the fire burning on the hills just beyond Main Neerim Rd. John Fayne signs off, and another announcer takes over. We see an emergency vehicle drive along Neerim East Rd. It stops, and the lights keep blinking in the same spot for about half an hour. Then it leaves. Another half an hour later a cavalcade of 2 or 3 police cars, and at least 5 fire engines drive North towards Noojee. Then many cars drive along Neerim East Rd, heading South. We deduce that Main Neerim Rd is closed. And possibly people are evacuating from Nayook, Neerim Junction and Noojee.

The night

The power comes back on. We shower and go to bed.

Two or three hours later, I wake Pete up and he goes on patrol. While on patrol he listens to the radio for updates. "I think I heard wrong", he says when he returns. "What I think I heard, was that only one house is left standing in Marysville", his voice falters. "But, I think I heard wrong".

At 6am I wake up and do my patrol. I turn the radio on. "We have an unconfirmed report", the radio blares "that only one house is left standing in Marysville. But this report is not confirmed, we are waiting to confirm ...". I slump into a chair outside, and weep ...