AN enormous cloud of smoke is billowing into the sky just to the north of us.
A grass fire has caught in the dry 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 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 6.8 hectares of scrubby land, I’m not really sure what to do.
Eventually my brain kicks into action. We pack some belongings in the car and I ask a friend to take the kids away.
Numerous Lego sets are deposited by my son, while my daughter collects her treasured One Direction memorabilia, all apparently more valuable than clothes, photos and the poor 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 like an overgrown umbilical cord, spouting water onto the blaze below.
Slowly, the alerts change focus to Balliang, Eynesbury and Exford.
As I start to relax, I silently give thanks for firefighters, Elvis and northerlies. For these are luxuries not everyone in fire-affected areas get.
Emma Sutcliffe is a Little River-based freelance writer.
