The Fire I'll Never Forget

It was the first and only time in ten years as a volunteer firefighter that I genuinely thought I might be in danger.

Burn over drills flashed through my mind: crouching on the floor of the truck, fire blanket hastily positioned to try and cover your entire body, waiting for flames to overrun the cab. It’s the kind of training you hope you’ll never need, but in that moment, it felt uncomfortably close.

The roar of the fire coming through the bush was like nothing I had ever heard. You could hear it coming, feel it coming, smell it coming, and see it coming. It was beautiful and ferocious and just a little bit terrifying all at once. I was in awe. Mother Nature at her worst but somehow still mesmerising.

No filter, No AI, just mother nature

The heat was intense, the kind that hits you like opening a giant industrial oven, a single massive wave rushing straight at you. Visibility collapsed as thick, suffocating smoke, filled the air, making it hard to see and harder to breathe. The fire was pulling in every bit of oxygen, and the extreme heat created a shimmering haze that blurred the entire landscape.

It was early afternoon, yet it suddenly felt much later as the world around us darkened without warning. Smoke and heat rolled over us, whipping up the sand and carrying embers and ash through the air.  And straight in front, filling the horizon, was a towering wall of red and orange flames.

Hours earlier we had been systematically patrolling the road that divides the north and south sections of Moreton Island. The fire had been relatively contained. Our job was simple: stop it from crossing the track.  If it made it into the southern bushland, there would be no way to stop it.

We can see it raging toward us...

Then, out of nowhere, a call came over the radio from Incident Control. 

“Severe storm warning.  High winds and rain approaching.”

Rain is always welcome in a bushfire – but the wind that comes before it is not.

The wind came first and brought the fire back to life.  It fanned small flames into tall ones, pushing fire into the canopy where fresh leaves caught quickly like kindling.

The fire surged forward toward us with frightening speed, the forest crackling as it was swallowed. That sound, the oppressive heat, the sting of smoke in my eyes and my lungs and that beautiful but terrifying wall of orange will stay with me forever.

There was no option to outrun it. The track was deep, soft sand, 40km long, and we were almost exactly in the middle.

Thankfully, the crew leader with me was far more experienced.  He was calm and unwavering in his reassurance that we would be ok.

We were near a cut‑through between the east/west tracks, one of the few spots to turn around without driving the entire length.  We positioned the truck there. It wasn’t far from the fire’s edge, but it was the safest place available.

The safest place to wait...

With nothing to do but wait, we got out of the truck and watched the fire rage toward us. Despite the nerves, it was one of the most breath-taking experiences in nature I’ve ever witnessed. Those few minutes of standing still and quiet – watching, listening, waiting - passed quickly, yet somehow felt suspended in time. 

It was like standing in the eye of a cyclone.  Everything around us was chaos, but in those few moments, there was an unexpected calm.  There’s a strange peace that comes from being completely at the mercy of nature, knowing you have no control.  All you can do is stand there, be present, and take in the raw overwhelming beauty of it.

Moments before it reached us...

Then as quickly as the moment came, it was gone.  The heat became unbearable within minutes, and we retreated into the truck for protection.

The crew leader assured me that the sand road would act as a natural break and that we’d be okay. I trusted him completely, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t just a wee bit nervous. It was insanely beautiful and utterly terrifying watching that fire rage toward us.

And then, almost magically, the fire reached the edge of the track and its intensity dropped.It didn’t go out, but the fast‑moving front slowed instantly without fuel to carry it.

Relief was quickly replaced by urgency.  The fire wasn’t finished. Flames in the canopy, driven by the wind, spotted across the track and ignited the bushland between the two roads.

With the immediate danger gone, we switched straight into response mode, using the limited water we had in the truck to try and stop the new fire from gaining momentum.

We called for aerial support and a helicopter with a Bambi bucket came and delivered bucket after bucket of water on the fire. Then the heavy rain from the storm came and finished the job.

After the fire and the rain....

Eventually the fire was contained. We returned to staging for welfare checks and water replenishment, exhausted but safe.

The next morning, we boarded the ferry home. The sun was shining, the beach looked like any other postcard-perfect day, and tourists wandered past unaware. The fire trucks on the sand were the only evidence of what was almost an environmental disaster.

What fire??

Only those of us who stood on that track knew just how close the island came to being lost, ,and how close we came to being caught in it.

It’s a fire that I will never forget.