IN THE HEAT OF THE BUNYIP BUSHFIRE

from Equestrian Hub Magazine April 2019

CHRIS CHUGG

FEATURE

“MUM! We have to leave. NOW.”

The weekend of the Bunyip bushfire in Victoria was one of the longest weekends of horse photographer and breeder NICOLE EMANUEL’S life.

We were waiting anxiously, fully aware that we were going to have to evacuate. Two nights before D Day, I was up until 2.00am packing negatives, slides, artworks, family treasures, hard drives and camera gear. I spent the next day moving horses to a safe zone, thanks to the extremely generous assistance from dear friends as well as volunteers who dropped everything in their busy lives to come and help strangers. It’s an unlooked for bonus, but a real one when people you’ve never met simply offer all the support they can give you. I had my float hooked up and ready to go the day before the fires were expected to peak, and from my back verandah I’d been anxiously watching the grey smoke billowing in the distance close to Bunyip.

On the morning of Sunday March 3, my 12-year-old daughter Tilly loaded her

two horses and we drove them south of Warragul to a friend’s farm - at that stage considered a safe zone.

We’d been going well time-wise and of course I mistakenly thought that the rest of the move would be just as smooth. But one thing I now know for certain: if there is a threat of bushfire, and you plan how your day will go – it’s not going to happen! Particularly when it comes to horses. Horses that might usually load perfectly, may not in an emergency situation. Horses that are normally easy to catch may not be when you are stressed and anxious, and there’s an urgent deadline.

We had this exact issue with a friend’s appaloosa mare and her three- monthold foal. In hindsight I don’t blame them. It was an extraordinary ask for both of them to load on a steep driveway, with a very steep loading ramp, and APRIL 2019 - HORSEVIBES MAGAZINE 25

with a mare that had only ever been trucked. We ended up loading her foal successfully, but as soon as he realised he was on his own in a scary big space without his mum he did one giant catleap over the top of us to get back to her.

In the end I felt we were just causing unnecessary stress and wasting valuable time. I also had more pressing issues to deal because one of the volunteers came to tell me that my precious mare, Dancer, was suffering a bad case of choke. The last thing I needed!

Tamara opened the side door of her float to reveal Dancer saturated with sweat, her head down and mouth open, gagging, with a pool of green saliva at her feet.

“Should we pull her off?” Tamara asked.

My mind was racing – if we got her off the float, the roads might soon be blocked and that would prevent my vet from getting through to treat her. Was it worse to take her or to leave her?

I made my decision. “Get her out of here and I’ll call my vet on the way,” I told Tamara, who said very reasonably, “but I don’t know where I’m going! Can you text me the address?” I told her I would but as she pulled out onto the main road, heading north - the wrong direction - I had a panic moment as I realised that in all the chaos I actually didn’t even have Tamara’s number.

I quickly called a mutual and thankfully she answered immediately, so I was able to call Tamara to tell her to turn around as soon as possible, and I met her on the main road so she could follow me into Darnum.

On the way I rang my vet Cameron Hinkley (Essential Equine Vet). I Cameron had personally just been evacuated from Labertouche and I honestly thought he would have too much on his plate to come out to Dancer - but just like the vet I first met ten years ago after the Black Saturday fires (while I was photographing for The Age) he cast aside his own needs and in his usual calm way told me he was 25 minutes away.

We arrived at my friend’s Jen’s safe property in Darnum and unloaded Dancer and her foal. Tamara and Jen put the hose on her and in her mouth to try to dislodge the blockage. As soon as Cameron arrived we boxed Dancer so Cam was able to pass a nasogastric tube through her nose, while we filled buckets of clean water to pour into the tube. The water ran through the passage to help loosen up the impaction in Dancer’s oesophagus. It was then siphoned back out a few times until the impaction had loosened enough and

‘Tamara opened the side door of her float to reveal Dancer saturated with sweat, her ‘ head down and mouth open, gagging, with a pool of green saliva at her feet.

the siphoned water ran back out clear. Cam explained that she might have some oesophageal scarring from this nasty episode, and as she is classically one of those horses that inhale her feed, we will have to be vigilant and make sure it’s dampened down in future.

Once Dancer had stabilized, Tilly and I left to come back home and pick up my son, my dogs and to shift more horses.

When we got in the car it was already 4.30pm. I had no idea it was so late, and with conditions worsening and the prediction of a wind change, our little local town of Neerim South was being evacuated literally as I drove. see a Police Incident Response vehicle blocking the intersection. I explained that I had to go home and pick up my son, but he shook his head “Sorry,” he said. “No vehicles past here unless you’re CFA or emergency services.”

There was no way in the known universe that I was going leave my son at home, so we had to choose an alternate way, APRIL 2019 - HORSEVIBES MAGAZINE 27

‘ ‘ One minute we were driving in bright daylight and the next minute ...

which the officer told us was still open. As we got close, a huge ominous black cloud loomed just ahead, poised above our little township like a big black bear looking threateningly over a tiny mouse. It cast an eerie darkness over everything below.

I was amazed at how quickly the apocalyptic scene in front of us descended. One minute we were driving in bright daylight and the next minute everything was as dark as night but with the whole sky lit up in a surreal red glow. We pulled up outside the shed and Tilly went to catch two more horses to move them into a safer paddock over the road from us. I gazed up at the black smoke trying to assess the situation. It was still very hot, and yet there was not a breath of wind. It must be the calm before the storm, I remember thinking.

I went inside to gather my four dogs and my 16-year-old son Rhys who’d been reluctantly packing a few items. He kept repeating that we were wasting our time; that we’d be fine and we didn’t have to leave. And anyway, he reasoned, if a fire started near us the fire trucks would come and save our house. There’s nothing like a relaxed teenager in a crisis.

I explained to him that it might transpire that no-one could come, because if the fire’s embers blew 10-20kms ahead of the fire front the CFA would be battling to save many houses - not just ours. I agreed it was unlikely we’d lose our home, it was just precautionary but that we needed to leave, because if the wind hit as predicted, and a fire started just outside our window, there was no way we could shift ten horses, four dogs, two kids and two cats with minutes to spare.

I had the local ABC radio on in the kitchen, checking updates on my emergency app every hour or so. They had warned that at 9pm the wind would change to an easterly direction, sending the fire front our way. It was going to be a severe and unpredictable wind, and we were told to leave now. I had both the back door and front door open as we tried to pack the last few items, I made sure we had a small bag with necessities like toiletries and some clothes when I heard a low thunderous roar outside, coming from the east. I couldn’t see a thing, and by now it was pitch dark, but I could hear it. Oh boy could I hear it.

I checked the kitchen clock - 8.50 pm and thought to myself: Here it comes! This is the wind change!

It blew straight down our hallway, carrying with it smoke and burnt leaves and dust and debris; random photos and papers that had been pinned to my noticeboard flew across the floor. Tilly had come up to the front verandah and was holding our stallion just outside the door. Looking at the scene in front of her, she panicked and screamed out: “MUM! We have to leave. NOW!”

“Come on Rhys!” I yelled. “We have to go!! Have we got the dogs??”

I noticed my hands were trembling - I honestly still don’t know whether from panic or lack of sleep – probably both. We had our four dogs but in all the turmoil we weren’t able to locate our cats, and Tilly started crying.

“They’ll be fine, they’ll hide in the old dairy” I reassured her, with much more certainty than I felt.

We dropped the tailgate in the dark and thankfully with just the light on my phone, we were able to load our young stallion immediately. I lifted the tailgate, and we were off.

I felt a huge sense of relief driving into Jen’s driveway that night. We had done as much as we could and we were utterly exhausted. My daughter had worked like a Trojan catching, feeding and moving horses, and we had all been running on adrenaline for days. Thankfully we were safe, and after a very welcome cup of tea and a de-brief with Jen I hit the sack and was asleep within minutes.

The next morning we woke to a miracle, and I will never in my life forget how lucky we were. I’d seen the Black Saturday fires first-hand. I knew how it could have been. But there it was - everything was OK. The wind was nowhere near as bad as had been predicted. The main fire was still ablaze, but we were over the worst of it.

In the weeks that have passed since the fire, I think over and over again about how grateful I am to everyone for going above and beyond, both friends and strangers alike - it’s so wonderful to see people come together in these terrible situations and I feel proud to be a part of my community.