By JESSE GRAHAM
I was 16 when Black Saturday happened.
I remember the day clearly and vividly, though it wasn’t until later in the day that I discovered the true magnitude of what was unfolding.
Until about 2pm, I had been working in a cafe in Healesville.
It was a sweltering day and no-one was around, so we had decided to close early. That was when I saw the sky was a sharp shade of orange.
It hit me that something was wrong when my boss saw the sky – the colour flushed from his face and we rushed to shut up the shop, the radio blaring with the ABC’s report of the fires across the state.
Walking along Newgrove Road, I first saw the burning pieces of bark fall from the sky.
I had heard from the radio about the fires, although I just didn’t know how close they were going to be.
My first instinct was to rush home, pack my things, and head outside to take photographs of the deep orange clouds rolling across the sky and the glowing red sun behind them.
Shortly after, I rode my bike across town to my friend’s house, as he was having friends over for his birthday – to sit around, catch up and enjoy some party food.
I hadn’t listened to the radio since I left work.
I arrived at the house, on the Yarra Glen side of Healesville, to see the street’s occupants standing on the sidewalk, looking dumbstruck off into the distance. A hill, which towered only a short distance away, was on fire.
Riding back home, the convoy of cars heading out of town was starting to build rapidly. Drivers shouted out of their windows at me, telling me of the danger and to head home. I couldn’t shout back, or give a proper reply, as I was too busy pedalling hard to get across town.
My family left as soon as I got back and stayed at a relative’s place in Boronia. All through the evening, a phone-tree was operating, when the sporadic reception allowed. Texts were pouring in from numerous friends, telling us of whose homes had been destroyed; letting everyone know who was safe; feeding through information about Marysville and Narbethong, Kinglake, Chum Creek and Toolangi, and the unthinkable tragedy of what was happening, minute-by-minute.
Driving across to Woori Yallock, we had seen the fires that had started; flames licking the sides of hills and tearing through the trees. But they were distant, lighting the background as we drove quickly out of the area.
The next week at school was met with an almost-bare attendance and another departure from town, when it seemed that the fires would draw closer than before.
I remember standing on a hill in Croydon that week, and being unable to see the place I live through dense smoke that ringed the area.
I took a bus through Yarra Glen that week, and saw the blackened paddocks that surrounded the town; the old train bridge reduced to ashes and burnt metal. It struck me hard, then, seeing first-hand how close the flames had come to the town.
I only saw the devastation wrought elsewhere through a screen, but I’ve seen the area flourish once more in the last five years.
I still remember the charred fields each time I drive through Yarra Glen, but the greenery now helps the sharpness of the memory reduce to a blur.
I’ve seen Marysville, five years on from the tragedy that struck on this day, and seen a town that is rebuilding and regrowing.
Although you can still see the scars inflicted by the horrific events from Black Saturday – on the people who lived through the experience and on the towns that have been regenerated from the brink of destruction – you can also see the recovery and the associated perseverance that has helped people continue with their lives.
Not everyone’s struggle with the bushfires is over – some may never be – but I think the communities across the Yarra Ranges and Murrindini Shires have reflective places, groups and people to help recovery where possible, and an attitude of respect to those who are still fractured from what unfolded.
