by Matt Wright
I needed to get out of Australia to clear my head and work out what was next. I bought myself a ticket to Canada. A season in the snow was just what I needed. A day before I boarded the plane, Nick rang with good news. National Geographic was still interested.
Sitting astride a decent-sized croc shortly after having roped her. The hard part of relocating her to a new home is yet to come. (National Geographic Australia)
21
Wildfire
The contract with Discovery prevented me from doing a deal with another broadcaster for a year from the date I signed, so I decided to head over to Canada as planned. It would be a good chance for me to get away and form a clear vision of exactly what I wanted the show to look like. Before leaving, I managed to snag a job with Great Slave Helicopters (GSH). The company operated out of Yellowknife, the capital city of the Northwest Territories situated on the northern shore of the Great Slave Lake.
GSH was a great fit for me. Just like Qwest, I hit it off with the other pilots and admin staff straight away. Most of the work involved flying surveyors and scientists out to remote locations in the far north to conduct oil and gas exploration. GSH also offered executive charter flights, air ambulance service, aerial photography, and much more. But there was another service GSH offered, something I hadn’t done much of in Canada – fire suppression.
The summer I joined up with GSH was hotter and drier than normal. Although wildfires in the northern regions of Canada are a way of life in the summer months, the towns of the Northwest Territories and surrounding provinces were bracing for a particularly bad fire season. My experience of aerial firefighting was limited to slinging a bucket of water from my R44 over a few spot fires that flared up around Darwin. This was going to be completely different.
The call came in mid-morning from the Hay River Fire Department. A lightning strike had started a blaze about 50 kilometres outside of Hay River, a small township on the southern shore of the lake. The fire was not big, but if ignored might develop into something that could threaten the local community. The fire department was calling in any available choppers to suppress the blaze. I was one of two chopper pilots who answered the call. The other chopper pilot – he was a fuckwit and I don’t remember his name so let’s call him Dave – worked for a company on the other side of the lake.
I’d only met him once before. He had racked up a lot of hours fighting fires from his chopper. I got on the radio to Dave. He made it clear that he planned on calling the shots. He had carried out reconnaissance on the blaze and told me that although the fire was small, a stiff southerly was taking it north. It would come very close to Hay River. Then he outlined his plan for tackling the blaze. It gave me serious concerns. He wanted to back-burn.
‘I’m heading out now with the drip torch to start up a blaze a mile west of the main fire,’ he said.
In opening up a front to the west of the main blaze, Dave was hoping to draw the fire away from Hay River. This was a proven method of fire management. A fire produces warmer air that rises from the heated surface. The cooler, denser air surrounding the fire rushes in to replace the escaping hot air. The speed at which the air rushes is proportional to the size of the blaze. Put simply, the bigger the fire, the stronger the wind created. If Dave could start up a big enough blaze, he could create a vacuum effect and pull the main fire away from the township. Eventually, the two fires would meet. Having burnt up all the available flammable material, the fire would extinguish.
I thought it was a crazy idea. A period of intensely hot and dry weather had left the countryside tinder dry. A controlled burn could quickly become uncontrollable.
‘Why don’t we just dump a couple of buckets of water on the fire while it’s still small?’ I asked.
Dave stuck to his guns. He had already got the go-ahead with the fire chief. He told me to get out with the drip torch and help him flare up a blaze.
As it happened, my contribution to the burn was minimal. I was flying one of the company’s AS350 Squirrels. I’d connected the drip torch to a length of chain that I locked onto the cargo latch. Once I was airborne, I set a course for Hay River. I had no trouble finding the fire. A huge smoke cloud blotted out the horizon. On approach I could see flames engulfing large spruce trees. The fire was already bigger than I imagined.
I got on the radio to Dave and restated my concerns. Dave was having none of it. He told me to head west and help him get another blaze going. I flew the Squirrel over the main fire and got a visual on Dave’s chopper. He was about two kilometres from the main fire and was running his chopper in a straight line parallel to the blaze. I could see his drip torch spitting out burning gel that lit up trees and foliage. He already had a decent blaze going
I flew in behind Dave and started dripping out flames perpendicular to Dave’s line. I couldn’t believe how quickly the flames took hold. Within moments of dripping out a cupful of gel, entire spruce and pine trees were burning. The southerly breeze picked up in intensity, carrying the flames across the spruce forest at alarming speed. I didn’t like it at all. But it was Dave’s call. So I pressed on.
I was slinging a 44-gallon drum filled with flammable gel, enough to start a fire that could burn thousands of hectares or set alight a continuous fire front up to 50 kilometres long. I was slowly making my way west, lighting up the forest floor when I felt a sudden upwards lurch. I looked out to see my drip torch disappearing into the forest. I pulled up on the collective. The drip torch exploded on impact, sending up a column of fire that nearly reached the undercarriage of my rising chopper. Either the chain link was faulty or had melted in the heat. Whatever the reason, I was no longer able to help get the blaze going.
I got on the radio and explained the situation to Dave. I told him I was heading back to hook my water bucket onto the sling. Dave didn’t respond. He was probably pissed off. But I didn’t care. A part of me was pleased I could get on with the business of containing the main fire rather than starting up another one.
I got back to base, picked up a bucket and then dunked it in Great Slave Lake. It took about 30 minutes to get back to the fire with a full bucket of water. What I saw on returning scared the shit out of me. In the half hour I’d been gone, the fire had tripled in size. Fire whirls, like mini-tornados, were dancing high up above the treetops. The fire was generating so much heat that spruce trees at the edge of the fire front were exploding. Dave was nowhere to be seen. I tried to get him on the radio.
‘Dave, do you copy?’ I asked.
‘Yep,’ he said, completely calm. ‘What’s your position?’
‘I’m at the edge of our burn,’ I said. ‘It’s time to put a bucket on and put this thing out.’
‘Negative,’ he said. ‘We have to keep stoking it up.’
‘It’s not going to work!’
‘It will,’ he said. ‘I just have to keep lighting.’
I concluded that Dave was either deluded or a pyromaniac. Either way, I decided I was no longer going to take orders from him.
I slung the bucket over to the edge of the front and hit the release valve. Five hundred litres poured on the fire and evaporated before it hit the ground. At least, that’s how it looked from the chopper. I turned the chopper for the lake, filled it up, and carried out another water dump. The effect was minimal. It was time to call in some more help.
I got on the radio to the fire department and told them to send in the water bombers. The chief got on the radio and asked for coordinates. The northwestern edge of the fire was pushing towards an uninhabited stretch along the southern shore of the lake. The northeastern edge, however, had pushed ahead of the original blaze. I was worried that it might bend around and head towards Hay River.
I gave coordinates for the northwestern edge of the fire. Within about 10 minutes, three Canadair CL-215 water bombers came over. One by one, each aircraft dumped 5000 litres of water on the fire. It made no difference. The bombers turned around for the lake to fill up their water tanks. As I watched them t
urn around, I saw a big plume of smoke come over the top of me. It was the worst possible scenario – the wind changed to an easterly. The fire was now being pushed directly toward the town.
I got back on the radio and warned the fire chief. Hay River was evacuated. The water bombers were redirected to defend the town. Meanwhile, Dave and I were told to cease any fire suppression activities and were placed on standby to assist firefighters setting up a containment line at the western edge of town.
The situation continued to deteriorate. Not only was the wind coming from a different direction, it was stronger. The view from above was incredible. The wind picked up burning embers and hurled them hundreds of metres forward of the main fire front, starting up spot fires.
The chief called us in to defend a small little fishing village to the east of Hay River that was right in the firing line. I went to fill up the bucket while another one of our larger choppers, a 214, unloaded a massive payload of water. As I neared the fire, huge clumps of ash smashed into the window of the chopper. The wind the fire generated was strong – easily in excess of 100 km/h – making it difficult to hover. Because I was downwind of the fire, I was now being bombarded with embers as well as the ash. The heat inside the chopper was nearly unbearable. The hairs on my arms were singed off. I had no choice but to bug out.
I hit the release valve and dumped my bucket of water. It made no impact on the fire. Flames were now flicking over the machine. For a moment, I thought the chopper was alight. There were massive high-wire power lines running along the main road so I turned away from them, giving the Squirrel maximum power. The water bombers and the choppers ceased all fire suppression activities. There was no longer any point – we couldn’t see through the smoke with it blackening the day.
At its peak, the fire had a 100-kilometre front and four-kilometre plume of smoke. It looked like a volcano had erupted. All that could be done now was hope and pray that the fire somehow missed the town.
I was absolutely spent. I’d been in the air coming on nine hours. Soon I’d get a call that brought me back to life. I was flying high through the smoke when a firefighter hailed me, saying that his crew was trapped. The fire had crossed the road by this stage and was surrounding them. I raced back and unhooked my bucket in a gravel pit. I hauled arse to their location, finding the firefighters in a perilous position.
A couple waved up at me. They had a hose out pumping water at the burning foliage at the edge of the road. But that would not hold back the fire for long. Flames were leaping 60 feet into the air. Eventually, it would barrel over the top of them.
I set the chopper down not far from the truck. The four firefighters abandoned the truck and sprinted for the chopper. Burning debris was landing in the disc and spraying embers everywhere.
Everyone piled in. I wasted no time getting airborne. As we lifted up, I saw the power lines at the edge of the road melting. I turned the chopper away from the fire as we flew through the black smoke. The boys in the back were coughing up ash and smoke as we cleared off. Below us, the fire truck disappeared in the flames.
* * *
In Canada, helicopter pilots are not allowed to fly more than nine hours a day. It’s a strictly enforced rule. As long as that fire was burning, I was given exemption to fly unlimited hours. Over the two horrendous days it took us to get that blaze under control, I clocked up around 25 hours. I was flying back and forth between Great Slave Lake and the fire front, dumping countless buckets of water on the fire. The Squirrel took a hiding. Beneath the chopper’s ash-coated fuselage, the blue paint peeled away in the heat.
In the end, we got lucky. No lives were lost in the fire and much of Hay River was saved after a late wind change kept the fire west. But property losses on the outskirts of the town were huge. The damage bill soared into the tens of millions.
When the dust settled, there was a fair bit of arse-kicking. A public inquiry exposed an embarrassing degree of mismanagement on the part of fire officials. Several people lost their jobs for allowing Dave to run rampant with the drip torch and turn a small blaze into a catastrophic wildfire. I fought a few more fires up in the Northwestern Territories that season. But nothing came close to the Hay River debacle. It was some of the most challenging flying I had ever done.
That was the last season I flew in Canada. It was a memorable time of my life but I was ready to return home. I was about to embark on my greatest adventure yet.
22
Wrangler Kicks Off
Nick and I signed a deal with National Geographic in Washington DC for a single season. The show was to be called Outback Wrangler. The title was a clear pitch to the American audience. You won’t hear too many people using the word ‘wrangler’ in the Australian outback. In American folklore, a wrangler is the person in charge of livestock or horses on a ranch, kind of like an Australian stockman.
I was prepared to go along with the name of the show provided Nick and I retained editorial control of each episode. My earlier experience dealing with a large American production company had burnt me. There was no way I was going to surrender control of material that had my name on it.
In the end, it was easier than expected. My vision for the show and the sorts of messages that I wanted to get across about conservation and wildlife was completely in sync with the guys across the table. The National Geographic Society has been raising awareness about the natural wonders of the world since it was established in 1888. One of the society’s slogans is ‘promoting environmental and historical conservation’. This place was going to be a good home for my show.
Other production companies hopped on board, as did Screen Australia. To keep the budget under control, Nat Geo decided to keep the first season down to four one-hour episodes. It turned out that the stuff that really got them across the line was the rough footage Nick and I put together of us clearing nests in Arnhem Land. So I suggested we kick off the series with an episode on egg collecting.
I rang up a few mates and asked if they were interested in coming on board. The Professor and the Wolverine were keen, as were several others. It was an incredible experience. The size of the production was huge. No expense was spared. This was a far cry from the early days of knocking together a short video on a handycam with the help of a mate or a girlfriend. There were cameramen, sound guys, producers, support staff and catering staff.
We named the first episode ‘Croc Swarm’. I was thrilled with the quality of the production. It showed the Northern Territory in all its glory. The footage of crocs stalking the collectors and launching at rods and crates was exciting stuff. There was also a hugely suspenseful segment of me standing on the skids of a chopper with pistol drawn as the Professor cleared a nest propped up on floating mat. To make sure the show wasn’t too croc heavy, we broke up the episode with a bit of mustering.
Episode two was entitled ‘Wild Horse Bust’. This was a show close to my heart, because the subject matter harked back to the initial inspiration that gave rise to the show – wild brumbies. It was a chance to highlight the damage brumbies are doing to the ecosystem while presenting an alternative solution to the problem that didn’t involve culling them. The shoot took a couple of days and it proved to be one of the toughest things I have ever done on a cattle station.
Anyone who has worked on a station will tell you that mustering brumbies is tougher than mustering wild cattle or buffalo. Not only are they faster animals, they are also much smarter. But mustering these particular wild horses was harder than normal. The station owner neglected to tell us until after we’d wrapped up filming the episode that the over the previous year he and his boys had shot over 2000 head of wild horses. The surviving horses of that massive cull were understandably wary of people.
In the end, we managed to get 50 of them into the yard and they were vicious. Once we got them in, they bucked and kicked to the point of exhaustion. I got a saddle on one horse. Trying to ride him was a different story. I was thrown off more times than I can remember. It made for
a good show, but it hurt like hell. The next two episodes were predominantly focused on crocodiles. To mix things up, we shot one episode in Borneo and the other in the Territory. We edited each episode and then sent them off to National Geographic. They were thrilled, particularly when the show rated well both in Australia and North America. The moment the first episode aired, Nick was fielding calls from Nat Geo executives about another season. I couldn’t have been happier. But there was one component of the show’s success that I was ill equipped to handle – having a public profile.
* * *
A lot of people are surprised to hear me say that getting the show up and running was not a matter of life and death. I love putting the show together and I’m pleased that Outback Wrangler has a great audience. But for me the show has always been about showing people what it’s like to live out in the bush, interact with animals and respect the environment. The trade-off for getting a show off the ground is the need to do publicity.
I’ve never been good at the public speaking thing and have always been on the shy side. Getting a public profile didn’t resonate well with me. Immediately after the first season was broadcast, random people started stopping me in the street. I began to notice that blokes in particular would come up and want to challenge me in a bar or when they were on the piss.
On more than one occasion someone bailed me up, shouting, ‘You think you’re a big tough bull catcher, hey? Let’s see how tough you really are!’
This would usually happen in pubs. I’d be quietly having a beer with a mate when suddenly some dickhead full of piss would start carrying on. Before you know it, he’s shaping up to take a swing. I’ve long since learnt to walk away from those situations and I know which pubs to avoid. I find most trouble happens in outback pubs. It’s different in the big smoke. City people don’t tend to give me any trouble. I put that down to the fact that they’ve never seen anything like what I do on the show. The worst I get is someone hassling me for a photo or an autograph. And that’s fine. I’m grateful that they watch the show. Of all the blow-ups in which I’ve been involved, one in particular stands out. It was a different sort of altercation to what I’m normally used to. For one thing, it wasn’t a bloke.
