We set out to find Ground Zero - the point of ignition of the Tianjara fire that now menaces localities north of the Shoalhaven River, including, potentially, the Southern Highlands.
It does not take long for photographer Sylvia Liber and I to find it. With our RFS media certification and personal protective equipment - fireproof suits, helmets, goggles, masks, boots and gloves - we are cleared to drive up Braidwood Road.
Heading west from the Aviation Technology Park near HMAS Albatross, within a few kilometres we are confronted by scenes of utter devastation. Blackened trees stripped of everything including their leaves. Melted roadside signs and guideposts. The bodies of animals which tried to flee but didn't make it, including a tiny joey lying prostrate on the road surface. Heartbreaking.
In dense smoke, visibility is reduced to about 50 metres - the flashing orange beacon on our vehicle a necessary part of the safety kit.
Out there, towards the heart of the apocalypse, is a lonely place. The only other vehicles are RFS and Fire & Rescue trucks. Trepidation gives way to the realisation this stretch of road is unlikely to see fire again for quite some time. There is simply nothing left to burn.
That does not mean it is safe. Not by any stretch. Trees and branches are falling. Where the fire has burned through root systems, there are nasty sinkholes ready to trap unwary feet.
As we stop to get photos, we're struck by the silence. There is no birdsong, not even the buzz of insects. The air is solid with smoke, the heat dull and smothering and coming not from the sky but the ground itself.
It's as if we are looking at the end of the world.
Sylvia surveys the scene with the artistic eye of a seasoned, award-winning photographer. But today she's in an unfamiliar environment - a self-confessed water baby, she's happiest on or under the water with her camera.
We pass signs at once familiar landmarks. The intersection with Turpentine Road, once verdant, now blackened and closed. The road to Jerrawangala Lookout, blasted and closed.
Remarkably, a tall straight and very dead tree I've passed many times on Sunday motorcycle rides still stands, seemingly a little taller now the surrounding scrub has been decimated.
At Tianjara Falls, the information kiosk metres from the lookout is defiantly unscathed. All around the bush is gone, the once sweeping view down the valley swallowed by smoke and there is no water. Not a drop.
There has been no phone signal and we need to send photos back to the newsroom, so we head back down to Nowra.
We come upon some Fire & Rescue trucks just off the road and stop to investigate.
It's a Hazmat team clearing up and containing three drums dumped in the bush. The drums were discovered by an RFS crew and because the substance leaking from them is unknown, every precaution is taken.
Hazmat suits and breathing masks are donned. Because they are impermeable they are also terrifically hot. We're told each crew member wearing them can only work for a limited time before they start to dehydrate and feel sick. A young woman suits up as one of her colleagues prepares to be decontaminated.
The scene is like something from a disaster movie. It's also a grim reminder of the contempt some people hold for the land that nurtures them - and for the people tasked with cleaning up after they dump in the bush.
We see the worst of humanity - and then come across the best: a convoy of firetrucks stopped for drinks.
One firefighter tells us he's on the South Coast after a harrowing time working the Bells Line of Road west of Sydney. Since November, he's been on every major fireground. It's by far the worst fire season he has ever seen.
Then he insists we, too, grab a drink from the Rehabitilation van that's been sent from Moruya.
Fellowship in the face of disaster.
Read more:
