Transcription Audio

Hello and welcome. Come with me to first light on Wiradjuri Country, west of Wagga, where a simple “Not today” taught me more about real integration of Indigenous land management than any workshop. Picture a dusty Hilux tailgate, a washed-out sky, and me gripping a drip torch, feeling very ready. Permits open. Hazard models green. A funder waiting on a patchwork cultural burn before winter’s end. Auntie Marion tapped the torch and nodded at the ground. “Look at the ant mounds.” Their little cones were soft, edges damp. “Country’s telling you it’s not ready,” she said. “We don’t burn for a permit. We burn for Country.” It landed hard. I’d been technically prepared without being truly ready. For the last decade I’ve helped teams blend Indigenous knowledge into restoration across Australia. The data are clear: when restoration and biodiversity are the goals, bringing Indigenous land management—especially cultural burning—into the center makes landscapes more resilient. But timing is everything, and timing flows from Country, not from my Gantt chart. One of the surest ways to avoid misusing Indigenous knowledge is to slow down and listen for those cues, even when the project clock is shouting. This reserve was box–gum grassy woodland starved of fire for decades—wattles choking the mid-story, leaf litter piled thick. After the 2019–20 fires, landholders wanted to do it right. They invited Wiradjuri Elders and rangers to lead a cultural burn to suppress weeds, stimulate germination, renew habitat, and protect scar trees. On paper it echoed the Royal Commission’s advice: bring Indigenous land management in early and let it shape the whole process. In practice, I was still fitting Country into a contract. Western homework: Forest Fire Danger Index good, KBDI low, fuels measured, breaks checked, certificate in hand. I wrote a tidy plan: knee-high flames, fifty percent patchiness, protect refuges, avoid canopy scorch. Auntie Marion and ranger Jacob were reading different indicators: shrubs flowering, soil rubbed between fingers, dew under lomandra, currawongs—and ants. “If the mounds are soft,” Auntie said, “the fire carries wrong. It either snuffs out or runs where it shouldn’t. Wait ’til the edges crisp.” Tom from the RFS checked his watch. “Permit closes in a fortnight.” The neighbor had moved sheep. The funder wanted a milestone. Delaying threatened budget and trust. I rattled off ratios, slow ignition, blacklines. Auntie repeated, kind and firm: not today. Integration isn’t dropping an Indigenous practice into a Western plan. It’s changing how the plan is made, and when decisions are taken. Co-design. Free, prior and informed consent. Two-way obligations. Sometimes the right decision is “not yet.” Here’s what I’d set up wrong. Our plan put Elders “in the field team” and asked for a review after scoping. Respectful, on the surface. In reality, it treated Indigenous knowledge as an ingredient, not the kitchen. The RFS wanted straight lines and uniform blocks. Auntie wanted meanders and mosaics keyed to microhabitats and cultural sites. My monitoring—scorch height, rate of spread, post-burn sward cover—missed what mattered to them: refuge feel, return of particular forbs, no scorch on hollow-bearing eucalypts. The crunch came at a sandstone ridge. The map said survey cleared. Jacob walked me to a shallow depression with old char and shells—an old cooking place. My face went hot. I’d read a preliminary map like it was final. The cultural site survey wasn’t finished. More than a heritage “avoid this,” it was a living lesson in how fire had been used right there for generations. Missing it would mean missing the point. So we stopped. I called the funder. “We need to change scope. We need a proper Cultural Fire Agreement, not just a letter of support. We need budget to pay Elders for planning time, not just burn day.” They wanted justification. Here’s where standards matter. Free, prior and informed consent under UNDRIP. The AIATSIS Code of Ethics—don’t collect or apply knowledge without fair process and benefit. Indigenous Cultural and Intellectual Property rights—cultural indicators have provenance and limits. Indigenous data sovereignty—principles like Maiam nayri Wingara—so monitoring data sits under Indigenous governance. These aren’t box ticks. They are the basis for trust. We rewrote the plan as a “two-toolbox” framework. Western fire science on one side: fuel moisture, wind, humidity, FFDI, KBDI, crew readiness, contingencies. Cultural fire knowledge on the other: seasonal indicators, plant and animal behavior, soil feel, crisp ant mounds, protection of cultural places and pathways. Decisions would require both sets of triggers to be green. Go/no-go only when Country and the clipboard aligned. We shifted governance so Elders held authority on timing and pattern. Ignition edges would meander around microhabitats, not chase straight lines. Monitoring would include Western metrics and cultural indicators, with data governance led by the people whose knowledge made the burn possible. Here’s what changed. Permit pressure no longer overrode relationship. Neighbors and the RFS adjusted: safety lines stayed non-negotiable, but pattern and pace were culture-led. And when a day arrived with crisp ant mounds, early-lifting dew, soil that felt right under Auntie’s fingers—and our indices agreed—we knew we weren’t forcing it. We were following it. You might be thinking: what do I do on Monday? Here’s a tight playbook, distilled from mistakes. - Start with relationships, not tasks. If you can’t name the Traditional Owner group and Elders to be involved, you’re not ready to write a timeline. Sit on Country. Ask how they would approach the project, not how you can add them to yours. - Put consent and governance in writing, respectfully. Cultural Fire Agreement. FPIC. Data sovereignty. ICIP. Spell out who leads what decisions, who owns what data, how benefits flow, and how disputes are resolved. Pay for planning and teaching, not just burn day. Budget for it up front. - Co-design the indicators. Don’t translate cultural cues into Western proxies and call it done. Let Indigenous indicators stand as themselves with equal weight. Your go/no-go should read like two columns that both need ticks. - Bring safety agencies in early, and let Elders lead those conversations. There’s less friction when the RFS hears the pattern and rationale from cultural practitioners directly, and when safety is a shared goal, not a constraint. - Rewrite your monitoring. Keep scorch heights and fuel loads, but add indicators that matter on Country—refuge integrity, return of specific plants, condition of hollow-bearing trees, and qualitative assessments that don’t get forced into a spreadsheet if they’re not meant to be. - Schedule for seasons, not quarters. Aim for windows that start when particular plants flower and dew patterns shift, not “week three of August.” Build buffers big enough that “not today” doesn’t tank the project. - Report differently. Teach your funder to value a prudent delay as success. Document co-design, governance, and timing decisions as outcomes. Reference recognized standards so integrity shows up in their system. - Keep learning. You will get things wrong. Own them quickly. Fix them in partnership. Our near-miss at that cooking place became a turning point because we stopped, listened, and changed the plan. I’ll close back at that quiet morning. The temptation to press ahead was real—budgets, trust, permits heavy on my shoulders. The most powerful leadership came from Auntie’s “not today.” That decision honored tens of thousands of years of refined practice. It protected cultural places and living species. It set us on a path where integration wasn’t a garnish but the recipe. When we say we want resilient landscapes—healthier soils, cooler burns, richer habitat—we’re saying we want to be in right relationship with Country. That means letting Country, and the people who hold its knowledge, set the rhythm. It means changing how we plan, decide, and measure. It means a funder learning that a milestone can be a well-justified pause. And for those of us with clipboards and contracts, it means remembering: a clean spreadsheet is not the same as a ready landscape. So next time you feel technically prepared, take a moment. Walk with the people who know the place like kin. Check the ants. Feel the soil. Listen for the birds. And if the answer is “not today,” consider that not a delay, but the work. Because we don’t burn for a permit. We burn for Country.