The first day of the middle month of Spring. Hot. Windy. Dry. For someone living in the Blue Mountains, those three words are sufficient to conjure the potential risk that the day entails. It's not necessarily a conscious condition, but one that's creeps out at the corner of the eye, from a shadow cast at midday, or a high cloud that seems somewhat too dark.

Yes, the prefect storm, as the cliché goes. All we need is the ignition of an errant lightning strike, a carelessly tossed cigarette butt, or an idiot bent on destruction. The rest is left to the prevailing elements.

And then the highway is a sea of sirens.