Image Rob Booty

Late last year, Victoria experienced its worst bushfires since Black Saturday. An untold number, and possibly millions, of animals died and tragically far too many of these died unnecessarily. Why?

Because volunteer wildlife rescuers and carers were blocked by the Department of Environment, Energy and Climate Action (DEECA) from entering firegrounds—even after the firegrounds were no longer deemed unsafe.

Rescuers who had diligently completed DEECA’s required training were told to stay out. For people who have dedicated their lives to helping wildlife, this was agonising. Even when private landowners requested their help to rescue injured animals on their own properties, rescuers were threatened by government officials. Like many experienced wildlife rescuers, Ian Slattery undertook advanced bushfire rescue training through DEECA several years ago. In hindsight, that training appears to have been wasted, given that volunteers were never meaningfully invited in.

Many rescuers with prior fireground experience have also raised serious concerns about DEECA’s approach, describing a tendency to default to euthanasia. Volunteer rescuers and carers, who do this work every day, operate with a different mindset. They are not afraid to make the difficult decision to euthanise when necessary—but if there is a viable chance of rehabilitation, they will fight to give the animal that chance.

We heard countless courageous and heartbreaking stories from rescuers and carers during and after the fires. Many were distressed because they had completed DEECA training and had even been selected for Wildlife Emergency Support Network (WESN) teams—teams specifically established for situations like this.

WESN teams are meant to be the official wildlife response units deployed during emergencies. They are selected by DEECA and are said to include veterinarians, vet nurses, and trained volunteer rescuers and carers. Yet multiple reports to us indicated that volunteer rescuers within these teams were never called upon during the fires—even those who lived in fire-affected zones. One carer described the agony of knowing animals were suffering and dying while she waited for a call from DEECA that never came.

In fact, no one we spoke with witnessed any WESN teams operating on the fireground. In the Otways, 11,000 hectares of ecologically significant bushland were scorched by fire and intense heat. The Otways are a stronghold for koalas, and our hearts were breaking as we waited for a report from DEECA about WESN deployment. It never came. In the end, the Koala Alliance, a volunteer-led organisation, recruited their own volunteers to search private land for possible survivors and leave food and water.

It is astounding that although locals were vocally concerned for Otway koalas during this intense bushfire, DEECA didn’t even see fit to send in their specialist WESN rescue teams.

Like many carers, I received vague updates from DEECA about the outcomes of rescue efforts. These came via email. When information finally came, it lacked detail. In the Otways, 11,000 hectares of bushland filled with koalas and other wildlife had burned, and this was the update from DEECA:

Wildlife impact: Large numbers of macropods being seen across the landscape, and some koalas being assessed. Wildlife Field Assessment Teams deployed in field.

Alarmingly, no WESN teams had been deployed. Something didn’t feel right. Who were these “Wildlife Field Assessment Teams”? Why was there no formal wildlife emergency response in one of the most densely populated koala regions in Victoria?

Koala Alliance volunteers worked in the Otways for over a month, searching for wildlife and leaving food and water stations on private land. There were no visible government wildlife response teams—only helicopters moving across public land and Forest Fire Management vehicles clearing tracks.

We did receive a report from one landowner that Forest Fire Management personnel were seen shooting animals on private land. They were instructed to leave by the landowner, but locals were cautious about speaking out. Rural Victorian communities are often close-knit, and people are reluctant to say too much for fear of repercussions. It was extremely concerning to consider that these might have been the “Wildlife Field Assessment Teams” DEECA referred to in their email updates—we strongly suspected this was the case.

Our volunteers also reported being followed by Forest Fire Management vehicles and stopped on public roads. In one instance, a rescuer stopped to assess a very skinny koala sitting in the middle of the road. Shortly after, a Forest Fire Management vehicle pulled up, and she was told to move on—to leave the koala, that they would handle it. She left reluctantly, deeply concerned for the animal.

Despite the emergency phase being over, rescuers were still not permitted to operate on public land. On one of my visits to the Otways, other rescuers and I were leaving a private property when we were stopped by DEECA officers. They had been there while we attempted to rescue two koalas in a gully. Unable to contact the property owner to enter, they waited outside the driveway and intercepted us as we left.

Myself and another carer were asked to hand over our names and shelter licences, and even after confirming that we were licenced, they continued questioning us about whether we had any wildlife.

This raises a serious question: why are experienced, licensed wildlife carers—trusted 365 days a year to carry the burden of rescue and rehabilitation without pay, resources, or guarantees of improvement—treated as untrustworthy during the very emergencies when wildlife need them most?

Image Rob Booty

When I asked why no WESN teams had been deployed across thousands of hectares of burnt bushland, she said that two “wildlife officers” like herself had been deployed that day—two officers.

I was sceptical. I was looking at two people in starched uniforms, equipped with body cameras and clipboards—not a speck of dirt or crease in sight. And the terminology kept shifting: were they “Wildlife Field Assessment Teams” or “wildlife officers”? It was depressing, to say the least.

Wildlife had been left to die in a scorched landscape, while authorised officers focused on keeping rescuers out and monitoring those trying to help. Countless animals on public land had no chance of rescue—only the likelihood of being euthanised if found, with no opportunity for rehabilitation.

Meanwhile, in Harcourt and Longwood, volunteer rescuers, carers, and koala monitoring experts continued their work for months after the fires were out. They kept searching, providing food and water, and supporting survivors—largely funded by public donations from people horrified by what they were hearing.

One experienced rescuer, working with a trained koala detection dog, shared his experience, “After attending many previous bushfires, we felt somewhat prepared. From day one, it was clear the destruction was unlike anything we’d seen before. Wildlife lay across paddocks, frozen in motion by the firestorm. In the early days, we found survivors—but many had severe burns and smoke inhalation. Timing is everything in rescue: food, water, shelter. These animals had nothing. The government shutdown prevented so much. When we found a young koala two weeks into recovery, it broke me. That he survived that long was a miracle. That finding him even a day earlier might have saved him is heartbreaking. He should have been a symbol of hope—but instead became a footnote. Through it all, there were moments of joy—finding healthy survivors, working with landowners who cared deeply. But it’s the ones we couldn’t save that stay with you.”

Field reports from rescuers in the Harcourt and Longwood region paint a stark picture:

  • 117 koalas rescued and saved
  • Over 300 koalas found deceased
  • 22 koalas found dead after succumbing to dehydration and starvation while waiting for rescue. These deaths were avoidable.

The toll on other wildlife—birds, possums, wombats, and reptiles—was immense. And yet, these numbers also reflect hope: despite the barriers, dedicated volunteers were able to save lives.

In contrast, DEECA’s update to carers, released in January this year, told a very different story. While it featured images of koalas being treated by WESN team members, it reported that only nine koalas had been assessed—eight euthanised and one transferred to Zoos Victoria for further assessment.

Image Rob Booty rescue dog, Keeva

The disparity between animals rescued by trained VOLUNTEERS and those rescued by paid WESN teams says it all. The public is told that official systems are in place, that trained experts have everything under control.

Are they? And were they ever?

There is clearly a lot the public is never told during or after emergency wildlife responses. Carers know this, which is exactly why I went to the media when I heard koalas had been burnt at Budj Bim National Park.

I’d seen enough in the short time I’d been a rescuer and carer to know something wasn’t right.  I never imagined in a million years that DEECA would authorise the shooting of koalas from helicopters and then label it as a “welfare response”.  My eyes are now wide open.

It’s time the public realised that DEECA do not have things under control.

They lock these places down well after they are declared safe, and that is not to keep humans safe.  It is to conceal their lack of response, to give them time to clean up shop using more economical approaches to wildlife emergency response – all the while asserting control and threats over carers to keep us quiet.

With the reports that Australia’s south-east is set for a drier and hotter winter, and that we should expect an El Niño next summer, it is safe to say that rescuers and carers hold graves concerns about the future of wild koalas.