Tag Archives: fire apparatus

May randomness (P366)

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5/8 – In the checkout line, wondering why Nostradamus looks like an angry Sean Connery.

 

5/9 – Charter Hose No. 1

5/10 – Beth learning to handle a manual TLR, in this case a Super Ricohflex.

 

5/10 – The Vegetable Garden @ Castle Hill

 

5/12 – Requiem for a picnic table. This one came into the family around 1975. It had finally rotted to the point of being dangerous. With company due this weekend it was time for it to go. Bring on the chainsaw.

 

5/14 – cool thrift store find: a Minolta Uniomat. More about this later.

 

I told you I photograph fire engines (P366)

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2/20 – In traffic behind Revere Ladder 2. It’s always impressive following a TDA. I think they were headed out for service, as this was taken near the entrance to the Ted Williams Tunnel. It’s not exactly in their first-due.

2/21 – still in the camera

2/22 – There’s something cool and retro here. Mid-90′s Ford, utility body, candy striped light bar; it’s a throwback to the days when Rescue wasn’t about who got the biggest federal grant for the most toys. I just like it, I guess.

 

Retro

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As mentioned previously, I’ve been shooting a bit on real film. I learned photography on a manual 35mm camera, shooting and developing my own film. Sometimes it’s fun to go back.

 

January 12 – At the firehouse. You don’t see folding controls very often, but even when folded these barely clear the doors.

 

January 13 – ALS

Shot on a Nikon FM2 with 50mm manual lens. Thanks to OldSchoolPhotoLab.com for developing and scanning for me. Not many folks can handle Tmax 400 any more.

Fire and ice, and a dog. (Project 366)

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January 21 – Home alone for the evening, lounging in front of the pellet stove.

January 22 – Cold day at work.  This grew throughout the day.  I kept waiting for the rig to hit it on the way out the door.

 

January 23 – My family says the dog is a good luck charm and she has to wear the shirt through the Superbowl.  Cricket is not impressed.

January 24 – The Howe is finally safe at home.  The trip was much longer and more expensive than planned.  Details to follow.

 

 That’s her older sister, Engine 2, in the background.

 I sure wish I had those ladders.

Reunion IV

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 This is part four of a multi-part series.  We took a brief detour, but when last we saw our heroes, they were grinding southward out of northern NH at about 25 MPH. . .

—————

The first long hill was interesting. I’d forgotten how underpowered these old trucks were.  I was remembering quickly.  We would get up this hill, but we’d do it in our own time.

The first few descents were interesting as well as I got the feel of her brakes and steering again.  A big old truck demands defensive driving of the highest order, as you never want to trust that they will stop or turn as quickly as you expect.

Eventually we hit a good pace.  The weather began to thicken into fog and drizzle, and I discovered the leak in the windshield.  A gap in the rubber at the base meant that each left turn brought a spray of water on my face.

The previous owner had warned me that he ‘wasn’t too sure’ about the alternator.  Neither was I. The voltmeter hovered just below 12 volts, and the ammeter was showing a slight draw.  I couldn’t be sure if she wasn’t charging, or if the meters were just off slightly.  I resolved to use the wipers and lights as little as possible and see how far we could go.  I did have a spare battery after all.

The trip through Franconia Notch was surreal.  I was driving a piece of personal and department history through some of God’s most beautiful country, yet I could barely see beyond the end of the hood.

At the foot of the Notch we stopped for food and fuel.  As the gas gauge hasn’t worked in 25 years, this allowed me to calibrate for our trip.  We were doing 6 MPG.  One more gas stop should leave plenty to get home.

Back up on the highway we settled in at a comfortable 55 MPH.  Climbing the hills wasn’t too bad.  Oil pressure and temperature were holding fine, and voltage remained steadily just below 12.  Vacuum reserves would drop on the long hill climbs but immediately come back as soon as I lifted the throttle slightly.  Things seemed to be going well.

Then came the first thump.  It sounded like I’d hit a piece of road debris.  I hadn’t noticed any road debris. . . All the gauges still looked OK.  Nothing looked wrong in the mirrors, and the chase truck wasn’t flashing its lights.  Onward.

Just north of Tilton it all began to come apart, both figuratively and literally.  Three things occurred almost simultaneously:  I felt another thump accompanied this time by vibration, I saw something fly off behind me in the mirrors, and a motorist pulled up next to me honking and waving frantically.  Thank you, sir, I can feel and see it.

Paradoxically as I slowed the vibration worsened.  I couldn’t have blown a tire.  The sound wasn’t loud enough, and the ride was still too smooth.  I found that one of the rear tires had begun to disintegrate.  It was still holding air, but it was throwing off large chunks of tread.  This would not do.

We limped into a Walmart parking lot at the next exit, two hours from home and one hour from dusk.

 

Beacon Ray (P366 – 1/11/12)

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January 11, 2012 – The Federal Signal Beacon Ray.

I wish I’d had my polarizer with me as the sky was fabulous.  Engine 3 is now legally registered to me and should be completing the trip home soon.

P366 may become a bit sporadic as I’m experimenting with some shooting on film.  I’m still shooting, but I won’t get the instant gratification of digital.

Reunion III (P366, 1/6/12)

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When last we left our heroes, they were departing a northern NH town on a long journey home. We will leave them grinding up that steep hill in 3rd gear for now; today’s installment is a brief diversion.  
———  
In conversation with the previous owner he mentioned that, “She’s lost her siren somewhere.” I had to chuckle to myself. I know EXACTLY where it is. It’s not lost but merely orphaned. 
 
Historically fire departments would often keep the bell from a retiring apparatus as a memento or memorial. The bell from our 1928 Seagrave was installed on her 1955 replacement, and went into storage when the 1955 retired. The bell from our 1936 Maxim stayed behind when she retired and was reunited when she returned as a ceremonial unit in the 1980′s. 
 
In later years we haven’t had bells to keep, so sirens became the norm. When the Howe retired to her second home, the Federal Q2B stayed behind. It was installed on her replacement (a 1981 Mack) and continued to serve until 2002. Since that time it has resided in a box in the boiler room of the firehouse, next to its mate from our 1979 Engine 1. A short conversation with the assembled fire company made it mine last night, and it was rescued from storage. 
 
Many things involving the Howe are department lore; her siren is no exception. Old timers claim it was the loudest Q2B we’ve ever owned. There are stories of it putting people on their knees at parades in the 1970s. At highway speeds, it will freewheel and emit a wonderful low growl. 
 
In short it’s cool and it belongs with my truck.  
From Project 366  
I had hoped to post a video of it in operation, but my cameras will not cooperate. My video camera has an early version of drop detection software. Even when disabled it will shut down if bumped. The Q2B in an enclosed garage is so loud that the camera just shuts down the moment the siren spools up. Similar results with the iPhone. Even with good hearing protection, this thing is unpleasant in an enclosed garage. I tried four times without success. After that, I was worried the neighbors might call the police. 
 
I haven’t seen any of the cats since. 
 
(I’d also like to thank Mrs. Mack505 for the gift of the wondrous Rockwell Jawhorse. I’d never heard of it before. I’m sure she didn’t expect this to be its first use.)

Professional strength?!

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I’ve mentioned in these pages before that I am an inveterate reader. I read books and magazines like a normal person. I also read elevator permits, cereal boxes, and the backs of menus. I read fine print. 
 
You would be amazed at the obscure things I learn. 
 
Today I had occasion to do some maintenance on one of my trucks. I rolled over while bleeding a wheel cylinder and came face to face with the brake fluid bottle. 
 
Professional Strength. 
 
Interesting marketing phrase, that. Who stops for a living? Are my stops more important if I’m being paid to make them? 
 
Why would I prefer professional strength? My stops are arguably more important to me when I’m driving my family around. Can I get personal strength brake fluid? Or perhaps a Family Size? 
 
Does no one else notice these things?

Reunion II

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This is part 2 of a multipart series. If you missed the beginning, you might want to check out part 1.  
 
So it was off to northern NH to retrieve the Howe. The current owner said she’s been well maintained and should be ready for the long trip home, but antique trucks can be full of surprises. I loaded the pickup with every possible supply and tool I could conceive of needing: oil, coolant, brake fluid, jumper cables, spare charged battery, air compressor with hoses and chuck, extension cords, fuel stabilizer, lead substitute, Marvel Mystery Oil, and an assortment of basic tools.  
 
Captain Murphy often rides with me. (I know he’s at least a captain because I’m a lieutenant, and Murphy outranks me.). Whatever breaks, it will be the one thing I didn’t consider. That’s why I also carry the number of a good heavy towing service.  
 
The GPS says it’s a 3 1/2 hour trip up. It’s pretty accurate, but it translates to a 5 hour return trip at 1963 speeds. It’s gray, foggy, and threatening rain, but at least the weather is still unseasonably warm.  
 
My first glimpse of her is in her owner’s driveway. We round a corner, and there she is at the top of a small rise. The last 18 years have not been kind to her, but I’ve aged a bit as well. Her body is not as good as I had hoped, but it’s much better than I had feared. If the mechanicals are intact, I can work with this.  
 
They seem to be OK. She starts quickly and idles well. Her original siren is missing, but I know where it is. Her original seat has been replaced with buckets, but they seem comfortable. She’s lost her 35′ extension ladder, and her nicely matched set of chrome suction hoses has been replaced with a ratty mixed set. The brakes need bleeding. I hope that’s all; it may be a bad master cylinder. The tires are iffy, and I’ll need to find and repair that exhaust leak. And I’m sorry, East Haven, but the lettering job is ugly. It will have to go. Some of the original paint may yet survive under it, though.  
 
In summary she needs a fair amount of work, but it’s not insurmountable. We take care of the formalities, and then I’m off.  
 
It’s a blast from the past. Low revving, lots of torque, lots of noise; but she doesn’t seem as hard to drive as I remember. Perhaps I’ve grown up, or perhaps it’s the lack of a deputy chief watching me from the right seat.  
 
It takes less than a mile for me to realize the first tool I’ve forgotten: duct tape. Fortunately there is a hardware store next to the gas station. With a full tank of gas/Stabil/lead substitute mixture, and with the headliner taped securely out of my field of vision, we begin the long hard climb south out of town on US 3.