“Received Eighty-Two. Fire Alarm to all AHFD units, Rescue 82 confirms smoke showing at that location.”

My sister lowered her binoculars. Even without their aid, the column of smoke on the other side of the valley was visible from her deck. This would be interesting, as the fire appeared to be located in an inaccessible area on the side of the mountain, and the AHFD crews had just returned from a mill fire in neighboring Little Bigtown.

As Eighty-Two began to gather her EMS gear, Deputy Dad and I made it clear we weren’t going to be left behind. Even though we were two states away from our district, we would find some useful support function. If I was reduced to handing out bottled water in the rehab sector, I could still do something valuable.

The trek across the valley, around Near Horizon Mountain, and then as far up the dirt road as possible seemed to take forever. AHFD units confirmed there was a wildfire on the mountain and had begun calling for additional assistance. With the ongoing mill fire, backup would be coming from far afield.

We set up our rehab sector in a field, and I kicked myself for forgetting my camera. Rural fire departments keep some strange vehicles around specifically for operating in the woods. Today’s odd mix of companies meant there were apparatus present I’d never seen before and might never see again.

At the tree line sat one of my favorite local engines, a 1970′s Chevrolet truck with an old oil tank and plywood compartments, all painted in Chevy Engine Orange. At one time this amazing piece of Yankee ingenuity had been the pride and joy of its company, attending all the local parades. (It always left me wondering what the apparatus left behind looked like.) The Chevy was being supplied by a constant stream of tankers. Most were ex-military 6×6 trucks, although a couple old oil trucks and one modern Mack joined the mix. One of the AHFD engines sat alone at the side of the road, its crew already deep in the woods. A single hose line snaked from the orange Chevy, over a stone wall, and up what was most likely a snowmobile trail.

Soon came the radio call everyone dreads: “’Firefighter down!” The hot summer day, the mill fire, and the hike up a mountain had converged in disaster. The on-duty Rescue crew commandeered an ATV to carry their gear and started off up the trail. Eighty-two, Deputy Dad, and I set off after them on foot.

The single hose line, our only clue to our destination, wound up the rough trail. In winter this would be a major snowmobile route, but right now it was an eight-foot wide rocky path. We soon caught and passed the ATV. Though nearing retirement, Deputy Dad led the party up the trail with a purpose. None of us will ever hike the Appalachian Trail, but many summer hikes in the White Mountains left us in better shape than the pursuing EMTs.

Much to our surprise, over 1000 feet up the trail, we rounded a corner and found another fire engine. An intrepid 6×6 driver had forced his steed as far into the woods as possible, finally stopping where the trail narrowed and crossed another stone wall. My beloved Chevy far below was in fact merely shifting water uphill to the front lines, not directly supplying the battle.

The three of us plunged onward, not yet finding the fire or the injured firefighter. Radio messages placed him above and ahead of us. Eventually we came within earshot of the working crews, but still could not see them. We had veered off course, placing the firefighter (and the fire) below us and to our left. Thankfully by this time the fire was under control. I’ve never been uphill from a wildfire, and I have no desire to start now.

We descended to the fire line, to find a firefighter suffering from heat exhaustion. Eighty-Two began ALS care, while I assisted with BLS and Deputy Dad fulfilled the all-important role of IV pole. Soon the rest of the crew arrived, and we began the long carry back down the mountain into the dusk.

Mandatory retirement caught up with Deputy Dad this July. The department honored him with a retirement party last weekend. As he puts it, he’s going ‘happily but not willingly’ after 48 years in the fire service.

Dad actually started chasing fires on his bicycle at age 16, in a time when an eager teenager was welcome and appreciated on the rural fireground. I’m willing to spot him those two unofficial years and call it an even half century.

“Funny thing about firemen: day and night, they’re always firemen.” – Ronald the Arsonist, ‘Backdraft’

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I’d like you all to welcome my sister, Rescu82, to the Blogosphere. She says she’s not ready for her own blog, but she has a few stories for mine. 82 is a nurse in a major metropolitan trauma center. She lives out in the foothills and volunteers as a paramedic in Ancestral Hometown. She also works as a per-diem paramedic in Laketown, a neighboring tourist area. Recently she’s been dragged over to the Dark Side by the firefighters with whom she serves. Although her response areas are very rural, every summer we tourists bring the big city to them. What they lack in quantity, they surely make up in quality. I’d love to work there myself.

So without further ado:

Impressions: A Rookieʼs First Fire

I am doomed to wear sweaty, gross shorts.

I had just returned from a jog when one of the guys yelled across the station. “Neighboring Town was just toned for a fire in a garage!” I head for my gear anticipating the soon to drop Laketown tones. They drop before I reach my gear. “Respond mutual aid to Neighboring Town for a garage fire. Reported as person trapped in the building.” I barrel across the apparatus floor and jump up into Engine 9.

Looking around the truck I realize that I am with a young but good crew, all with more experience than me. As we cross the Causeway headed for Neighboring Town, we can see a cloud of thick black smoke roiling into the sky. When I see that, my stomach drops out from under me. “Oh my dear God….Iʼm about to be baptized!” Next, the adrenaline shakes hit…. followed by the paramedic instinct to take slow deep breaths and get the shakes under control. Fear is good, it makes you think. I remind myself panic is the enemy as I continue to gear up while we rumble down State Road toward the cloud of smoke.

As the truck pulls up to the scene all I can focus on are the flames shooting into the sky from the destroyed garage. It is gone, the cars are smoking hulks, and the flames are eating the house. Snapping out of it I try to get out of my seat and canʼt move. I try again and still canʼt move. “Great” I think, “what stupid thing have I done before I even got out of the truck?” I call one of my company members to help me. Grinning he reaches in and pulls the release for my SCBA. I had failed to pull it before I packed up. Determined not to make a bigger mistake, I hop out of the truck and grab my weapon of choice, a Halligan tool. My company and I report to Incident Command for our assignment.

“Attack line” is the answer we receive. Turning around and looking at the flaming house, the shakes threaten to return as I snap on my regulator. The mask sighs as I trigger the regulator with my breathing. I follow my company to the attack line. I focus on taking measured breaths. We take up our position and with a senior firefighter guiding our nozzle man off we go. “Wow look at the fire rolling out the front door,” is all I can think as we make entry into the house with a charged 2 1/2″ line. Doing my best to duck walk through the white hot ash at my feet, hang onto the Halligan, sound the floor, and drag the line, my next thoughts are “itʼs sort of pretty” and “Dang, I donʼt have enough hands for this!” Suddenly the hose goes limp in our hands and the fire which we have been successfully pushing back comes blasting at us like a blow torch, rolling over our heads. Rear over elbows the four of us bail out the front door.

“Holy Cow! What just happened?” The answer comes back to me, “water supply issue”. Regrouping on the front lawn with my company, I watch the fire blast out the front door again. The line fills with water and command gives us the go ahead to again make entry. We resume our positions on the line. Iʼm directly behind the nozzle man and I have a linebacker behind me. Again, we enter the house and push the fire back into the kitchen. This time we make it a good 10 feet into the house before the hose goes limp. Again we bail out the door, this time blasting through a Loo who is blocking our escape while watching our progress. He is not impressed; neither are we.

This time the question as to what happened isn’t phrased as politely as it was the first time. The Pump Operator is fired and replaced with an old timer who can get water out of a stone. The line is charged for a third time. We make entry for the third time.

Weʼre doing great, pushing the fire back into the kitchen and following it toward the back corner of the house. The back-up line makes entry behind us.

The senior firefighter at the head of the line with the nozzle man turns to check our progress. He yells something, grabs the nozzle man, and slams him into the floor following him down. I canʼt hear what he yells over the crackle of the flames and the muffle of his mask. “What the?” I think followed a split second later by “better follow him!” I dive to the floor. I am face down in the white hot ash. All I can think is, “My knees are hot, my knees are hot.” I am waiting to be hit by the ceiling. I am waiting for the floor to drop away. I am waiting.

It happens fast. A scalding steam bath. The back-up line opened their nozzle over our heads on the fire in front of us. One molecule of water expands to 1700 molecules of steam. I am baking in my own skin. My knees are roasting. I am face to face with the inside of a giant wood stove. I am a log in that wood stove. I am thankful for my hood protecting my ears and neck. Just as quickly as it happened, it is over. I am back on my feet duck walking again.

Command pulls us out. The roof is getting soft and we are switching to an exterior attack. My company exits the building. I walk to the rehab area and pop myself off my air. I peel off my turnout. Underneath, I am sopping wringing wet. The 80 degree air feels as cool on my skin as opening a freezer door does on your face. It feels good. I sit down and drink water.

In a while we take up and go home. Ancestral Hometown is covering back at the station. As we back into the bays, the guys from Ancestral Hometown rowdily congratulate me on catching my first real fire. I get high fives all around. The senior firefighter who was on the hose with me pulls me aside. He tells me that he was impressed that I didn’t panic under pressure and he will take me with him into a burning building anytime. High praise from that person. I smile and laugh. I know how hard my heart was beating while I was waiting.

I stow my gear, stop to admire my pink knees, and hop into the Jeep to go home. I put down the windows and crank the CD player blasting Avril Levine’s “Girlfriend”. I sing at the top of my lungs. I am riding my adrenaline rush. I am dirty. I stink. I am still insweaty gross shorts and I donʼt care.

I swear I never told her about the topic for the upcoming August Handover.

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