Fire has to move. The hot gases created by combustion are hotter and less dense than normal air, so the fire moves upward in the direction of lower pressure. When it reaches the ceiling, it spreads sideways, again seeking cooler air.
“Look up,” yelled Healdsburg Fire Engineer Justin Potter. I looked up and the flames that had burst up out of the corner of the room were crawling along the ceiling toward the door behind us.
“That’s what it’s like when you’re in a hallway in a burning building,” Justin yelled. “Give it some water. Short bursts.”
I opened and closed the nozzle on the hose a few times, spraying water onto the advancing flame while it retreated. I was putting out a fire!
Not really.
I was a pudgy 62-year-old desk jockey in borrowed firefighter turnout gear, complete with an oxygen bottle and face mask, crouched a few feet inside the entrance to a Fireblast fire simulator, a rig the size of a semi-trailer, known in the trade as a “burn trailer.”
And, I was enjoying the hell out of it.
Justin Potter was my guide and protector. He helped me get into the turnouts I had borrowed from the Healdsburg Fire Department. He showed me how to jump a few inches into the air and pull the straps on my Scott air tank harness so it settled high on my back while it was momentarily weightless. He checked the fit of my face mask and made sure not a bit of my skin was exposed — and then made me check him too. He adjusted my air when my clumsy hands couldn’t manage it inside the heavy gloves.
And, Justin showed me how to hold the hose and work the nozzle. It was a skinny nozzle. I didn’t ask if it was skinny because it was ideal for use in the burn trailer or because it was a “training wheels” nozzle for me.
After we got into the gear, it was hot and stuffy and Vern Losh asked if I wanted to go stand in the shade. Vern is a longtime Healdsburger and former county fire chief. It was his idea to contact the editor of the local paper and ask if he wanted to suit up and go into the burn trailer.
It was also Vern who climbed into the rafters of the fire department with me and helped me find retired but still serviceable gear that I could borrow and wear for a few minutes. The pants came from a guy who must have been wide and short, the jacket had “Manson” sewn onto the back and I used retired firefighter Mike Dale’s face mask.
On Tuesday morning, I showed up at the Best Western where the California Firefighters Association was in the first day of a three-day conference and where the Kelseyville Fire Protection District had brought the burn trailer, manufactured by Fireblast and purchased by Kelseyville with a state grant.
In addition to “fire rooms” the trailer had simulated roof squares on top so firefighters could practice venting (sawing holes in) a roof.
Shane Tinker, the Kelseyville Fire Engineer who operated the trailer that morning, showed me the control panel, a three-foot square cubby in the side of the trailer with a thick window into the fire room and a control panel allowing him to control what was happening inside.
After Justin got me situated, Shane yelled, “Are you ready?” and I offered a thumbs-up. (When you wear a full turnout set and an oxygen mask, you can’t hear as well and everyone who’s worn the same gear knows it and yells at you).
Justin made sure I had a grip on the hose and off we went up the four steps into the trailer. I had peeked into the trailer earlier, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, between groups of firefighters — I was hammered by the heat and fumes and backed out again.
This time, we turned right and walked half a dozen steps toward the first “room” in the simulator. Fire jetted up in front of us, in the next room and again ahead on the left, coming out of a grate. Justin told me to crouch down, but my former-carpenter knees don’t like to crouch, so I went down on one knee. “Get up,” said Justin, “but stay low.” I made it off my creaky knees and managed a bent-over crouch.
Justin instructed me on where to apply water and the fire agreeably retreated each time I sprayed it (maybe that was Shane in the control room turning it up and down).
After 2-3 minutes, Justin asked me if I was “good” and I said I was. On the way out, he took the hose from me (probably not cool of me not to take it out myself) and I made it to the doorway and back down the stairs.
A group of busy hands took over unclasping and unhooking my gear and it wasn’t long before I had the mask, helmet and hood off and could finish undressing myself while I gulped air. Vern handed me a cold bottle of water and I gulped at that, too.
Was it hot? David Hagele brought his son Jackson to the simulation; David took a photo of the control panel indicating that the temperature was almost 200 degrees in the area where we were inside.
So, yeah I guess that was hot. But, the turnout gear is an incredible insulator. It’s sort of like a flexible suit of heat-repellent armor. In a real fire I would be on the move and staying inside a lot longer, so I’m sure I would heat up fast. I’ve covered fires as a reporter and seen how overheated and physically stressed firefighters get.
The overwhelming feeling in the gear was new to me. It’s heavy, hot, suffocating, but somehow enveloping, reassuring. The feeling I experienced was an intense hybrid of heat and pressure, as though I was being canned — like tomatoes.
Was I scared? I had a few sympathetic butterflies on the drive over, in part because my sweetie disapproved of the whole adventure. “Is she right? Am I too old for this stuff?” I questioned myself.
Once I got there and settled into a comfortable half hour of photographing firefighters, something I’ve done for many years, I lost my butterflies and when it was time to suit up, I was excited and I’m pretty sure I didn’t embarrass myself too much.
Would I do it again? Yup. And, I would crawl in farther next time.
