Reporter feels the heat when joining firefighters on the job

Crouching about 10 feet from flames that race up kitchen cabinets in a blaze growing bigger and more threatening by the second, I feel every inch of my body prickle with heat.

The thick, heavy turnout gear is staving off most of the impact from the now-swelling blaze, but the temperature inside the gear is sweltering, and sweat puddles at the bottom of my face mask.

Being so close to the fire — this spectacular, pulsing symphony of flames — I understand why they say fires roar. Crackles punctuate the steady rumble of the blaze as it furiously reaches across the ceiling. Embers fall around me.

“We want to get this one really ripping. That will be fun for the crew,” said Greg Payne, training captain for Camas-Washougal Fire Department.

Once flames have claimed nearly the entire ceiling, he uses his radio to dispatch firefighters to respond.

The fire isn’t a “real” fire. In fact, I’m the one who used a propane torch to get it started.

Valuable practice

Without the pressure of saving lives and property, firefighters got a chance to hone their skills during a set of practice burns earlier this week. Nine houses are set to be demolished to make way for new development northeast of where Bybee Road meets Southeast 20th Avenue in Camas. Crews from Camas-Washougal Fire Department and East County Fire & Rescue jumped at the chance to destroy a few of them to learn how to save others.

In one house, they can kindle and extinguish eight fires before letting flames reduce what’s left of the structure to ash.

Chances for practice burns such as these come around once every few years, Camas-Washougal Fire Chief Nick Swinhart said.

“The only unrealistic thing is that there is no furniture. The furniture is what produces the toxic smoke,” he said.

The house was empty, so firefighters set up piles of hay and wood pallets in each room to act as the origin of a fire.

When crews don’t have a house to burn, they fill their four-story training tower with theatrical smoke. But using real fire is always better, Swinhart said.

“It’s the closest we get to an unscripted, real fire as we can,” Payne said.

They practiced dousing flames, searching for “hose victims,” and tearing down walls and ceilings to make sure nothing rekindles … and they let me tag along for all of it.

I’ve always been a thrill-seeker at heart, so when I got the opportunity for a front-row seat to action usually reserved for those with months of training, I took it.

It’s enough effort getting on the gear — boots, pants, jacket, air tank, mask and helmet — which I’m told weighs 45 pounds altogether. Using the air tank is similar to that used in scuba, without the buoyancy to help you with the weight on your shoulders.

Sweaty, dense smoke

The first fire to scorch the pristine two-story, 1,800-square-foot house was set in an upstairs bathroom. Within seconds, the fire creates a thick layer of smoke that starts covering the ceiling like a dense, gray fog bank turned upside down.

Smoke sweats, Capt. Brooks Cooper explains, showing me the dark drippings that covered the wall of the stairwell. If didn’t know any better, I’d have said it was blood.

As I scale the creaky wooden stairs, my vision goes from clear to obscured — virtually blind — in a few heartbeats. I can barely see my gloved hands. It reminds me more of a horror film than anything else.

“You may not have a real big fire, but these are the issues you have to deal with,” Cooper said.

Hearing his voice makes me realize he’s only about a foot away from me.

“Even your light won’t cut through. Really the only thing you have is your hearing and touch,” he says.

The crew responding to a fire works at a low level to avoid the smoke and the rising heat. Two firefighters handle the hose, putting out the fire, as another team of firefighters search the rooms on their hands and knees, keeping a hand or foot on the wall as an anchor.

“Without air, this is very toxic, and it knocks you unconscious,” Payne said, pointing to the rolling smoke. “You’re dead in three or four breaths.”

A majority of those who die in fires die of smoke inhalation, which is why firefighters wear air tanks with masks that seal tightly against their faces.

Learning good habits

Trainings such as these are important, Payne said. Though 82 percent of the calls the agency goes to are for medical emergencies, firefighters need to be prepared for fires. Last year, the agency put out seven structure fires that caused more than $5,000 in damage, leaving few opportunities for the crew to form good habits.

Ash drifts down from the sky as Payne leads a debriefing after a scenario that had a fire on the first floor and a possible victim upstairs. He is unhappy with how one of the groups performed, but rather than being angry, he sounds disappointed. He walks through the response, explaining that the initial knockdown of the fire was slow, and communication was poor.

“This was a bread-and-butter incident, and we let two floors get involved,” he said. “We’re better than that. … You’re probably never going to have one of these victim situations in your career … but if, God forbid, we do get it, it’s a piece of cake. We’ve done it in training.”

As the daylong training creeps to a close, firefighters wade through soggy, darkened insulation piled in mounds on the second floor. For the last fire drill, I switched from observer to participant: They let me operate the hose.

To allow crew members to practice using chain saws to make doors out of windows, the team needed the fire alive but not out of control, so with help from a firefighter — the weight of the water makes the hose more than 100 pounds — I held the handle of the nozzle.

Pulling the lever, I lurch backward from the kick of 2½ gallons of water per second streaming from the hose. I give it a few sprays every time flames reach the ceiling until the crew is done. When I blast the flames in a sweeping motion, the fire is out in seconds.

Once the house is sufficiently charred, the firefighters sit back and eat lunch. They look on as the fire consumes the remains of the structure and relax knowing they don’t have to do anything but watch.

By the end of the seven-hour training, I’m exhausted and sore — and I mostly observed. I can’t imagine how it must feel for the firefighters who did the work inside, but I’m starting to get an idea.