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shut it off. As I finished shutting off the utilities, I ran out of air in my backpack.
I quelled a momentary impulse to tear off the mask; the instructor repeated the emergency breathing technique, assuring me that I was close to the end and could make it out. After a few deep breaths to calm myself, I crawled along several more passages, down a stairway, up and down an inclined ramp, wondering at every turn how much further I actually had to go.
Finally I saw a glimmer of light. I pushed open a door and found myself on the back ramp of the trailer, feeling that I couldn’t remember ever being so glad to see daylight.
Sunday: The smokehouse
The class spent Sunday morning learning to handle the one and onehalf inch hoses and adjustable nozzles used by the modern fire service. These devices are a far cry from the brass nozzles of days past, which delivered only a straight stream of water. Modern nozzles can do that, but for “direct attack” on a fire the technology has advanced considerably.
Instead of directing a stream of water on the fire, a fine spray similar to the mist from a garden hose is directed to the area above the fire. The nozzleman whips the hose in a clockwise direction to spread the fine water particles into a wide area, then shuts off the water. As the water contacts the hot air it turns into steam, each droplet of water creating 50 parts steam. The steam settles onto the fire, choking off its oxygen and smothering it from above.
The technique requires skill, coordination and communication from the members of the hose team, because when the nozzleman shuts off the water a steam blanket rolls over the entire room, and anyone not ducked down on the floor could be burned, even through their heavy protective gear.
After a trial run into the smokehouse with “just a little smoke,” as Chief Huff nonchalantly explained, the instructors lit several fires in the corners of two rooms of the smokehouse - a cinderblock building with a reinforced concrete roof. Fed with scrap lumber, hay and styrofoam cups, smoke was soon rolling out the windows and heat waves rippled off the flat roof, shimmering in the afternoon sun.
We grabbed the hose, filed through the door, dropped to our knees and began crawling, feeling with one hand and dragging the hose with the other. Frequently we paused, listening for the fire, and the labored breathing of the group was easy to hear as well. The nozzleman shouted “I see fire!” and word was passed back along the line. I barely heard it as a muffled shout coming from inside my partner’s
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