In the middle of the desert in Eastern Washington rests a large training facility of concrete buildings, metal stairwells and scorched equipment. In the middle of the facility sits a building with blacked-out windows. Smoke seeps from every seam. Flames growl and flail behind a thick, steel door.
Kneeling just outside, I put my gloved hand to the door to feel the heat waiting beyond. Aberdeen firefighter Dave Swinhart hands me a heavy section of hose. The hiss of my breath fills my face mask.
"Ready?" he asks.
We're going in.
Smoke pours from the entryway as I swing open the door and crouch inside with Swinhart on my heels. On hands and knees, we pull a couple hundred pounds of hose through the door. Flames dance above our heads, flickering and settling across the ceiling.
The hiss of my breath repeats harder and faster as we move into the room. An oxygen line runs to the airpack strapped to my back. Coarse canvas turn-out gear restricts my arms and legs as I pull myself forward. The iconic firefighting helmet sways atop my head.
Steam fogs the face mask as we tilt the heavy hose up into the flames. Intense heat bakes through my gear. The training instructors said the temperature in the room gets close to 1,000 degrees Fahrenheit at the ceiling. We stay low.
"Up there," Swinhart yells and we aim the stream of water into a high corner.
We extinguish the flames and turn up the stairs. More flames rush to meet us as we turn the hose into the inferno. My heart races and my muscles strain. I look back at Swinhart.
For him, this is just another day on the job.
In their boots
After emerging from the darkness, I pull off my helmet and sit down among the other participants of the annual Fire Ops 101 program at the HAMMER training facility near Richland. Next to me sit city council members, fire commissioners, state senators, TV news reporters and more than 30 others.
The Fire Ops 101 program, organized and funded by regional firefighter unions, works as half news conference, half obstacle course. Participants spend a day in the boots of their local firefighters, learning how to extinguish flames, search homes and perform medical transports.
The Aberdeen Firefighters Local 2639 invited me last month to come see what their job was like, or at least a simulation of their job. Swinhart volunteered to serve as my "shadow" for the day, staying close to make sure I stay safe while Capt. Kelly Niemi watched my back from a distance.
Union representatives and instructors throughout the day repeated a single message to attendees: Firefighting is "highly technical, physically demanding and time critical" work. They put participants through several scenarios to impress upon them the challenges of firefighting.
They stress the importance of having enough people to do the job and the need for the right equipment. The idea is to show the people who approve fire hall budgets the full cost of fighting fires safely.
The training is about as real as they can make it. Propane lines feed the flames, allowing them to be immediately cut off in case of an emergency. But the challenges are real. The work is real. The only difference is what's at stake.
At a medical tent, they take my blood pressure to make sure I don't drop dead. I worry a little about the gray-haired guy next to me. But it's time to go again, so I sling my airpack on my back and strap on my clunky helmet.
Five stories high
One of the most dreaded scenarios is the ladder climb to the top of a five-story building wearing about 50 pounds of gear. Starting first thing in the morning, I clipped into a safety line and started the climb up the ladder extended above the truck.
As I near the top, the ladder shakes under my weight. I look between the rungs at the asphalt far below and keep moving. I vault over the top and listen as several firefighters explain the dangers and benefits of cutting holes in a roof to vent smoke. I look out over the clear Eastern Washington horizon as I catch my breath.
For everyone else, it's just another day on the job.
Later we spend about an hour using the "jaws of life" to cut apart a rolled-over car to rescue a trapped mannequin. The 60-pound tools split steel like fruit, but take a lot of practice to maneuver correctly. We crawl through broken glass as we careful extricate the dummy from the driver's seat.
A medical scenario simulates what fire departments now spend 75 percent of their time doing, rescuing and transporting people with health issues.
We assess a mannequin, perform CPR and then carry the mannequin downstairs on a back board. Niemi notes we lucked out with a 110-pound mannequin instead of a typical patient, who weighs more than 200 pounds.
Once we loaded the mannequin into an ambulance, we then continued CPR as the ambulance sped in a quick loop through the facility, braking sharply and accelerating around corners. Standing over the dummy, it feels like trying to surf inside a box.
Endless darkness
Inside another smoke-filled building, I reach a hand against the right wall to feel my way through the charcoal-black darkness, performing what's known as a "right-hand search." This scenario takes us through a choked maze of two-foot-square corridors, cramped turns and dead ends.
"Stay right," Swinhart yells from behind me. "Keep going."
The biggest surprise of the day is how much time we spend crawling, crouching low on hands and knees beneath the heat of the flames. It makes everything harder, moving or lifting or trying to get leverage. It's all different on all fours.
My right hand finds another small corridor and we crawl inside, stretching flat to pass through with all our gear. As I lie on my stomach, inching through the darkness, I think of what Swinhart said about how firefighters have to stay oriented when closed up in dark buildings filled with furniture and debris.
I've stopped paying attention to whether my eyes are open or closed. It makes zero difference.
My breath hisses in my ears. Right now, I'm not trying to rescue an injured person, save a burning home or perform any other task. I'm not doing anything difficult. My only mission is to find my way back to daylight and that's hard enough.
I take another breath and my airpack runs low. A piercing alarm starts screaming, overwhelming my thoughts with a shrill ringing and endless darkness. It would be easy to lose my way, but I focus on moving forward.
With Swinhart practically pushing from behind, my hand finally finds a door lever and light floods into the corridor. It's been a long time since I was so relieved.
End of the Day
At the last station of the day, we strap into our gear, pull our hoods over our heads and click our air line into the face mask. By now, I feel a little more comfortable with the process.
A scorched propane tank rests nearby and as the fuel rushes in a flame rising 35 feet into the sky. We take our positions along two fire hoses straining to hear over the roar of the fire.
Our mission is to turn off the fuel to the simulation tank fire. We start our hoses, spraying a fog in front of us to cut the intense heat of the fire. Alongside the other participants, I inch toward the tank. Step-by step, one foot in front of the other. My breath hisses harder and faster. Sweat soaks my collar. The rubber boots drag heavy on my feet.
Reaching my gloved hand through the spray, I twist a nozzle on the tank and watch for the flame to die down. With the fuel cut, we slowly back away from the tank. Mission accomplished.
We finish the day with a short graduation ceremony and barbecue. They remind us that firefighting is "highly technical, physically demanding and time critical" work. My dirty hands and sore muscles have started to believe them.
With the satisfaction of not embarrassing myself too much, I help carry the gear to the car for the long drive home. For me, it was anything but just another day on the job.