An unexpected provisional volunteer with a shiny giant toolbox on wheels, otherwise known as Engine 91. Note the discreet ax and balaclava styling. Photo Credit: Capt. Bill Herrera, FFD.

Descending Upon the Station
The fire station looks deserted. This seems a rather ominous sign* as I’ve arrived to meet Fire Chief Rigo Landeros, who’d kindly agreed tell me about the Fillmore Fire Department. But as no one’s answering the doorbell at the living quarters and I’m against knocking on two-story bay doors, I amuse myself with the thought of firefighters busting moves to Sean Kingston’s “Fire Burning” until a white command vehicle pulls into the parking lot.

A smiling Chief Landeros sporting shorts and white sneakers leads me around the building where the bay doors are wide open. We climb a metal staircase, passing the parked fire engines that inspire the profound remark, “Whoa, they’re very shiny.” The chief agrees with my assessment. In a stark air-conditioned training room, I’m briefed on the department’s history.

The Department’s History
When the Fillmore Volunteer Fire Department was established in 1914, it was completely manned by local volunteers. A ringing bell, then later air sirens, summoned the volunteers to the station (then located at Central and Main), where the reported incident was written up on a chalkboard. Landeros reminisces how in his youth, he’d bike down to the station to view the chalkboard and pedal over to watch the firefighters in action. “It was really exciting,” he recalls.

About 25 years ago when the Council determined the City needed a fulltime chief Pat Askren was selected from the volunteers. Until that time, volunteers were required to live in town, and the department handled strictly fire-related emergencies. It was also in the late ‘70s that firefighters began to be called on for medical support to help manage rising medical call volumes. Landeros points out that ambulances fall under the private sector, and it’s simply unaffordable to maintain rigs and EMTs in every neighborhood.

In 2000, the fire station moved to the corner of Sespe and A Street, and today the department has a chief and assistant chief, three paid captains, two volunteer captains, and a disaster coordinator at the head of 15 paramedic firefighter volunteers, about 20 out-of-town volunteers, and a core of 18 in-town volunteer firefighters, plus a varying rotation of 65 volunteers from throughout the state who commit to a minimum of two 24-hour shifts per month. For their efforts this latter group of volunteers receive a $50 stipend per shift, and at the end of their service, a recommendation letter for applying to paid positions. Landeros notes that with the classes, certifications, increasing range of required skills, and time commitment demanded of them, it’s becoming more difficult to recruit volunteers.

Equipment
We pass a door that opens onto a wide fire pole leading to ground level, and I ask whether pole burn is a concern. “Sure, if I went down right now in these shorts,” Landeros replies. Another good reason long pants are de rigeur in this profession.

Walking across the barn (so-called since horse-drawn wagon days), Landeros tells me that Engine 91 is out for training, and explains how jurisdictions are assigned numbers to help identify the fire engines’ origins. The numbers also help identify missing firefighter crewmembers; in large incidents, the highest-ranking officer at hand assumes Incident Command, coordinating the fire attack and asking the captains for PAR (Personnel Accountability Report) to check for missing firefighters. The terminology employed in Landeros’ description brings to mind sports and even warfare: aggressive tactics to combat fire are “offensive” while “defensive” refers to measures for protecting property and containing flames. The wheeled red lockers labeled with firefighters’ last names and stocked with turnouts and other gear makes the barn look less like a garage and more like a hangar.**

Landeros leads me to the Quint 91, the classic fire engine with the 105-foot aerial ladder on top. He slides open various panels to reveal everything from the Jaws of Life to an assortment of metal fittings. “It’s pretty much a giant toolbox,” quips the chief. He explains that the Quint “has a belly full of water” along with a water pump, but the 500 gallons only last for a few minutes; then water hydrants come into play. While inspecting the side of the Quint, I learn that a prominent faucet-like thing is called the intake, which, reasonably enough, takes in water. I spot a familiar metal contraption at the top of the engine attached to the ladder. “Is that a sled?” I suggest. “That’s a stoke basket,” corrects Landeros, adding, “though I’m sure it’s been done.”

On the road to visit training, the chief clicks through the touch-screen of a laptop apparatus in the command vehicle. A program lists incidents and assignment details reported in real time by ICs and distributed by the Ventura County Dispatch Center. A mapping system shows routes to the incidents, but our trip towards Two Rivers Park is facilitated less by GPS than by the chief’s Ray-Bans.

Maneuvers
At the training site I meet Assistant Chief Bill Herrera, who introduces the day’s volunteer crew: firefighters Michael Tinker, 26, and Robert Katz, 21, and probationary firefighters Brian Mercado, 27, and Daniel Mobley, 23. I’m pleased to find they all give the sort of handshake one would hope to receive from firefighters: the strong sort.

Starting at 8 am, the four have spent an hour in fitness training followed by station duties and then a presentation on wild land fires to review variations in fires caused by different weather and topography. They’ve also practiced deploying fire shelters, “tinfoil tents you don’t want to have to use,” says Katz. As part of basic engineer training, the team has spent time practicing hose lays for structure fires, which I’m told I’ll get to see soon.

Landeros takes his leave, and Herrera has me shadow him on the fire engine, in demonstration of a structure fire maneuver called “taking the fire hydrant.”

When the fire engine drives up to the hydrant, Mercado pulls a supply line from the back of the engine and, running a wide arc around the hydrant to avoid kinking the hose, wraps it around the hydrant, stands on the end of the hose, and signals “Go!” for the engine to pull away. This helps save manpower to extend the supply line. The engine parked, Katz flakes out speed lays (the fire attack line) from the side of the engine while Herrera, in the engineer’s role, uncouples the hose from the hose bed in the back to connect to the other side of the engine. Katz moves to the “fire” while Herrera yells “Water!” to Mercado, who uses a wrench to release the water from the hydrant. Returning the touchdown salute, he yells, “Water coming!” Herrera joins me at the engineer’s panel behind the engine cab; Katz, now ready with the fire hose, signals, “Water!” and after Herrera opens a gate, he near blows out my eardrum yelling, “WATER COMING!” The flat lines on the ground come to life as water surges from the hydrant and through the engine. A powerful jet discharges at Katz’s end, hitting the pavement yards ahead with violent, fire-loathing force. Very cool.

As the crew reloads the rig, Herrera shows me the panel’s “gates,” the levers that control the engine’s 10 discharges. I note the deluge gun looks like a tank’s turret, but what really draws my attention are the gates marked, “Foam.” Herrera explains that it’s high-grade soap foam sometimes used as a retardant in “mop-ups” after putting out a fire. The thought of bubbles makes me smile.

When Herrera moves to turn off the engine, Tinker gallantly offers to help me down from the engineer’s panel (guess I look lost up there by myself). The gesture is muchly appreciated, and I alight safely on the asphalt as the engine stops rumbling.

Next Herrera calls for a firefighter to demonstrate donning structure gear. Mobley, a tall dapper rookie, is chosen for the task, and he proceeds to make getting dressed look**** athletic. Calmly pacing himself, he removes his shoes, jumps into his structure boots and turnout pants, pulls on his Nomex hood, puts on his turnout coat, fastens it, swings on his breathing apparatus, secures his face mask, checks the air pressure, pulls the hood over the mask, puts on his helmet, connects the air regulator to his mask, and finally pulls on his gloves. Herrera declares Mobley missed his goal by 10 seconds at 1:55, and though I’m impressed, Mobley removes his mask to modestly explain, “You want to be under two minutes—my time isn’t that fast.” Herrera expounds on the importance of dressing quickly to expedite response time before he abruptly announces, “Your turn.”

That’s when I find myself being dressed by four dudes in an empty parking lot. “We’ll do it,” a voice assures. Tinker grins as he hauls over the ax—that I’d earlier called a hatchet—to attach to my getup. The turnouts are large on me and I feel like a Christmas tree being decorated, my arms weighed down with the heavy doodad-laden coat. The firemen chuckle as they try in vain to wrap the belt around my hips. “My waist is about six inches above that,” I inform them. They manage in the end. Herrera jots down that the procedure took 6:32—this doesn’t bode well for my career in the fire service.

A quick jog to the nearest tree drives home the point of the degree of athleticism firefighters must have in order to move swiftly under far more physically demanding conditions. I quickly gain a new appreciation for Mobley’s graceful mobility; I’m not wearing the mask or breathing packaged air, but I move like I’m in a spacesuit. My return to orbit is met with cheers and robust applause.

Moving toward my discarded sneakers, I hear the assistant chief’s order: “Alright guys, undress her.” Someone behind me whistles as I weakly protest; fact is, I’m beginning to smell like a sweaty firefighter and without the assistance of four buff firemen, I might never find my way out of the uniform. The things I endure in the line of duty—I’m immediately being disrobed by four exceedingly obliging firefighters. Perhaps Herrera’s timing them. Perhaps not. Either way, I shed about 60 lbs in record time. But it’s with reluctance that I relinquish the ax. The firefighters concur: it’s all about the accessories.

Interlude
Herrera says that a fire generally doubles in size every minute in a free-burning environment. Different tactics apply to different kinds of fires such as wood, grease, chemical, and electrical—he points out that the fire load in earlier eras burned cleaner—whereas, Tinker interjects, a gun aficionado stockpiling gunpowder in his home changes the situation considerably. Herrera stresses that so many details come into play, from the direction of wind to a structure’s orientation, that “there are no always, no nevers” in firefighting. I nod, to a mental image of an exploding house.

Then I’m helped onto the fire engine again, where Mercado helps me put on a headset so I can communicate with the rest of the crew on the engine. Katz and Mobley follow in Rescue 91. As we drive to the next site, Herrera recounts recent training burns in town. Sometimes property owners offer to the fire department buildings that need to be cleared to make way for development. These training burns provide firefighters with valuable experience in a controlled environment. But it turns out that fires only account for about 10% of calls the department receives; the assistant chief says that of the roughly 1,000 calls that come in from Fillmore’s two square miles, 85% are EMS-related, and the rest are for traffic collisions.

Part II to come.

*I’m consistently unlucky with doors for some reason, often in threatening weather, but those are tales for other times. This is a sunny Saturday in Fillmore.

**This impression may be (mis)informed by extremely vague recollections of the original Star Wars trilogy.***

***It’s been a while.

****Keep reading.