On the scene for my first fire

One truth I have learned while working in the newsroom is plans tend to have a way of unraveling.

It was Thursday afternoon, and there was only thirty minutes until my shift ended.

Thursday was also my first official "morning" shift (I put the word morning in quotes because anything before 2 p.m. is technically morning for me). With heavy eyes, I leaned over to my coworker Jon Swaby and said, "I am going to take the longest nap in my chair when I get home." I meant it.

I could see it all before me: my legs extended and my arms folded behind my head as I listened to the soft swirl of the air conditioner while my eyelids grew heavier and heavier until sleep finally overtook me. It would have been fantastic...

My illusion was shattered when I heard the voice of my editor, Anna Rochelle, on the telephone with my coworker Chelsey Bough.

One particular word caught my attention: "fire."

As I turned towards Anna, I caught her eyes staring at me. Her voice grew louder, and the next words I grasped were "Bloomfield Processing Company."

After she ended the call with Chelsey, Anna only spoke one word to me, "go."

In the newsroom, you have to be able to adapt, to react at a moment's notice, even when you feel like taking a nap. So I left.

The road to Bloomfield was congested, and I soon found out why. It was around WRV Jr./Sr. High School when I noticed a plume of smoke, billowing into the air. By the time I reached Lighthouse Junction there was no mistaking the severity of the fire. During this time I was on the phone with Chelsey, who was on her way to cover a Bloomfield School Board meeting. She told to me that traffic was at a standstill, and I would have to find another route.

Frantically I called my editor who spoke of an alternative route to the Processing Plant which started at Austin Memorial, and led to the west fork of the White River. This is a road I have rarely traveled, and I took the curves with caution.

I parked at Jones and Sons Concrete, grabbed my camera, and hiked the rest on foot. As I walked down the road, I looked up to the highway. The route was blocked off by a barricade of police troopers, while civilian spectators on the bridge watched with both horror and trepidation.

I looked for a safe route up to the sight, but found my only path contained one obstacle: a black dog. The dog was chained to the tree, but his leash conveniently extended to the length of another tree -- blocking my path leaving me with no other option. For a moment I hesitated.

As I stood at the base of the hill, I could see the smoke rising from the roof of the Bloomfield Processing Plant. The only thing going through my mind was how upset my editor would be if I came back empty handed.

Cautiously, I approached the dog. It did not take long before he noticed me. The dog's back arched, and his tail timidly moved from left to right. I do not have a fear of dogs, in fact I own a dog myself. I do though have a fear of other people's dogs.

As I took a couple more steps, I reflected on my future career as a journalist, and wondered if being bit by a dog was covered under my insurance. I then heard a voice call from the top of the hill.

"Don't worry, he don't bite."

Oddly enough that was all the reassurance I needed, and I confidently passed the dog, giving him a loving pat on the head.

When I reached the summit, I first felt the heat. This was the first serious fire I have ever been to on the scene. I stood roughly one hundred yards from the building, and even at that distance, it was almost overwhelming. I felt the sweat begin to bead on my brow. After taking a couple of pictures, my camera's viewfinder was dripping. From that moment I gained an even greater respect to the firefighters dressed in their bunker gear.

Over the next hours, multiple fire departments were called to the scene. The smoke was thick, and its weight caused it to move closer to ground, covering the fire trucks next to the building. After the smoke rose, the first flames of the fire escaped from the roof.

Time is relative. When you are having a wonderful evening talking to woman you just met, it moves too fast. When you first sit down at your work desk in the morning, it crawls. At a fire, you are somehow removed from time. Everything becomes jumbled, and you are immersed in the moment. I weighed time by beads of sweats.

After the first sight of flames more followed, melting the metal roof, and hissing against the breeze. I saw the fire through my viewfinder, and did not remove my eyes until I was told move farther back, for the fear of the windows exploding.

For over an hour I snapped shot after shot, until my shirt stuck firmly on my back.

I called my editor and told her I was on my way back to the office.

Though the fire still burned behind me as I headed down the hill, I knew my night was far from over.

Grant is a staff writer for the Greene County Daily World. He can be reached by telephone at (812) 847-4487, ext. 19. He can also be reached via email at gkarazsia@gmail.com.