Standing in the early morning light as water splashes all around him, Fire Captain Jim Walter guesses that he would be a doctor or a lawyer if he could go back and do it again. The musing passes, quick and unimportant. He shrugs and turns to address the five men in blue who are hustling with hoses and buckets to polish the gleaming Engine One: the pride and joy of Station One on 1320 Willamette St. At his command, the men fall in like loyal bloodhounds.

            Walter’s eyes light up at the sight of his crew. They are about to spend the next 24 hours working together, as they do every third day. As Captain, Walter no longer goes out on emergency calls, but he says, “I never sleep here. If I’m not on the engine, I get up every time they do.”

            Jim Walter has been fighting fires for 17 years. The first four years he worked in Corvallis, where he grew up, and the last 13 he has spent working here in Eugene. He has been a captain for the last ten years.

            “Alright, everybody!” Walter says to his men. The crew looks serious with military haircuts and black combat boots. “What do you want for breakfast?”       Sharing breakfast every Saturday and Sunday is a time-honored tradition at Station One. Walter says with a hint of disgust, “They don’t even eat together at some stations.”

            It’s difficult to get a fire captain to speak about himself. Walter immediately considers his crew. “This job is different from other jobs,” he says. “You spend a third of your life together, so it’s pretty hard not to get close and involved in other people’s lives. If something happens at home, it’s almost always when they’re here.”

            He adds, “The best day is always when everybody goes home safe. In this job, there’s always the possibility that that won’t happen.”

            Walter’s pale blue eyes roll back into his head when he talks about regulations or his infamous dislike of paperwork, but light up and crinkle around the edges at a good joke. As his crew rolls out on a vehicle fire call, Walter contentedly climbs the 38 steps to the station’s cozy kitchen to start on the pancakes.

            Before becoming a fireman, Walter worked as a logger for Ferris Lumber Company in Scio. The job appealed to him because it allowed him to work outdoors and included something new every day. After witnessing and experiencing some serious injuries on the job, Walter started looking for new employment. “I got hurt a lot,” he says. “Buddies of mine got hurt and killed. I told my dad, ‘You know, I’m just not tough enough for this.’”

            Walter is calm as he talks about the dangers of firefighting, though he tore tendons in his ankles on the job and was out for six months after reconstructive surgery. He has also needed multiple steroid injections in his spine for herniated discs.

            Firefighting is dangerous, but Walter doesn’t have an overdeveloped hero complex. He loves firefighting for the opportunity to use his training ­­-- just like his crew. “It’d be nice to have an exciting call,” he says, “but unfortunately our exciting calls are always at somebody else’s expense.”

            “I hope something burns down today!” adds Lt. David McNeil.

             “Around here a fire does wonders for morale,” says Walter with a grin. He clearly loves his crew as much as he loves a good fire. He calls into the intercom with an impatient, maternal tone, “Breakfast is ready!”

            Soon the massive, sunlit kitchen is bustling with firemen. One of them is baking jelly rolls, a flour handprint on the blue pants of his uniform. The station’s stove has been in a fire station since the 1940’s. Everything is quaint but huge: the dining room table easily fits 12 or more strapping men, the water glasses are more like mason jars and the pancakes fill an entire plate. A bowl of tooth picks on the table reads: “Teeth Picks (Tooth Picks if you are from Camp Creek).”

            Walter sits at the head of the table – a position he has earned by hard work and by earning the respect of his crew. “Jim is calculated,” says McNeil. “He’s very good at dealing with interpersonal issues. He’s experienced and orderly. It’s very clear who’s in charge when he’s around. Everybody knows what to expect.”

            Eng. Cory Tuntland is quick to add: “We feed off each other’s strong points.”

            “I’ve been very lucky to work with great crews since becoming a captain,” says Walter. “It’s all about the people you work with.”

            McNeil adds, “We’re closer to each other than a lot of our families.” Over breakfast, the crew pokes fun at Walter for his short attention span. Walter says with a laugh, “They put on Lord of the Rings once. I fell asleep, woke up, and it was still on!”

            The third of their lives spent together works out to only ten days a month but a 56-hour work week. “You don’t always get to recover from a shift, if you have kids,” says McNeil. Walter admits that at age 45 it’s harder to get up with his crew for non-emergency calls in the middle of the night. “The nights are long for things that we wouldn’t consider fun to do, but to me, it’s the best job there is,” he says. “I wouldn’t want to do anything else.”

            The chance that a call will be an opportunity to use his skills or to problem-solve makes the strange sleep schedule worth it to Walter. A few months ago he was called to remove a 12ft., $850.00 python from a woman’s finger – a perfect example of the variety Walter is looking for in a job. “I was looking for a job where I could so something different every day instead of working in an office. I don’t think anyone who gets into this business would survive long in that environment.”

            Walter jokes that he and his crew are all under-achievers. “If you’re in it to make money, this isn’t where it’s at,” he adds. As the shift is passed testing rope drills, cleaning equipment and tending to overtaxed runners in a marathon, the suggestion that his crew is comprised of slackers becomes less and less believable.

             “This job is hard on our bodies,” says McNeil. “Every one of us has been injured at one point. A lot of firefighters die of cancer after they retire.”

            His blue eyes rolling in seriousness, Walter adds, “Within five years of retirement, usually.” 

            The two firefighters look at each other in silence, mulling it over. The strapping men look a little smaller in the light of this somber fact. Then Walter smiles warmly and says to his listening crew, “But the thing that makes it the best job there is, is the guys I get to work with. Every day I’m glad I have this job!”