State’s inmate firefighters toiling like never before
PLUMAS NATIONAL FOREST, Butte County — As a wall of flames from the North Complex fires billowed toward them, firefighters Christian Sung and William Vanderhoef raced to thin a dense pine forest.
They and 11 other incarcerated firefighters were responsible for making sure the flames didn’t jump a dirt break cut to try to save people and homes in the devastated Sierra foothills outside Oroville. Around them, tree trunks crackled and exploded as Cal Fire crews lit a controlled burn, an effort to cut off the advancing firestorm.
Sung, 28, swung a chainsaw, leveling smallgrowth pines that could cause the ground fire to intensify if it reached taller tree crowns. He yelled as each trunk tumbled, and Vanderhoef hurled the debris into a gully.
It was 10 p.m. Sunday, and the firefighters had been up since 7 a.m.
They wouldn’t rest until well after sunrise.
Vanderhoef, who is working his second fire season, said the job has
always been grueling, but never like this. He said the demands have grown inexorably as California battles historic wildfires with fewer handcrew members.
“You don’t really get to recover,” he said. “The resources have been spread so thin.”
California’s ranks of incarcerated firefighters have shrunk, from 1,895 last year to 1,354 today — a 30% decrease. That has caused a critical gap in the state’s resources as it tries to contain fires that have torched more than 3 million acres.
The shortage of prison fire crews has been exacerbated by the coronavirus pandemic because the state has released thousands of minimumsecurity offenders early to prevent the spread of the virus.
For firefighters, that means longer and more dangerous days as Cal Fire tries to do more with less. What are supposed to be 24hour shifts have stretched hours longer. Sometimes, prison crews have gone 48 hours on shift.
Sung, Vanderhoef and the other members of Crew Six from Valley View Conservation Camp, a facility for fire crews in Glenn County, have been working fires in Northern California for a month. They were sent to the North Complex Fire in the hills outside Oroville last week.
The men said the physical demands have pushed them beyond anything they had imagined when they volunteered for prison fire camp. Each day, they hike for several miles to remote fire lines, carrying 50pound backpacks and chainsaws, axes and shovels.
On Sunday, tears pooled in the corners of the men’s eyes as they worked in thick smoke a few hundred feet from the flames. They didn’t wear goggles or respirators.
“It’s pushing yourself to limits that you never knew you had,” Sung said.
Ross Miller, a Cal Fire engine captain and veteran of 31 fire seasons, worked alongside the prison crew. He said this season has been one of the toughest ever, and not just because of the size, intensity and sheer number of fires.
“We have not been as productive as we have been in the past. That’s for sure,” Miller said. “We need boots on the ground.”
California has used incarcerated people to help fight fires since the early 1900s, and prison hand crews are a critical backbone. Prisoners volunteer for the program and are trained at a camp on how to cut fire lines. They often hike into rugged terrain where bulldozers and fire engines cannot reach or work alongside fulltime firefighters.
The program, the state’s primary source of hand crews, has been strained by the pandemic. In June, 12 camps in Northern California were placed on quarantine lockdown for weeks because of concerns about coronavirus exposure. No firefighters were found to be infected.
But the quarantine, combined with early releases, have limited Cal Fire’s ability to rely on prison crews. California plans to hire 858 seasonal firefighters this year, an effort to help boost civilian hand crews.
Gov. Gavin Newsom also signed a bill last week to make it easier for formerly incarcerated people who have been trained at prison firefighting camps to get jobs in the field.
In the past, many prison firefighters could not get jobs doing the same work upon their release. Criminal records prevented them from becoming emergency medical technicians, a certification that cities and counties require for firefighters.
“This legislation rights a historic wrong and recognizes the sacrifice of thousands of incarcerated people who have helped battle wildfires in our state,” Newsom said after he signed the bill.
Nearly every member of the crew working the North Complex fires said they hope to work as firefighters after they are freed. Vanderhoef said he’s already on track to land a position after his scheduled release in December.
Some criminal justice advocates have called the use of incarcerated people to fight wildfires exploitative, given the low pay and physical risks. Crew members typically earn $2.90 to $5.12 per day, with an additional $1 for every hour working an active emergency. Incarcerated workers typically earn as little as 8 cents an hour for their labor.
Members of Crew Six said the job’s perks outweigh the physical demands. They eat better food, with unlimited portions. They live in openair camps, without prison bars or cells. They work in the outdoors.
But more than anything, Vanderhoef said, the job has given him a sense of hope for the future.
“Out here, we continue to make good. We continue to give back,” he said. “You’re not just wasting away. You’re serving a purpose.”