Embers were raining down, the flames were as tall as telephone poles and nearby palm trees were rapidly igniting as Sal Almanza and his firefighting crew arrived at the Los Angeles blazes.
Related: ‘Running to danger and saving lives’: 1,100 incarcerated firefighters are on the LA frontlines
“I’ve never seen anything burn so quick,” said Almanza, 42, recounting the first day of the Eaton fire near Pasadena, California. “Our captains have to make the hard decisions: get yourselves killed or let the house burn.” His eyes welled up recounting the properties devoured as his crew had no choice but to retreat: “I was just so sad and emotional, because there was nothing we could do.”
Almanza is one of thousands of first responders who have put their lives on the line battling the historic windstorm-fueled fires that have ravaged LA.
But he’s not a typical firefighter.
Almanza is incarcerated and currently serving a state prison sentence, making up to $10.24 in daily wages fighting the wildfires, with $1 hourly bonuses while on the frontlines. Since last week, the California department of corrections and rehabilitation (CDCR) has deployed more than 1,100 incarcerated firefighters to the LA infernos, which have become some of the deadliest and most destructive in the region’s history.
The incarcerated crews – now embedded with the California department of forestry and fire protection (Cal Fire) – come from more than 20 “fire camps”, minimum-security facilities across California where they complete prison terms. They are trained to respond to wildfires, floods and other disasters, and the placements are highly sought after as they offer better living conditions, meaningful service positions and reduced sentences.
But the work can be grueling and life-threatening, and the program has attracted international scrutiny this week, drawing criticisms over the meager pay and the government’s dependence on prison labor. Current and former participants have said they were grateful for the opportunities, but hoped the spotlight could lead to improvements in wages and more support for them to pursue firefighting careers upon re-entry into society.
On Thursday, prison firefighters were recharging at a base camp at the Rose Bowl stadium in Pasadena, near where the Eaton fire was still roaring. The crews have been working 24-hour shifts (during which they can make up to $34.24), then resting 24 hours before returning. The CDCR approved several firefighters to speak with the Guardian.
Almanza, imprisoned for nearly two years, said he felt well-trained and protected by his captains, but still overwhelmed by the gargantuan threats of the Eaton fire, which has killed at least 17 people and torched more than 7,000 structures. One of his jobs was carrying a medicine pack and defibrillator for his crew, so he tried to keep a close eye on their wellbeing.
But on one particularly harrowing night this week, his mood changed. “I was so exhausted from the work that at every step, I was like, ‘I’m not gonna make it,’” he said, recounting an out-and-back hike for hours through steep, treacherous terrain.
Imprisoned firefighters function as hand crews, using tools to cut away vegetation to further contain the fire’s spread, traveling to remote locations bulldozers can’t reach, with heavy packs and chainsaws on their backs.
“We just stuck together, and kept encouraging each other. But I could feel my muscles and legs starting to cramp,” said Almanza. “I knew I had to be on task for my guys, so your body kind of comes last.”
He thought often of his 12-year-old son, whom he called before the fires, telling him he probably wouldn’t be able to wish him happy birthday. The crews can’t phone home while deployed, and he was anxious about his family, knowing they would be fearful for his safety.
“I accomplish the task by remembering I have a life to get back to and that he’s waiting for me,” Almanza said. “This opportunity encourages me. It makes me feel like this time [in prison] wasn’t for nothing.”
The men, who wear orange uniforms on the job, described the frontline work as rewarding.
“I’m just glad to help, honestly,” said Joseph Sevilla, 23, wearing a yellow cap that reads “Fenner Canyon 41”, the name of his camp. “I wasn’t necessarily your model citizen out there, but here I get to play that role of a helper or I guess you could say a hero. I get a chance to redeem myself.” His family has seen him in a new light: “My three-year-old son thinks I’m a firefighter, which I like to think I am, too.”
Sevilla, who has about 40 days left on his sentence, said he appreciated the salary, which he can use to buy hygiene supplies. The firefighters’ 24-hour rests are paid, too, he noted. But he said he also supported calls to increase wages – “whatever people feel is suitable”. And while the CDCR let him transfer to a camp closer to his family last year, he at times wished his firefighting service earned him an opportunity to finish his term in a community program.
The work, after all, can be extremely dangerous. Several incarcerated people have died on duty in recent years. Sevilla said he had felt safe, but had seen others requiring evacuation by helicopter and had helped carry people unable to walk. He said he was also covered in poison oak from this week’s assignments.
Related: ‘Essential’: nearly 800 incarcerated firefighters deployed as LA battles wildfires
Sevilla hopes he gets a chance to be a paid firefighter after prison, but isn’t sure if his criminal record might create obstacles: “It would mean everything to have a career where I can provide for my family, not just financially, but mentally for them to have a sense of pride. Just to have that sense of being needed.”
Convictions don’t automatically bar employment with Cal Fire, and some targeted programs help incarcerated people transition to careers, but for many it can be an uphill battle.
‘A critical workforce’
In 2020, state lawmakers adopted legislation to allow former fire camp members to petition for their records to be expunged. That is necessary for many jobs that require EMT certification, which isn’t available to people with felony convictions. But advocates said it can be a difficult process to get expungement, and legislators are now looking for ways to streamline it.
Edmond Richardson, a 38-year-old former fire camp member who came home in December, said by phone on Thursday that he left prison with roughly $2,500 in savings after a year of firefighting, which included frontline work at nearly 20 blazes. The fire season was so busy, he had few opportunities to spend his earnings. Reflecting on the physical exhaustion of the job, he said he wished he had earned a legitimate salary.
And he wished they had more rights and better working conditions; while on fires, there was a looming threat of being returned to traditional prison cells if they didn’t complete the work, he said: “Just because I volunteer for this, doesn’t mean you can put my life at risk. One way to rectify that is to say we’re going to give you this skillset to do the job effectively, treat you with dignity, we’re going to pay you – and we’ll make sure we provide you employment in this field if you want it.”
Richardson has sent applications to four crews and is waiting to hear back.
Back at Pasadena base camp, CDCR Lt Manny Nunez said the wages had helped incarcerated people support their families, but said he thought it was time to evaluate the pay, particularly the $1 bonus, which he said was set decades ago: “They provide a critical workforce that the state desperately needs. If we care about rehabilitation and these folks reintegrating into society and being productive members, we should give them those tools.”
Proper financial resources to access stable housing can be a gamechanger, the lieutenant said: “Money makes a difference between surviving and not surviving. Just because they’re incarcerated doesn’t mean they don’t have needs or loved ones with needs.”
In November, California voters rejected a proposition to ban involuntary servitude in prison, which would have prohibited forcing people to do jobs behind bars and could have paved the way for wage increases.
Regarding concerns about workers’ rights on the job, Nunez said: “This is a voluntary program. If one of these gentlemen decides it’s not the right fit for them, our doors are open.” If firefighters are injured, the CDCR fills out workers’ compensation forms for them, he added.
Not all fire camp participants want to pursue firefighting in the long term. “It’s a great service, and I don’t mind doing it, but I’m not a manual labor guy,” said Najee Franklin, 28, saying his mother had been anxious about his safety while he fights the LA fires. Still, he said, he’s been incarcerated since he was a teenager, so he appreciated having a job: “It teaches me great work ethic and how to communicate with a team, and when things get rough, to push through.” He hopes to work in film upon his release.
Joseph McKinney, a 44-year-old firefighter, said he had grown accustomed to the extreme environment of wildland firefighting – choking on smoke, burning eyes and black snot in his nose. He’s learned how to watch for falling debris, remembering the “look up to live” mantra.
What is unique about these fires, he added, was the outpouring of support for incarcerated people, including from politicians and celebrities like Nick Cannon and Kim Kardashian.
“The majority of people [in prison] want to do well, they want to do good. We make mistakes and we get an opportunity to change that,” he said. “To be recognized for what we’re doing is amazing. I’ve never felt such love, and I’ll remember this for the rest of my life.”
It was, however, hard to process and talk about the scale of devastation of these fires: “It touches you. Sometimes I get emotional, so I don’t like to go too far into it, because it hits my heart.”