by Daniel Zamora, Jr.
Wildland firefighting is a dangerous job. I almost died three times this past 2017 fire season while doing my job. I put my life on the line daily fighting fires for only a dollar an hour. I feel like we deserve more pay, and by we, I mean inmate firefighters.
I am currently a participant in the joint Cal-Fire-CDCR program where inmates like me can fight wildfires in California. The only difference between the free Cal-Fire firefighters and us is they have more education when it comes to the dynamics of fire. Other than this, we do the same work. Honestly, we do more work, and anybody who has been on a fire line knows this. Hazards are everywhere in the forest, even more when everything is on fire. Trees fall, rocks roll downhill at deadly speed, venomous spiders and snakes lurk under every rock, and when the fire gets so close, the heat slaps you like a belly flop into a swimming pool.
Back in August of this year, my crew was out on a hike like no ordinary hike. The pulls on this hike were almost straight up at points; we had to crawl up the mountain. We still had on our equipment: helmet, fire gloves, Nomex fireproof jumpsuit, fire boots, 40-pound backpack, and tool. My tool is a Pulaski, a large, 7-pound axe-like tool used 
for cutting small brush and trees and for scraping dirt. Nomex is a thick fireproof material that fully covers your body. On this hike it was 94 degrees outside and the hike was four miles. To say we were tired at the end would be an understatement. Just as the hike ended we got a fire call and were dispatched to a local forest fire. We were barely able to walk when we got there, but had to get right to work.
Our job was to cut a circle around the fire, remove all trees, bushes, and grass in its path, and scrape the ground clean until it was bare dirt so the fire had nothing to burn. The dirt trail we scraped around the fire was four-feet wide, almost like a hiking trail or dirt road. Never did anyone complain; we just worked cutting and scraping. Later that day we were cutting line on a hillside with the fire raging above us. We were trying to save a house below us. Drenched in sweat, swinging my tool, my fire captain asked me to dig a trench on the side of the hill to keep the rolling logs from catching the house on fire. I dug deep into myself and pooled the rest of my strength to complete this task. Just as I finished, I heard my crew shout, “Tree!”
I was looking downhill at the time, and before I could react—smack! A branch that had snapped off a burning tree hit me. The force of the blow knocked my helmet off and pinned me to the ground, the branch landing on my foot. I lay there for a moment, petrified, staring at a huge tree branch that must have weighed close to 80 pounds. I was okay, with no major injury, but my first thought was that I needed a raise.
No one takes care of me. If it weren’t for the fire pay, I would have no money. I am an indigent inmate surviving on state food and state soap. Because of this, I never minded the risks. Situations such as this next one helped me to conclude that I really do need a raise. A dollar per hour needs to be doubled to two.
It was dark, about 11 p.m., and my crew had just finished cutting line uphill. Our fire captain spread us out along the fire line, from the top of the hill to the bottom. Our job was to watch the line. I was assigned as watch near the bottom of the hill. To my right, 50-foot flames burned through massive oak and fir trees, so tall the tops were not visible. This was just another all-nighter to make sure the fire didn’t cross the fire line we’d spent all day creating. Exhausted, I sat down hoping to nap for a couple of hours. As I lay there, I heard someone howl from above, “Rock!”
There was no time to react. I was frozen with fear and could not move; if I turned around to look, I risked being hit in the face. A rock from that height picking up speed as it went would kill me. I tensed up, covered my head, and waited. After a silent pause, there were three thuds and then—smack! The back of my left shoulder stung with pain. Just a few inches to the right and my skull would have been crushed. Unfortunately, two inmate firefighters died this year. One was hit in the head by a falling tree. The other fell on a chainsaw and cut an artery in his leg.
There was another long night and we were watching the fire line. I should note here that inmate firefighters are the only ones who do this. No other firefighters work for a full 24 hours like we do. Anyway, I had never seen trees as tall as those in this area. There were fir trees hundreds of feet high, completely engulfed in flames. This time the captain put us in groups of two. Again, I was near the bottom of the hill where I fell out, fatigued from working all day. I awoke to my crew member shaking me and yelling, “Tree!”
I looked up to see this giant fir leaning right over us. It was glowing red and orange with fire. A loud crack sounded and the tree snapped. We jumped out of the way just as the broken tree hit the forest floor with such force that the ground shook. Nearly killed, all we could do was get back to work to make sure the fire did not get past our line.
These were just three examples of life-threatening situations. I’ve been lost in the woods and my boots have caught fire. I’ve pulled ticks off crew members and saw some bad spider bites. For this, all I want is a raise to double my pay from a dollar an hour to two, when I’m fighting fires. That’s just about $50 a day. Considering the dangers involved, I believe it is sufficient for inmate pay. Nevertheless, if this does not happen, I will continue to do what I always do—shut up and cut line.
Republished from “Perspectives from the Cell Block: An Anthology of Prisoner Writings” – edited by Joan Parkin in collaboration with incarcerated people from Mule Creek State Prison.
