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Every other day, Joseph McKinney, Joseph Sevilla and Sal Almanza wake up around 4 a.m. and eat breakfast at their base camp at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena before heading up the San Gabriel Mountains to do battle with one of the most destructive fires in Los Angeles County history.
Their firefighting tasks, which are assigned each day by their captains, could include containment work, structure defense or removing dry vegetation to try and stop the spread of the blaze. The men work either 12- or 24-hour shifts and if they work the latter, they get the next day off to recuperate at base camp.
While McKinney, Sevilla and Almanza perform all the same duties as the other first responders, they’re not professional firefighters. The trio are incarcerated at Fenner Canyon Conservation Camp 41, a medium-security level prison in Valyermo, an unincorporated part of L.A. County in the Antelope Valley, which houses people convicted of crimes such as arson, robbery and assault.
The men are part of the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation’s Conservation Fire Camps Program, which operates 35 fire camps throughout the state. Participants respond to natural disasters such as wildfires and floods. When they aren’t tending to emergencies, they help maintain parks and assist with sand-bagging.
As of Friday, more than 1,100 incarcerated firefighters were battling the Palisades and Eaton fires, which have claimed the lives of at least 27 people and are shaping up to be one of the costliest natural disasters in U.S. history. Historically, incarcerated firefighters have comprised up to 30% of the California wildfire force.
“We’re not used to seeing damage on this scale,” McKinney said. “We’re not used to seeing that, because we’re usually out in wildfire situations where the mountains are burning. But this has been really devastating to see because there’s been so much loss here.”
The men initially joined the program to shave some time off of their sentences — they either earn one or two days of credit for every day of work, depending on their sentence. But some of them said that after they joined, they found the job rewarding and a chance to pursue a potential career path for after they’re released.
Almanza originally tried to pursue firefighting about a decade ago, but it didn’t pan out for him.
“I just thought, how funny is it that I ended up in the situation that I really wanted to be in a long time ago,” the 42-year-old said. “It’s come back full circle.”
Before Sevilla, 23, was incarcerated, he was job hopping, from working at a biotech company to fast food restaurants. He plans to pursue a career in wildland firefighting after he’s released.
“I ended up falling in love with it,” he said. “You get to be out here in the wilderness. You get to be outdoors, moving around. So on top of being healthy, and getting that physical exercise, you get a mental exercise in knowing you’re providing for the community and doing something good for the people.”
The work done by prisoners to prevent and contain fires is just as valuable as that of other responders. But unlike their professional counterparts, they don’t receive protections or benefits.
Working on the front lines has hit close to home for McKinney. The 44-year-old used to live in Old Town Pasadena, above the Crown City pawn shop. He remembers a moment when they were battling the blaze at the Mt. Wilson Observatory and he looked out over all of the black smoke and wondered if the fire would ever stop.
The men say that more than anything else, they’re grateful for the outpouring of support from the community.
“It has been so psychologically positive to us,” McKinney said. “At times when you’re incarcerated, you might feel alone, might feel like you’re left out of community or out of society. This has shown that we can still have a great impact, even from this position where we’re at.”
In order to qualify for the program, participants must have eight years or less of their sentence remaining, be physically and mentally fit enough for the required duties and not be convicted for certain charges, such as arson, rape and an escape history.
The program has faced criticism, primarily for the wages that incarcerated firefighters earn — between $5.80 and $10.24 a day, plus $1 an hour from Cal Fire during active emergencies. The program has also be criticized for the associated health risks and the notion that the program exploits the firefighters for “forced labor.”
Incarcerated workers are more prone to being injured than professional firefighters, according to research from the ACLU and the University of Chicago Law School. At least four incarcerated firefighters have died on the front lines and, during a five-year period, more than 1,000 needed hospital care, according to the ACLU report.
The pathway to becoming a firefighter after prison isn’t clear-cut. It can be difficult to get municipal firefighting jobs, for instance, because they require EMT certification — something felons are barred from getting under California law.
In 2020, Gov. Newsom signed Assembly Bill 2147 in order to help get criminal records expunged for nonviolent offenders who participated in the firefighting program. Assemblymember Issac Bryan (D-Los Angeles) also recently introduced AB 247, which would give incarcerated firefighters a pay bump, by giving them the same wages as the lowest nonincarcerated firefighters.
Kim Kardashian is calling on California’s government to raise the pay rate for the state’s incarcerated firefighters battling the devastating L.A. fires.
Proponents of the program stress that participation is voluntary and that it provides future career opportunities for inmates. Incarcerated firefighters have gone on work with Cal Fire, the U.S. Forest Service and other hotshot crews, according to the corrections department. Cal Fire has also partnered with the corrections department, the California Conservation Corps and the Anti-Recidivism Coalition to develop an 18-month training and certification program at the Ventura Training Center.
When they’re not battling the blaze, the men spend their downtime resting, eating, showering and doing laundry at the base camp. They’re also able to make phone calls to their friends and family from a shared phone — something that isn’t yet possible when they’re on the front lines of the fire.
But corrections officials say they are evaluating new technology to allow the men to bring mobile devices to make calls while fighting fires.
Firefighters can be at out at the fire for weeks at a time, making it difficult to communicate with their loved ones. Almanza said he recently was able to call his 12-year-old son, whose birthday is in two days.
“I got to tell him before I left that I love him and that I might not be able to wish him a happy birthday,” he said.
The L.A.-based Anti-Recidivism Coalition has started a fundraiser to try to support the incarcerated firefighters and has raised more than $40,000 as of Friday, according to executive director Sam Lewis.
“The beautiful thing about this horrible tragedy is the unity that it has created across the county of Los Angeles,” Lewis said. “People have lost so much because of these two fires.”
The money is going toward meals, toiletries, gear and replacing a shower facility at one of the camps, Lewis said. The leftover money will either go toward the inmates’ commissary accounts or scholarship funds for formerly incarcerated firefighters.
“It’s a way for the public to be able to say we appreciate you putting yourself in harm’s way to save our property,” Lewis said. “Literally, they are fighting this fire that has taken so much from so many.”
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