by John Cannon, LSPC Community Organizer
My name is John Cannon, and I want to share my story as an incarcerated firefighter—a story of hard work, survival, and systemic injustice.
At just 16 years old, I was tried as an adult and sentenced to prison. I spent most of my time in high-security yards, but when I was around 21 years old, I became eligible for minimum-security placement and was transferred to a fire camp. When I first arrived, I had no idea what to expect. I quickly learned that the camp operated like a small community with different jobs available—laundry, kitchen work, maintenance, or camp cleaning. But because I was young and physically fit, I was assigned to a fire crew.
Joining the crew was not optional. I underwent intense training that included learning about fire behavior, the topography of the land, and how weather conditions impact fires. We watched videos, read manuals, and took written tests. Then came the physical test: walking three miles in under 45 minutes with a 45-pound pack on my back. We weren’t allowed to run, so it was all about maintaining a grueling pace. Failure wasn’t an option because it meant being sent back to prison and losing the good-time credits I’d earned.
Once certified, I became part of the frontlines. The work was brutal. We hiked steep mountains in 100-degree heat, cutting fire lines with tools like chainsaws and McLeods, a combination rake and hoe to stop a fire’s spread. Each person on the line worked in sync, moving vegetation one strike at a time, in a process we called “bump and move.” It was grueling, dangerous work. I saw people collapse from heat exhaustion and dehydration. Others suffered injuries from tools or were bitten by spiders and venomous rattlesnakes during the nights we slept outdoors.
On non-fire days, we weren’t idle. We cleared brush in small towns, performed construction tasks, and even helped with controlled burns and irrigation work. For all of this, we were paid just $1 a day. During active fires, the rate increased to $1 an hour, but half of that was garnished for restitution.
I often questioned whether the risk was worth it. Stories of firefighters who didn’t make it out alive haunted me. As part of our training, they taught us what to do if the fire surrounded us—using aluminized emergency shelters to try and survive the flames. The shelters, designed to endure temperatures of up to 500 degrees Fahrenheit (260 degrees Celsius), could shield against radiant heat and intermittent flames. However, if the fire made direct contact with the aluminum, the shelters wouldn’t hold up for long. The thought of being in that situation terrified me, and I wondered if taking a safer job in the camp might be better. But we didn’t have a choice. Once assigned to the fire crew, you were stuck. If you refused, they’d send you back to prison.
Despite everything, I found moments of meaning in the work. I loved being outdoors, and there was a sense of camaraderie with my crew. But it was hard not to feel the weight of exploitation. Professional crews, like the Bureau of Land Management “Hotshots” teams, would sometimes stop and talk to us. They knew we were doing the same work as them but for a fraction of the pay. They’d express sympathy, but that didn’t change the reality: our labor and lives weren’t valued.
When I was released from prison, I faced another devastating truth. After risking my life fighting fires, I couldn’t even apply to become a firefighter because of my record. The system had used me for cheap labor and left me with skills I wasn’t allowed to use. It was a painful reminder of how little my contributions were valued.
Looking back, my time as an incarcerated firefighter taught me resilience, but it also showed me how deeply flawed the system is. We risk our lives, endure harsh conditions, and come away with little to show for it. It’s a system that exploits the labor of incarcerated individuals while denying them the dignity and opportunities they deserve.
Today, I share my story not just to reflect on my experiences but to call for change. Those of us who fought fires from behind prison walls deserve fair pay, proper recognition, and the chance to rebuild our lives. Our labor and humanity should never be treated as disposable.
Leave a Reply