Some Crews Trade Cells for Firefighting : Inmates: Cutting fire lines is grueling work, but prisoners say it gives them a chance to prove themselves.

By MILES CORWIN

Oct. 30, 1993 12 AM PT

TIMES STAFF WRITER

Firefighter Corey Dean finally came down from the mountain Friday after his second 15-hour shift in a row. He was dog-tired, his back ached and he was covered with soot. But he only had time for a quick breakfast and a short nap before he would have to head back up the mountain again.

Considering the alternatives, Dean was perfectly happy to be working all night in smoke-filled canyons--if he was not here working the Altadena fire, he would be looking out at the world through metal bars.

Dean is one of about 2,000 state prison camp inmates who are fighting fires throughout the state. They spend their shifts hunkered over, digging up brush and dry grass with small axes and cutting back chaparral with chain saws.

This is called cutting fire lines. It is backbreaking work and critically important. The lines prevent fires from spreading and open up trails for crews with hoses.

The inmates hike up steep hillsides, terrain too rugged for tractors, and brave the heat, the smoke and the pink chemical retardant dumped from helicopters.

“It was really nasty last night,” said Dean, whose crew is based at Oak Grove Park in Pasadena. “We were up about 7,000 feet and working on the edge of a ravine. There was smoke everywhere and I was afraid I was going to fall over. But I’d still rather be here than behind bars.”

Forestry officials say they could not get through the fire season without the inmates, who make up about a third of the California Department of Forestry’s 6,000-member firefighting force. They free up the professionals to save residential areas and without them the cost of battling wildfires would be astronomical. Inmates make $1.45 a day, plus $1 an hour, compared with $15 an hour for firefighters.

For some inmates, firefighting is the first real job they have ever had. And they discover, Dean said, that an honest day’s work--something many have avoided all their lives--is not so bad. A few, he said, will actually admit they like working.

“A lot of us have something to prove,” said Dean, 32, who is serving a four-year auto theft sentence at Pilot Rock Prison Conservation Camp near San Bernardino. “We want to prove we can do the job . . . as good a job as a regular fireman.”

The other members of Dean’s crew, who were eating breakfast on metal tables in the park, nodded their heads.

“We cut the line, man, and that’s what makes the fire go out,” one said.

“The firemen are on the ground with water and ladders . . . we’re out where it’s cooking,” another inmate chimed in.

“We got one foot on the fire and one foot on the line . . . that’s direct contact,” a third added.

Sometimes this work takes a toll. Three inmates have been killed in the last few years and many others have been injured. Still, inmates say, freedom is worth the risk.

Handing over chain saws to young felons might raise questions among residents of the fire areas. But only a small percentage of inmates are eligible for the firefighting program. Prison officials say they carefully screen the inmates to exclude those who have committed violent offenses, have long sentences or are not in top physical condition.

The inmates undergo a two-week training program and are led by state forestry supervisors when sent out into the field. Occasionally, after inmates are paroled, state fire officials hire them as seasonal firefighters.

There are not many “walkaways” at the fire scenes or the parks where the crews camp out. But state correctional officers, who supervise inmates when they return to the park, say they have to make sure rival gang members are kept in different crews.

“They’ve got a great incentive to do a good job,” said Rand Gholson, a correctional officer. “If they goof off, we roll them up to a higher security institution and they’re back behind the bars.”

Jesus Lopez, who is serving time at Pilot Rock for drug sales, volunteered for the program because he had already spent four years in a cell. Anything is better, he said, than the unrelenting routine of staring at four walls.

“I had so much energy, but nothing to do, so I’d end up getting into trouble all the time,” Lopez said. “But after a day fighting these fires there’s no way I’ll get into trouble. I’m too tired.”

Times staff writer Ralph Frammolino also contributed to this story.