Dayna Tortorici:Tell me a little bit about your background and how you know what you know about fires.
Jordan Thomas:I’m a cultural anthropologist and a former wildland firefighter.I started fighting fires in 2019 soon after I moved to Santa Barbara. I had just finished my graduate degree at the University of Cambridge researching Indigenous burning practices in southern Mexico, so I had a unique perspective on how fire can be used to manage landscapes, not just destroy them. But I needed a job. I started fighting wildfires as a way to get closer to the community, and to try to understand the role of fire in California’s ecosystems.
I fought fires for three years. One of those years was on the Los Padres hotshot crew—hotshots are like the Navy Seals of firefighters—while simultaneously doing anthropological research at UC Santa Barbara to better understand the cultural forces that drive wildfire behavior. In the years since, I’ve become an active prescribed burner, doing what people call trying to get on the good side of fire—using the skills you learn suppressing fires to try to put more fire on the land in ways that benefit it.
DT:Many people are wondering what’s behind these current fires in Los Angeles—the Palisades and Eaton fires, and the smaller ones popping up around them—and who should be held accountable for them. How unprecedented are these fires, and what conditions made them possible? How much should be chalked up to climate change, or overdevelopment, or cuts to funding, or forest mismanagement, to list just a few potential culprits being named?
JT:This is unprecedented, but it’s not unexpected. These are the sorts of wildfires that climate scientists have been predicting for quite a long time. But it is an instance of the most terrible possible conditions occurring at the most terrible possible time—and in Los Angeles, instead of out in a National Forest where wildland firefighters like me and my colleagues fight them.
Wildfires are shaped by the choices people in our society make. They are very political, so it’s valid to be searching for accountability. What makes it difficult is that there’s always a lot of variables, which means people can easily see what they want to see. Bad faith actors—as you’re seeing with Donald Trump, Elon Musk, and a lot of the right wing—exploit that multivariate confusion to make it seem like it’s hard to attribute these wildfires to anything in a solid way.
But you can bring it down to a couple underlying causes. It’s a bit of a false choice to frame it as “Is this climate change or—?” A more productive way to think about it is, “This is climate change and.” It’s important to focus on climate change first, because you can’t understand any fires nowadays without understanding how climate change has altered our vegetation patterns over broad scales and changed acute real-time weather conditions. So I would say it’s the product of climate change and land management and the housing crisis.
DT:Let’s start with land management, because it has the longest history. I wonder if you can speak in your capacity as an anthropologist to the longer history of fire in Southern California, and to the way people’s relationship to fire has changed since, say, the 18th century. To what extent is what’s happening now the long tail of fire suppression that started centuries ago with Spanish colonization?
JT:The first thing to keep in mind is that California is one of the most fire-evolved regions in the world. Most ecosystems rely on a certain kind of fire to remain intact and healthy and to regenerate. We often think of fire as a singular thing, but there are a lot of different kinds of fire. Just as different landscapes are adapted to different forms of precipitation, landscapes in California are adapted to different kinds of fire.
A fire regime is the pattern of fire that the landscape has evolved to thrive within. In much of the world, people talk about natural fire regimes, maybe lightning strikes that burn the land. What makes California unique is that most of the fires that burned here for more than 10,000 years were lit and managed by Indigenous people. And up until just over 200 years ago, Indigenous people in California were burning between 6 and 10 million acres per year, which is roughly double the amount of land burned during the worst fire season in California’s recorded history, 2020, when around 4.5 million acres burned in wildfires. But the fires Indigenous people use are different from these catastrophic conflagrations we’ve been seeing in recent years. More land was burning then, but it was burned by people, intentionally and skillfully, in ways that enhanced biological diversity.
For example, some tribes would burn in high elevations before the winter to reduce the plants up there and get a more dense snowpack. The denser snowpack allows for a more sustained water runoff throughout the summer, which prevents creeks from going dry, which keeps the forest lush. The easiest way to think of Indigenous fire use is as a food system tool. Fire was used to manage pastures to attract game animals for hunting, to encourage edible grasses and fungi that only grow after a fire, to manage forests. The author Robin Wall Kimmerer describes the use of fire really poetically when she writes that it’s like a paintbrush for the landscape. Touch it here and you create a meadow for elk; touch it there in a certain way and you create a patch of berries. Fire was the central part of food systems for Indigenous people in California, but also the central part of a lot of their lifestyle and economy. The techniques that they used shaped the fire patterns and fire regimes throughout California. I should mention that, while these practices are often referred to in the past tense because they used to be so widespread, Indigenous people really are at the forefront of bringing these practices back today, and in some parts of California Indigenous people never stopped burning.
DT:I think it’s safe to say that most people outside the Indigenous tradition in California were raised to understand fire as an exclusively destructive force that must always be fought. Thanks to the work of Indigenous activists, scientists, and foresters, the public is increasingly aware that this “anti-fire” mentality has had damaging consequences. Landscapes that were meant to burn regularly to regenerate were instead left to grow out and dry out, creating surplus vegetation that fueled more explosive, catastrophic fires that threaten the health of the land itself. When and how did total fire suppression become the norm in California?
JT:The dates at which you put the origin of this crisis are often very political. You’ll hear a lot in the media that forest mismanagement started about a hundred years ago, with the foundation of the United States Forest Service in 1905, but that timeline erases more than a century of fire suppression practices that were directed toward subjugating Indigenous people by banning their burn practices. The very first fire regulation in the American West was signed in 1793 by the first Spanish governor of California, José Joaquin de Arrillaga, in Santa Barbara. He banned fire explicitly to prevent Indigenous people from burning, which essentially criminalized the foundation of their economies and forced them into the colonial mission system.
This wasn’t just a fluke of the Spanish. The first thing that the American government did when it took control of California was pass a law criminalizing Indigenous burning practices. And this law was accompanied by a call from the governor for a war of extermination to be waged against Indigenous people. As a white guy from California I can only speak to this in a very limited fashion, but from Indigenous people I’ve spoken to, interviewed, and participated in prescribed burns with, the pairing of the criminalization of fire and this call for genocide was not a coincidence. They went together.
Whether or not the colonists knew banning fire was a devastatingly effective instrument of genocide is an interesting question. What they did know for sure is that fire was destructive toward their own economic project. In political economy, it’s common for owners of capital to view people, lifestyles, and land-use practices that do not generate capital as threats or as irrational, or as in some way morally abhorrent. You see this basically around the entire world starting in about the 17th century. The French were using similar language when they were colonizing Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia. The British were using similar language when they were criminalizing fire in India and in Belize. I think that’s part of the reason we don’t have this relationship with fires, because it’s not as simple as some mistake, some quirk. Fire suppression was an essential form of governance in early capitalist societies, and remains a really foundational aspect of the societies we all live in.
For many years, people didn’t think about fire this way, because for most people fire wasn’t viewed as an essential part of food systems. So there’s a cognitive dissonance preventing people from locating the origins of fire suppression in these processes of colonialism and genocide that are foundational to American history.
DT:To catch us up to the present: What happened after this 18th century criminalization of fire that brings us to our current era of “megafires”? And what is a megafire?
JT:A megafire is generally defined in spatial terms, as a fire that burns more than 100,000 acres, but it’s also their duration, intensity, and the amount of tree mortality in the lands that they move through. They used to happen very rarely. Veteran hotshot firefighters might have encountered one megafire in their career. But they’re becoming much more common: we fought three while I was a hotshot in 2021. Eighteen of the twenty largest fires in California’s recorded history have burned in just the past twenty years.
The building blocks of megafires can be understood as colonialism, genocide, and corporate forestry. These were the fuse, and climate change lit the fuse. Through colonialism, the Spanish eliminated most fires from that part of California. Then the genocide the American government instituted from about 1850 until about 1890 was devastating for Indigenous people in the rest of the state. In that forty-year span, citizens of the United States killed 90 percent of the surviving Indigenous population of California, according to population statistics from the time. That corresponded to the loss of the vast majority of remaining fires in California.
The building blocks of megafires were colonialism, genocide, and corporate forestry. These were the fuse, and climate change lit the fuse.
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So by the time the Forest Service was founded in 1905, most of the fires in California had already been suppressed. But the Forest Service also used the specter of fire to justify its formation. The Forest Service was founded as a conservation effort to protect lands in the forests, mostly from industrial interests trying to privatize and extract value from the lands in the West. When a megafire in Idaho burned 3 million acres in days, killing 78 firefighters in 1910, the Forest Service blamed the tragedy on industrialists that had kept foresters from carrying out the task of fire suppression. It spurred public and Congressional support and the funding followed. The US Forest Service didn’t introduce fire suppression, but its agents did institutionalize it and put the weight of the federal government behind it.
Very soon after the Forest Service was founded, though, it was captured by the logging industry. By the 1920s, the organizational capacity of the Forest Service was turned toward suppressing fires to protect forests within national forest boundaries so they could be logged by corporations. Why is this a building block for megafires? Because logging practices at the time involved clear-cutting forests. They would go in and level an entire slope, or an entire series of mountains, take all the wood, and replant trees with whatever lumber was fetching the highest price at the time. What regrew from that clear-cutting was homogenous trees, of homogeneous species, of homogenous age. I’ve stood on mountaintops in northern California, where you can see the mountains spreading to every horizon, and thought I was staring at wilderness. But the foresters told me I was staring at a pine plantation. They called them “pines in lines.”
It would be difficult to engineer a more flammable landscape than the pine plantations that resulted from the corporate capture of the Forest Service, and these cover much of California. A lot of what used to moderate fire spread with Indigenous burning practice was the way it created mosaics in the landscapes. A fire might jump into a canopy and then run into a meadow, and then fall to the ground, because fire takes the shape of the land it’s burning. But when you get a pine plantation, there’s nothing to slow the spread. If fire gets into the canopy, it’s just going to keep going, and keep going, and keep going, which is how we get these huge firestorms we see today. These pine plantations are also much more vulnerable to pests, drought, and heat, which are becoming more common because of climate change. We’ve engineered this landscape that is now the worst possible landscape you could pair with the conditions of climate change, if you’re trying to mitigate fire behavior.
But again, it wasn’t forest mismanagement. This was forests being managed based on market values. They were managed the way they were intended to be. We’re just dealing with the consequences today.
DT:I want to shift gears and ask about your firefighting experience. As of a few days ago, there are more than 7,500 personnel fighting the fires in Los Angeles. That includes both urban and wildland firefighters, a distinction I learned about only recently. Can you talk about the differences between urban and wildland firefighters, in terms of the work they do and the discrepancies in their working conditions?
JT:When I started fighting fires in California, I showed up to training and expected to be handed a hose. But I was handed a chainsaw. When people think of fighting fires, they think of fire engines and Dalmations and hoses, but out in the mountains you often don’t have access to water. Fire needs three ingredients to burn: oxygen, fuel, and heat. Urban firefighters remove the heat with water. Wildland firefighters—which are the hotshot crews—stop the fire spread by removing the fuel from its edges. You have a line of about twenty people, four people in the front with chainsaws, then the rest of the people in the back with axes and hoes and other tools, cutting a line of vegetation away from the fire. It’s extremely dangerous work, extremely physically arduous work, and it takes a very intimate understanding of fire behavior to do it safely.
Part of what makes the LA fire so difficult is that it’s blending all these different things. It’s burned from the San Gabriel Mountains, which requires wildland firefighting, down into the wildland-urban interface (WUI), which is where buildings and homes start mixing in with the wildlands, and then there’s the city, where you have municipal firefighters. In California, there are three categories of firefighters for these three categories of firefighting types. The municipal firefighters specialize in urban areas; these are the people with the engines and the hoses. Then there’s CAL FIRE, the state firefighting crew, who specialize in the wildland-urban interface. The state category also includes incarcerated firefighters from the state’s Conservation Camp Program, which make up about a third of wildland firefighters. And then you have the wildland firefighters who are mostly Forest Service employees, including hotshots.
These different groups have different levels of protection in terms of compensation and health care. Municipal firefighters in California are usually paid quite well. CAL FIRE is often paid quite well, too, because they’re paid by the state, aside from the incarcerated firefighters, who only make $5 to $10 an hour, federal firefighters are often paid the least. Most are technically seasonal contract workers employed during the fire season, which officially runs from May to November—but they don’t have health care when they’re not working. President Biden recently said that the federal government will cover all the costs for 180 days surrounding the wildfires in LA, including pay for firefighters. But for federal firefighters, the problems come after 180 days, when you start dealing with the chronic health effects of the work. In the long term, federal firefighters are often not covered in terms of health care.
DT:Why does the most difficult and labor-intensive form of firefighting have the least protections and the worst pay?
JT:A couple reasons. First, the job parameters for wildland firefighters haven’t changed significantly since the 1980s. What has changed significantly since the ’80s is the climate. So essentially, they’re working with the job expectations, compensation, and health care packages of a planet in which they fight fires for maybe 10 percent of their time and spend the other 90 percent doing forest management projects. But now wildland firefighters spend at least 90 percent of their time fighting fires, if not 100 percent of their time. Their compensation hasn’t kept up with that, partly because it’s impossible to increase pay and benefits at the federal level when you need Republican congressional approval to do so.
As a firefighter, it’s extremely frustrating to see people like Donald Trump and his billionaire cohort blame California for the large wildfires that occur, because around half of California’s land is under federal jurisdiction. It’s largely not in the state’s power to implement forest management projects because those projects depend on federal funding. And among the first thing Republican administrations often do when they come into power is reduce funding for forest management projects and personnel, including firefighters. We’ve seen enormous workforce attrition and labor shortages in the Forest Service in California because of this in recent years.
This is where you see the hypocrisy of the MAGA movement, where you have this band of couch potato billionaires pretending to be champions of the working class and then cutting everything that the working class depends upon for their well-being, including compensation and health care. Wildland firefighters work out in forests. They breathe a lot of smoke from forest fires, and it’s really not good for you. It has long-term consequences. Those same firefighters are now fighting fires in and around Los Angeles, breathing in toxic smoke from burning cars and buildings. And they can’t even wear masks, because it’s such difficult work—it’d be like trying to run an Ironman wearing a mask. You’re essentially charging up a cliff face carrying a 50 pound pack and a 25 pound chainsaw, trying to cut trees and branches without passing out or getting burned. You can’t do it. Just thinking about the health consequences of spending all of these days around a burning city to save people’s lives and communities, in that smoke, without masks, and without a lot of the long-term benefits that other firefighters enjoy—it’s infuriating.
DT:Let’s talk about the role the housing crisis plays in these fires. One response to the devastation has been “if you don’t want your house to burn, don’t live there.” Sort of like how people say you shouldn’t live in Florida if you don’t want your house to get wiped out by a hurricane. Mike Davis’s “The Case for Letting Malibu Burn,” which criticizes overdevelopment in Malibu and the allotment of public firefighting resources to the rich homeowners who insist on living there, carries that subtext. How do you think of individual responsibility in this context?
JT:It’s a very American way of making sense of disasters to individualize blame, whether people are fixated on who started the fire or why people were living in the path of the fire. This kind of thinking obscures the question of why these fires are burning the way that they are, and the larger contextual factors that shape different people’s vulnerability to them. The idea that individual homeowners are making a conscious, rational decision to move into a high-severity burn zone is an extremely simplistic way of viewing people’s choices, given the housing crisis in California. A lot of the time, these areas are built by larger real estate corporations that don’t forefront the fire danger when they’re selling houses. As somebody who lives in California and has very unrealistic dreams of maybe someday being able to afford a home here, I can tell you that you don’t have a whole lot of options. There’s a housing crisis. If a home is available and you can afford it and you want it, there’s often a race to buy it.
DT:I’ve saved the big one for last. Let’s talk about climate change. How does burning fossil fuels create more extreme wildfire conditions, and what do those conditions look like?
JT:It can be helpful to talk about climate change’s impact on wildfires in terms of chronic impacts and acute impacts. The chronic impacts are connected to rising temperatures. Warmer air pulls more moisture from vegetation, so you have drier vegetation. California has warmed by several degrees in the past century, and when you apply that across landscapes and account for the average increase in plant flammability over that period, it’s devastating. In just one generation, fire seasons in California have lengthened by more than 78 days on average. And the average burn area exposed to extreme wildfire danger has also increased massively because of this simple equation: warmer air means drier vegetation.
Higher temperatures also trigger cascading effects that build on one another. You have drier vegetation, and then you also have pests like bark beetles, which have historically been moderated by winters that freeze. Bark beetles, which eat pine, are now no longer seeing their populations diminished during the winters, so they’re unhinged from past ecological limits. Trees become more vulnerable to pests and die off. And when you have more dead trees, those forests are more flammable. You also have less snowpack falling in the winter, which means less runoff throughout the summer, which means that forests are more dry by the time fire season rolls around. None of these staggered effects of climate change would have a substantial impact on its own, but collectively they’re devastating.
Broadly, those are the chronic impacts. In terms of acute impacts, climate change means more extreme weather events, like heatwaves. Then there’s weather whiplash, which is the intensification of historical weather patterns. In California, that means more extreme rain events, which gives you more vegetation, followed by more extreme heat and droughts, which makes that vegetation much more burnable. These extreme weather events are where firefighters really feel it. You might remember the heat dome that descended on the Pacific Northwest in June 2021, where temperatures in Portland were higher than on the equator and hundreds of people died. I was fighting a wildfire with the hotshots during that heat wave. Big Sur, which is normally a cool, cloudy place, saw temperatures over 120 degrees. We were working on a ridge all day long, trying to fight the fire, and you just felt like your brain was boiling. I distinctly remember trying to cool off because I was on the verge of passing out while I was running a chainsaw working down this ridge, which is very dangerous, so I dumped water on my head. But the water was the temperature of the air, which was about 120 degrees—almost hot enough to scald your skin. The physical difficulty of fighting fires when you’re dealing with more frequent heat waves is profound.
DT:I’ve been thinking a lot about the mudslides following the Thomas Fire in 2018, and how people died because they were so exhausted from evacuating for the fires that they just stayed home during the heavy rains, despite mudslide warnings. I’m worried people in LA are not prepared for the possibility that another severe weather event might follow right on the heels of this one.
JT:I would imagine that’s going to be a really difficult thing to navigate in Los Angeles, with more than 100,000 people evacuating and moving back. One of the dangers of a fire burning in the middle of a rainy season that has had no rain is that if and when the rains come, you have much less time to prepare for those mudslides. Add to that the social element of disaster fatigue, even though the disasters have not necessarily passed . . . it’s a dangerous situation.
DT:What are the solutions to a crisis like this?
JT:I think the solutions conversation follows the same logic as the causes conversation. It’s not climate change or forest management, it’s climate change and forest management. It’s really important in these discussions to forefront the need to stop burning fossil fuels, and to lower carbon emissions as soon as possible, because there’s no form of forest management that will work if we keep burning fossil fuels.
I would say there are three categories of solutions that we should be putting in lockstep together.
Number one, stop burning fossil fuels.
Number two, start burning more of our landscapes with the sorts of fires that they need across California. What that takes is complicated. It takes the federal government providing enough funding for people in the Forest Service to institute forest management projects like prescribed burns, because around 47 percent of California’s land is Forest Service land, and the major limitation right now is staffing shortages from these jobs being so underpaid for so long.This isn’t just important for protecting forests themselves. Federal land abuts private land, it often abuts cities. If a large wildfire starts in federal land, it doesn’t stay in federal land— it often comes to threaten urban areas as well.
So there’s the issue of staffing and funding, but also of developing relationships and trust between the groups of people who need to cooperate for prescribed burns to succeed. Many people don’t trust the Forest Service for lots of reasons, some more legitimate than others. Because of its history of colluding with the logging industry in some regions, some conservationists don’t trust the Forest Service not to engage in damaging logging practices. To prepare a forest for a burn, you typically need to remove some of the vegetation that would allow flames to climb from the ground into the treetops—ladder fuels. When wildfires get into the canopy is usually when they start getting extreme. So, when you’re prepping for a prescribed burn, you’re removing vegetation, but most of that vegetation is essentially commercially worthless. This means that the work of removing it isn’t profitable, but there’s some confusion and suspicion that emerges when conservationists see Forest Service agents or contracted crews out in the woods with chainsaws.
Other private citizens don’t trust a government agency that has been painted as incompetent to prevent a controlled burn from escaping and burning their house down. Then there’s city governments, who have to worry about things like how the smoke impacts air quality for their citizens. So a lot of cooperation is needed for these things to happen, which requires a lot of trust that doesn’t exist right now. But from my experience most of the people doing this work for the Forest Service are incredibly well-meaning, educated, and trustworthy— often ecologists with PhDs. They’re not corrupt people who are going about this recklessly. They care deeply about public feedback given in good faith.
Not all prescribed burning is going to be done by public servants, however. There’s a growing trend in California of people forming prescribed burn associations, and personally I think this is a solution people can and should become engaged with. Anybody can join a prescribed burn association if one exists in their area. There’s one up around Santa Cruz, there’s some up in Sonoma County, Lake County. I have a friend trying to form one in Los Angeles. Members of the community come together and get enough training to work with and around fire, working with more experienced firefighters, and often people from Indigenous communities as well, to burn landscapes in the way that they need.
It’s a powerful thing on a number of levels. Number one, you restore an ecosystem and make it more resilient to catastrophic wildfires and climate impacts. Number two, you build relationships in your community—with firefighting organizations, conservation groups, Indigenous people . . . it’s amazing how many different groups of people with a stake in fire come together around burning. Number three, which is perhaps the most powerful, is it helps you rebuild a relationship with fire. There’s a lot of trauma in California after a wildfire like this, very understandably. It can be a really powerful thing to face that trauma by dealing with fire in a way that’s not destructive, but that’s life-giving. Fire becomes a tool for tending your relationship with your environment, with the landscape, to go back to the way Robin Wall Kimmerer describes it. That can be necessary when dealing with the emotions you’re left with after a catastrophic wildfire.
The third piece of the solution, which is also very important, is home hardening. Home hardening involves trying to make the space around your home more resilient to fire so that it won’t burn. This can involve removing flammable bushes from your yard, making sure there’s no leaves in your gutter, making sure the tiles on your roof are built with certain materials. There’s a bit of a misperception when a lot of homes burn that it’s because a tsunami of flames swept over them. Most of the time, homes burn because a shower of embers was thrown around them, and the embers settled and caught. If the house is not built of durable, fire-resilient materials, the house will burn down. But there’s a lot that homeowners can do, and several pretty well-proven policy mechanisms that can help them do it. It’s an extremely difficult thing to scale. It’d be really hard to say, “Everybody in California, retrofit and home harden your homes in this particular way,” partially because there will be different best practices in different parts of California. From what I’ve seen, the most successful examples have come from communities that have levied a local tax of a small percent, and then used that money to create a group of people who go around and advise homeowners. They’ll do a free survey, advise homeowners on specific steps they can take to harden their homes, and then reimburse the homeowners for the steps that they take to do that.
These three things—decarbonization, land management through prescribed burning, and home hardening—really need to go together.
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These three things—decarbonization, land management through prescribed burning, and home hardening—really need to go together. We don’t want to end up in a situation where the whole message is, “Just harden your homes, all of you individuals, so that we can keep burning fossil fuels and abandoning all our lands. Just harden your homes so you can survive the next firestorm.” We don’t want that. We have baked a certain inevitability of more firestorms and megafires into our future, so it’s going to be increasingly important that people do harden their homes, but that alone won’t be enough.
DT:This question may be beyond your purview, as it’s about insurance. Are people going to be able to rebuild in these areas? Is there any sort of chatter about what the insurance picture is, or does no one have a clue?
JT:My impression is that this is uncharted territory. When you get into uncharted climate territory and fire territory, all of a sudden you’re in uncharted insurance territory and housing territory. What’s going to happen? I definitely don’t know. I can say I haven’t spoken to anybody who has told me they do know. I imagine it’s going to be another tragic and frustrating element of living in this stage of the climate crisis.
DT:I’m tempted in two directions to close the conversation. The first is to ask what we should expect under Trump. How bad are things going to get? The second is to channel a little more resilience and hope, and ask, what can we do? Where should political pressure be applied?
JT:Well, I think that they go together, actually. Because I think one of the most powerful, most important things you can do under the Trump presidency and with his administration is try to stay clear-eyed about the causes of this and where responsibility lies. The strategy for Donald Trump and his team—which is terrifying given how much he’s aided by Elon Musk now and the reach that Elon Musk has—is to just spread confusion around this, to make facts appear unknowable. Steve Bannon called this “flooding the zone with shit.” When facts appear unknowable, it makes it hard to get anything done, and it creates false equivalences between different accusations. Staying hyper-focused on the boring, known aspects of this is going to be increasingly important in the next four years. California’s forest management needs are managed by the federal government and are therefore going to be the responsibility of Donald Trump and Republicans for the next four years. Staying hyper-focused on that and on climate change—I think that’s going to be increasingly important.
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