Published July 2, 2026 03:48AM<\/p>\n<\/div>\n
Let me paint you a nightmare scenario: You go to the office every day, knowing that at any moment, you could be told to pack up and leave on a spur-of-the-moment, 18-day business trip. When you arrive, you\u2019ll be left in an unknown location with no transportation, no way out, and no promise of rescue. Oh, and did I mention that your destination is 1,100 degrees Fahrenheit and actively on fire?<\/p>\n
That\u2019s smokejumping for you. When federal agencies get a call about a remote wildfire, they break out the maps. If there are roads nearby, they send in a ground-based hotshot crew. If there are no roads, no easy way in, and no easy way out\u2014that\u2019s when they send in the smokejumpers.<\/p>\n
Jump crews are the nation\u2019s first line of defense against destructive wildland fire. Most operate out of a handful of smokejumper bases scattered throughout the American West, ready to speed to a disaster site at a moment\u2019s notice. And speed they do. Within two minutes of a call, they\u2019re suited up. Within ten minutes, they\u2019re on a plane. The crew\u2014an elite group of six to eight firefighters\u2014get dropped off in the middle of nowhere without any trucks or heavy equipment. Their job: stop the flames by hand. Only then do they start thinking about finding a way out.<\/p>\n
In terms of work-life balance (nonexistent) and physical ordeals (grueling), it\u2019s one of the toughest jobs on the planet. Jumpers regularly carry 120-pound packs through steep, off-trail terrain. The work is seasonal, and the pay is bad. Folks often live out of their vehicles, work restaurant jobs on the side, or decamp to Latin America in the off-season to stretch their savings further.<\/p>\n
The work is also dangerous. Just last week, three wildland firefighters on a Colorado helitack crew died fighting a blaze in the western part of the state. Two more were injured. Smokejumpers have to battle all those same risks, plus the hazard of leaping out of a plane\u2014often in a parachute they\u2019ve made and rigged themselves\u2014into rocky, treed territory without any clear landings. Sprains, sprains, and shattered ankles aren\u2019t uncommon.<\/p>\n
On top of that, federal funding cuts earlier this year slashed about a quarter of Forest Service employees, gutting fire services at a time when climate change is lengthening fire seasons and making existing fires more destructive than ever before. Understaffing could make fires worse\u2014and the work even more dangerous.<\/p>\n
And yet, the people who do it say they couldn\u2019t imagine doing anything else. Here\u2019s why.<\/p>\n
The Gig at a Glance<\/h2>\n
Job: <\/b>Smokejumper<\/p>\n
Age: <\/b>Early 30s<\/p>\n
Years in the Business:<\/b> 9<\/p>\n
Salary:<\/b> $30,000 to $100,000 depending on fire activity<\/p>\nThere Are So Many Safer Jobs Out There. Why Do This?<\/h2>\n
I grew up in an area out West where big fire incidents are common. Sometimes in the summers, they\u2019d shut down the fairgrounds because they needed the space for an incident command post, and then we wouldn\u2019t have a state fair. Fire was part of life for me.<\/p>\n
That said, I never thought of it as a job. I was a small-time athlete, playing football and riding bulls. I put myself through college rodeoing, but I was spending more money than I was making. Between the pay and the sense of purpose, wildland fire started to look pretty attractive. A few years later, I put in at jump programs across the nation. My first year jumping, I was 23.<\/p>\n
How Competitive Is It to Become a Smokejumper?<\/h2>\n
It\u2019s super competitive. As a prospective jumper, you apply to bases all over the country, and if you\u2019re lucky, you get accepted into a rookie training program. Training is only six weeks long, but it\u2019s intense. My base gets several hundred applicants each year, and we usually take just 10 to 20. Then they have to make it through the next six weeks. I\u2019ve never seen a class where all rookie candidates have made it through training successfully. The attrition rate is usually 50 percent.<\/p>\n
What Happens During Training?<\/h2>\n
We keep that to ourselves. It\u2019s our culture not to share what happens during those weeks. The mystery adds to the stress of the program. We want to see how rookies operate when they\u2019re put into a situation where they don\u2019t know what to expect, because when they\u2019re on the ground fighting fire, that\u2019s exactly what they\u2019ll be doing.<\/p>\n
What Was Your First Jump Like?<\/h2>\n
My first jump was in Alaska. It was a slow year in the Lower 48, so they sent us up there to help out. I remember flying over the upper Yukon and looking down into the forest. There were zero roads, zero structures\u2014just wilderness. As soon as we got close, we saw other aircraft dropping into the fire. We were next.<\/p>\n
The thing about training is that it drills into you what to do and how to react without thinking. Muscle memory just takes over. I remember leaving the aircraft, and then standing on the ground.<\/p>\n
Then I stood there for a minute, looking around, waiting to be told what to do. But as a smokejumper, no one gives you orders; you\u2019re expected to work independently. I was watching everybody opening up paracargo boxes and doing their jobs, and I was like, \u201cOK. No one\u2019s going to tell me what to do anymore\u2014I just need to grab a tool and get to work.\u201d<\/p>\n