The silent mental health crisis on the frontlines of fire

This story contains discussions about suicide. If you or someone you know is struggling with mental health, the 988 hotline is available 24/7 by phone, text message, online chat or video phone.

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Ted McClanahan had two major injuries in his 24-year career as a West Yellowstone smokejumper.

The worst was on a jump into the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness, near Lolo Pass and the Idaho-Montana border. A strong gust of down air slammed him to the ground, where he tore the quadriceps tendon off his kneecap. Stranded on the side of a mountain, his colleagues helped him walk a mile out to a meadow where a helicopter could finally reach them. The recovery was tough, but he was back jumping fires the following summer. In over two decades, he never missed a fire season.

McClanahan knows he was one of the lucky ones — some of the strongest people he worked with suffered career-ending injuries. “It’s an emotional thing,” says the U.S. Forest Service veteran, now 59. “We’re all pretty fired-up animals and, boy, [if] you get hurt or broken, it makes you rethink everything.”

Parachuting out of airplanes to battle fires in hard-to-access terrain, smokejumpers are an elite class of wildland firefighters. Risk comes with each jump. But despite the dangers of the job, the hardest part for McClanahan was being away from home. “It’s that kind of a homesick feeling,” he says. “No matter how good your attitude [or] how or lucky you are, it’s still there.”

Public awareness is growing over the challenges faced by wildland firefighters, a critical and undervalued workforce by many accounts: Injuries and worker’s compensation challenges. Long and irregular hours. Housing difficulties. Low pay that requires working significant overtime to make a living.

But beyond the physical demands and structural shortcomings in wildland fire, a growing body of research has revealed a silent mental health crisis in the wildland firefighting world. And while resources are expanding, worsening wildfire conditions and cuts to the federal workforce could further strain those on the frontlines of fire.

McClanahan loved his career but challenges with depression, substance abuse and post-traumatic stress disorder were evident in the wildfire community from day one, even in the people who wanted to stay. “There were … people who didn’t want to do anything else,” he says. “They really enjoyed being a part of the community. But they didn’t know it was going to cost so much.”

That’s the paradox at the heart of the job: most wildland firefighters love what they do. For some, it’s slowly killing them.

Work Hard, Play Hard

The life of a wildland firefighter exists in seasons.

In spring, teams of elite smokejumpers and hotshots along with helitack and Type 2 handcrews are hired and start training on their respective bases. Fire seasons are unpredictable, but generally firefighters work from May through September on 14- to 16-hour shifts for two weeks straight or longer, then have just two to three days off before their next assignment. To make good money, firefighters often work overtime. McClanahan worked more than 1,000 overtime hours some seasons.

While they’re on a roll, or work shift, crews dig fireline to clear vegetation from the perimeter of a fire, fell trees and construct firebreaks, among other dangerous tasks. Days can fluctuate between extremely hard work and extreme boredom, waiting for something to give: lightning, a fire start to pop up, a wildfire to spread. The anticipation can be difficult. The work definitely is.

At the end of the season, temp employees are let go and prospective returnees reapply for the following spring. The temporary, high-intensity nature of the work can be one of its key appeals, and firefighters end the season with a chunk of money. Many then spend their offseasons skiing, traveling or pursuing other adventurous hobbies. Some get winter jobs — ski patrolling, bartending — or collect unemployment. To young seasonal employees, wildland fire is often a short-term adventure, a means to live a “work hard, play hard” lifestyle. 

For those who stay in fire, the demands can build over time, the physical and mental health impacts simmering, dormant, bleeding into the offseason and over the years. But they’re becoming clearer in high attrition rates among more experienced wildland firefighters.

Crucially, according to former assistant hotshot superintendent Luke Mayfield, young firefighters don’t go into the job knowing what a long-term career can look like or the risks it entails.

“[We were] never really taught about the evolution,” he says, “from being an 18-year-old where you’re responsible for yourself, to growing in leadership roles. And then also getting married or having kids and having a mortgage and having a car payment … it turns the adventure into something that you have to do.”

Mayfield, 45, reached the point of suicidal ideation before he made the hard decision to leave the profession. Even though the choice may have saved his life, he still misses his time in fire. “Fire is addicting,” he says. “Working on hotshot crews was hands down, professionally, the most foundational, gratifying job I’ve ever had … until it made me want to shoot myself.”

Mayfield is the current president of Grassroots Wildland Firefighters, an advocacy organization fighting for better pay, benefits and healthcare coverage for federal wildland firefighters. In his last few seasons, he says he only felt normal when he was on a fire, struggling with deep depression in offseasons but unable to voice it to his wife or colleagues.

The experience wasn’t unique. While the fire community is tight knit, the hardcore culture often warrants a belief that firefighters should be able to handle issues themselves. Not wanting to appear weak, Mayfield explains, people can be reluctant to ask for help, turning instead to substance use or suffering in silence.

“You saw the effects of post-traumatic stress disorder,” he says. “You saw the divorces, you saw the drinking … you just work, work, work, and then you play, play, play, until you’re broken.”

A Cycle of Loneliness

In 2019, former wildland firefighter Patricia O’Brien conducted a study among wildland firefighters for her PhD in clinical psychology at the University of Montana. Featuring nearly 3,000 respondents, it remains the most seminal study of the population.

This research contains rare insights into the landscape of wildland firefighter mental health. In O’Brien’s sample, symptoms consistent with depression and anxiety among firefighters were two to three times higher than in the general population and the prevalence of probable PTSD was four times higher. Less than half of those reporting PTSD symptoms had been clinically diagnosed, indicating an underdetection of the condition.

The study also explored substance use among the group, an important consideration since many wildland firefighters identify alcohol as a major social component of the job. In a culture of extremity, this can quickly develop into dependency. From there, drinking can be used in lieu of other methods as a coping mechanism after a challenging shift, exacerbating mental health concerns.

“You saw the effects of post-traumatic stress disorder. You saw the divorces, you saw the drinking … you just work, work, work, and then you play, play, play, until you’re broken.”

Luke Mayfield, President, Grassroots Wildland firefighters

O’Brien’s findings support this heavy use: more than half of respondents reported binge drinking at least once in the past month; and 22 percent reporting heavy drinking, defined in the study as between six and nine drinks per day.

While further studies of O’Brien’s scale have not yet been conducted, other recent findings reveal staggering suicide statistics: in one study, 22 percent of respondents reported a history of at least one suicide attempt and almost 40 percent experienced current suicidal ideation.

“In some years, more wildland firefighters kill themselves than die fighting fire,” says former wildland firefighter Luke Santore. 

Santore, a 29-year-old graduate research associate working at the University of Montana’s Rural Institute for Inclusive Communities, served for seven years as a wildland firefighter, both on a ranger district in western Montana’s Lolo National Forest and for a private wildland fire contractor. He stepped down in 2021. With the caveat that his experience was not representative of everyone’s, Santore says his mental health was “total shit” while he was fighting fire. And due to the nature of the job, it was nearly impossible for him to address it until he left.

“It’s [an] incomprehensibly demanding and challenging job,” he says. “It’s extreme in every possible way.”

A handcrew digs fire line during 2017 fires on the Lolo National Forest. Credit: Kari Greer

Returning to school for a master’s in sociology, Santore believed mental health problems in the wildland firefighting community were vastly underreported. His findings so far, and the growing body of work he’s uncovered, are proving him right.

Santore’s research centered on loneliness. In a key distinction, he differentiated between social and emotional loneliness in the survey he distributed to wildland firefighters during the 2023 fire season.

“Your at-home relationships are eternally disrupted. It’s half the year where you functionally don’t exist.”“In some years, more wildland firefighters kill themselves than die fighting fire.”

Former wildland firefighter Luke Santore

Midseason, he says, “you’re in this embedded social entity, and so you’re not feeling very socially lonely. But maybe you’re emotionally lonely, which is typified by separation from intimate relationships.”

As Santore predicted, respondents experienced high rates of emotional loneliness and lower rates of social loneliness. In the offseason, he believes the survey would find the opposite results, leading to a “cycle of loneliness” that has devastating effects on some individuals.

“Your at-home relationships,” he says, “are eternally disrupted. It’s half the year where you functionally don’t exist.”

Wake-Up Call

This separation from intimate relationships is one of the primary reasons people leave wildland fire, even if they love their job. Former hotshot Pete Dutchick made the decision to leave after nearly two decades of service to be more present for his family.

Dutchick, known to colleagues as “Dutch,” says that while he didn’t experience mental health issues to the severity that some of his friends and coworkers did, the intensity of the job took its toll over time, changing how he interacted with the world. And he witnessed devastating impacts on the people around him. He lost three friends to suicide in five years. Others died from cancer in their 30s and 40s.

“I loved the hard work, I loved the mission, and more than anything I loved the people I worked with,” he says. “Just like we protect the public and communities, it’s really critical to protect [each other] … It’s more than just the mission. It’s about ensuring these folks have good, long, healthy lives.”

Research has linked wildland firefighting to increased rates of various cancers, induced by both the smoke itself and the chemicals used to combat it. In recent years, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, along with the federal agencies overseeing wildland firefighters, have acknowledged this reality. In 2023, the Firefighter Cancer Registry Reauthorization Act introduced presumptive cancer coverage for firefighters, with enough evidence to presume that diagnoses were linked to the profession. This has made it easier for firefighters to seek worker’s compensation for illness.

Dutchick, now 45, regularly goes in for cancer screenings. It can take losing friends, he says, before you start to think about the long-term effects of the work. “We do the job because we love it. But at some point, the novelty wears off and the potential health impacts and effects on families kick in.”

Dutchick serves as a volunteer on Grassroots’ Comprehensive Health and Wellbeing subcommittee, hoping to address the entangled physical and mental health crises in wildland fire. He became interested in advocacy after working with veterans’ crews in Northern California for several seasons. “Hearing their stories kind of opened my eyes to what could bring on certain things and what could cause certain behaviors,” he says.

Many wildland firefighters draw comparisons between their job and serving in the military. While strong bonds are formed in service, they say returning home can mean no one understands what they’ve been through. In the military, however, there are more support services readily available, particularly for those dealing with issues like PTSD.

Grassroots and other advocacy organizations have stepped in to help bridge the gap between struggling individuals and support services in wildland fire. And advocates have seen the culture improve in recent years. But while conversations about mental health have become more common, resources can still be underutilized.

A number of people working to improve conditions for wildland firefighters are veterans of the profession, but Justin Demoss took that path in reverse when he joined the Golden Eagles Hotshot crew based in El Cajon, California.

With a background in exercise science and strength and conditioning, Demoss wanted to shift his focus from athletes to first responders and use his knowledge to help support them in these demanding careers. “There’s this whole group of elite first responder hotshots in this wildfire spectrum that just are unsung heroes,” he says. “Not really getting any publicity, no fame, nobody knows about them, [and they’re] just putting down some of the most insane feats of human endurance that you could ever think of.”

After proving himself on a training hike, Demoss was invited to join the Golden Eagles for the 2024 season. As a rookie on the crew, Demoss knew he was at the bottom of the pecking order. Referred to as “the scientist,” he was often on the receiving end of teasing from his colleagues. But he developed close friendships within his crew. Relationship building, he believes, is the best way to build wellness support into wildland fire. And he understands why crews may not be receptive to outsiders coming in with big ideas.

“It’s a community that’s just been left behind in the grand scheme of things by the public, the government,” he says. “They’ve been underserved for the last 100 years that this has existed. Why wouldn’t you say fuck off to anyone who’s not in your shoes?”

Demoss, 26, says there is a physiological basis to many of the mental health struggles that can arise in wildland firefighting. The nature of the job, for example, makes it difficult to maintain nutrition, regular sleep and other routines supporting overall wellness. In his first season, he found that most crewmembers were open to discussing these ideas. But there was more reluctance in acknowledging personal need for attention. 

“Maybe they [were] disassociating themselves from those concepts and almost in denial about what they themselves were suffering from,” he says. “And just like, ‘Oh, that’s great. I don’t need that shit though.’”

At the end of his first season, Demoss started posting social media content, drawing on his expertise and catering to the wildfire community. After connecting with others providing similar resources, they established a new nonprofit, Hotshot Wellness. While still in its early stages, the organization aims to connect wildland firefighters to resources that help support their holistic well-being and provide scholarships for personal development and educational opportunities.

Entering his second fire season this year, Demoss hopes to continue the conversation, planting seeds one at a time. “It’s a really tough field, but it’s very navigable in my opinion,” he says. “I think there’s a lot that can be done with the proper resources and tools and education.”

The Future of Fire

Despite these improvements, there are unknowns ahead. Some recent legislation presents new challenges, even in the pursuit of other goals. For example, the Wildland Firefighter Paycheck Protection Act, a bill passed in January, intended to lock in the temporary pay raise for federal wildland firefighters that was introduced in 2021’s Bipartisan Infrastructure Law. Some firefighters, however, say it has resulted in a pay cut instead.

Most wildland firefighters are federal employees, currently working for the National Forest Service or the Bureau of Land Management. Some say the pace of reform has long been unable to match the growing needs of the workforce. Now, staffing cuts have sowed uncertainty for the long season ahead.

While wildland fire has largely been exempted from these cuts, having fewer support staff could still inflict collateral damage on a workforce that Grassroot reports has already lost thousands of firefighters due to low pay and challenging work conditions. Together, this will lead to increasing pressures and responsibilities on the firefighters who remain, many of whom already suffer from mental health issues.

“As land management agencies lose experienced professionals, firefighters are increasingly forced to shoulder competing responsibilities,” the organization said in a February press release. “We cannot afford to sacrifice rural community protection, public access, or the $1.2 trillion outdoor industry by failing to invest in a flexible, resilient, and well-supported federal wildland firefighting workforce.”

The organization supports unifying wildland firefighters under a single government agency: a National Wildland Fire Service. A single, cohesive agency, according to the organization, could improve efficiency, communications and safety among firefighters and the public.

On June 12, President Trump issued an executive order taking a step in this direction, combining the federal wildland firefighting programs of the Department of the Interior and the U.S. Forest Service. The administration’s budget request further aims to establish a singular U.S. Wildland Fire Service, outlined in the budgets of the Department of the Interior and the Forest Service. While this could one day offer more resources and coordination, concerns have also been raised about practicality and disruption to the federal wildfire force, especially after significant staffing cuts to the agencies.

Just as advocates are focused on working with the new administration, many active firefighters are hesitant to speak out in the current political climate, not wanting to give the administration any reason to oust them.

And in this turbulent atmosphere, something else is undeniable: fires are getting worse.

The National Interagency Coordination Center, known as NIFC, reported a total of 64,897 wildfires in 2024, burning almost 9 million acres, above the five- and 10-year averages and more than triple the acreage that burned in 2023. The 2025 season has already reported over 32,000 fires that have scorched 1.3 million acres.

While the number of reported fires in a season has remained fairly consistent over the past several decades, the average acreage has soared. Of the 10 years with the largest acreage burned, all have occurred since 2004, including peak years in 2015 and 2020. And the worst fire seasons have coincided with many of the warmest years on record. Climate change and homebuilding in the wildland-urban interface is bringing blazes closer to communities. As it intensifies, wildland firefighters will be more critical than ever. But a warming world could lead to a feedback loop that worsens the mental health challenges many are already experiencing.

Dr. Robin Cooper is the cofounder of the Climate Psychiatry Alliance, a national coalition of researchers raising awareness about the impacts of climate change on mental health. Based in San Francisco, Cooper became personally invested in the wildland firefighting community after her daughter’s partner, a firefighter on crews in Alaska and Montana, died of a drug overdose linked to mental health challenges.

“Many of them have had experiences where they are close to death or face death, trees falling on them, having to run away,” she says. “Constant pressures … are a part of the trauma of the work.”

In 2023, Cooper coauthored a special report on the mental health effects of climate change on wildland firefighters. She notes that the chronic pain, respiratory issues and other medical problems that come with the job are risk factors for depression and other conditions. While research on the risk of cancer and lung disease is more settled, Cooper noted that exposure to the hazardous concentrations of pollutants in fire can have further impacts on the brain.

“The wildfires that are being seen now [are a] particularly potent and toxic combination of many different chemicals,” she says. “There are different brain impacts depending on what the nature of the biofuel is, whether it’s one particular species of a tree or another.”

Fire is connected to regrowth. When a forest burns, it reduces the buildup of dead vegetation, releasing nutrients back into the soil to stimulate new plant growth. Many ecosystems are fire-adapted, meaning they need this process to operate as a “reset button.” In grasslands, some seeds coexist with fire by design — they germinate only after a burn. In forests, the cones of a lodgepole pine do the same.

Climate change alongside a century of aggressive fire suppression in the United States has also contributed to the stronger, longer lasting and more destructive wildfires we see today. Current agency efforts could perpetuate the problem, pulling away from strategies like controlled burns to increase domestic timber production. And beyond increasing fire severity, the seasons are becoming longer. Some say they’re now year round.

“[We’re] going from fire seasons to fire years,” says Luke Mayfield of Grassroots. “And what used to be a three-month job [can be] eight months plus of fighting fire, being away from your family.”

With the pace of reform unable to match the growth of wildfires, burnout is becoming clear in high attrition rates among more experienced wildland firefighters. In some places, this is severing intergenerational ties and the knowledge that is passed down to younger crewmembers. According to Mayfield, losing this middle management can lead to safety issues. And with worsening fire conditions and fewer professionals to fight them, there is a chance that the country’s firefighting needs may not be met, with potentially devastating impacts on an ever-expanding list of fire-vulnerable communities.

“We’re seeing fire we’ve never seen before,” Mayfield says. “We don’t know how to respond to it. We don’t have the people to respond to it.”