FARMINGTON — Mike Polonsky has vivid memories of his first fire.
It was June 2000. The Sanford Fire was swiftly burning up a good portion of 78,000 acres in the Dixie National Forest about 20 miles northeast of Panguitch. Polonsky's crew was working a burn operation when the fire jumped the line and he found himself scrambling up a cliff to safety.
"I didn't know I should be scared," Polonsky said.
But he did know this: He loved every minute of it. Finally, after drifting from job to job and in and out of trouble with the law, Polonsky, 32, had found his calling.
Now, after two years fighting wildfires, Polonsky is banking on his experience, training and love of the work to secure his future once he's paroled from the Utah State Prison this fall.
He's not alone. Many of those on the prison's Flame-in-Go Hot Shots wildland firefighting team hope to parlay their experience into a job on the outside.
"I've already been networking on the line," said Polonsky, who is in his second season as a firefighter and doing time for aggravated robbery and drug crimes.
Nationwide, thousands of inmate firefighters help douse flames and dig lines each year. California pioneered the programs nearly 50 years ago as a means of extending state forest fire resources, while keeping costs at a minimum. Inmates make an average hourly rate about $1.50.
Utah's Flame-in-Gos — with their trademark pink flamingo logo — celebrate 25 years on the fire lines this season. The program is a partnership between the state's Department of Corrections and the Division of State Lands and Forestry. It differs from others around the country in that the crew is trained to do the risky hands-on "hot shot" work that puts them right on the fire lines. It is also one of the only programs where inmates travel around the country.
"They work their butts off," said Kathy Jo Pollock, a spokeswoman for the Wasatch-Cache National Forest, who has seen the crews at work for several years. "They have a great reputation around the West and around the country."
In an average season, Flame-in-Gos will spend about 1,000 hours working fires, although in this season's ultra-dry drought conditions, crew manager Dave Calder said he expects the team to work even more.
"I'm anticipating well over 1,500 hours," said Calder, who works for the Department of Corrections. "I've looked at the national fire (situation) Web site and there's more fires burning out there than I've seen in a real long time."
Thursday morning at 4 a.m., the crew was dispatched to the Pinyon Complex Fire that has been burning between Elberta and Goshen in Utah County. It's their seventh fire this season. They've worked fires in Farmington, Centerville, Lake Mountain in Utah County, Rush Valley in the desert west of Tooele, as well as Jackson Hole, Wyo., and Tuscon, Ariz.
The work is back-breaking hard, often requiring strenuous hikes over steep, rough terrain before taking shovels and pickaxes in hand to dig fire lines. Their days sometimes begin at 4 p.m. and go through the night, easily lasting between 12 and 15 hours. By the time they bed down, occasionally, on a charred hillside near a still-burning wildfire, the Flame-in-Gos are tired, dirty, hungry and reeking of burned grasses and earth.
Yet, there are few, if any complaints.
"It's the most exciting thing I've ever done," the Ohio-born Polonsky said, adding that 12 hours on a burning hillside is better than 12 hours in prison cell anytime.
Earning a spot on the Flame-in-Gos isn't easy. Inmates first must earn "Level 5" status at the prison, meaning they have a parole date at least 36 months out and have had no disciplinary problems. Then they must pass the state forestry fitness tests and complete both classroom and hands-on wildland firefighter training.
An inmate's criminal history is rarely a consideration when sizing up candidates for the team. Only sex offenders have been prohibited because differing reporting requirements from state to state complicated the team's travel, Calder said.
This year, 55 inmates tried out for the 16 team and five alternate spots. No one, not even someone with previous team experience, gets a pass.
"This is strenuous work," said Calder. "You have to meet the qualifications."
Being up to snuff on the fire lines is critical because lives are at stake, he added.
The Flame-in-Gos know firsthand about loss. Three years ago, squad members Michael Todd Bishop, 27, and Rodgie Braithwaite, 26, were struck by lightning and killed while fighting a fire in the Stansbury Mountains. Four others and a crew leader from the Department of Natural Resources were also struck but suffered only minor injuries.
Lance Mori was in his first season on the crew when it happened. Bishop and Braithwaite were two of Mori's closest friends, but the experience hasn't kept Mori off the team.
"Those guys would have wanted me to keep going," said the 28-year-old from West Valley, who along with Polonsky is a squad crew chief. "They wouldn't have quit. I get a satisfaction out here. You're saving people's lives and property. That's what I like about it."
Both men say that the experience has changed them, taught them about responsibility, commitment and focus.
Mori's mother, Kim Christensen, can attest to that.
"It's boosted his ego, he has more confidence," Christensen said. "Lance never used to smile. He always felt like if he didn't make it on the outside, he could always go back."
He did. Mori is currently doing his second stint at Point of the Mountain, this time convicted of operating a methamphetamine lab.
"I do worry about his safety. It's a serious thing, very dangerous," said Christensen. "But he's just totally turned around. I want to say (firefighting) makes a man out of you, but I guess what I mean is that it brings out the best in him, because he loves it so much. You can tell the difference in him."
Mori will be paroled Oct. 14 this year and said he has no desire to return to prison life. He's got his mind set on a career in firefighting and said he's interested in taking a course at the Smoke Jumper school in Missoula, Mont.
Polonsky admits to some nervousness about being on the outside. Traveling and working fires give Flame-in-Gos a lot more freedom and privilege than other prisoners, but it's still a regimented existence. And ultimately, they always end up back in a bed at the prison.
But he believes that the program will be the key to his success.
"I was 29 and directionless," he said. "I've changed so much. This fulfills all my need for excitement, but in a positive direction."
E-mail: jdobner@desnews.com