Puffs of smoke rose above a meadow in northeastern Washington as a small test fire danced in the grass a few feet away from me. Pleased by its slow, controlled behavior, my crew members and I, as part of a training program led by the nonprofit organization The Nature Conservancy and the Washington State Department of Natural Resources, began to light the rest of the field on fire. The scene had all the trappings of a wildfire — water hoses, fire engines, people in flame-resistant outfits. But we weren't there to fight it; we were there to light it.

It might sound counterintuitive, but prescribed fires, or intentionally lit fires, help lessen fire's destruction. Natural flames sparked by lightning and intentional blazes lit by Indigenous peoples have historically helped clean up excess vegetation that now serves as fuel for the wildfires that regularly threaten people's homes and lives across the West and, increasingly, across the country.

For millennia, lighting fires was common practice in America. But in the mid-to-late 1800s, the US outlawed Indigenous burning practices and started suppressing wildfires, resulting in a massive buildup of flammable brush and trees. That combined with the dry, hot conditions caused by the climate crisis has left much of the country at a dangerously high risk of devastating wildfires. The top 10 most destructive years by acreage burned have all occurred since 2004.

In the late 1960s and early 1970s, federal land managers reevaluated their approach to fire and did the first prescribed burns in national parks. We're still making up for lost time: Scientists and land managers say millions more acres of prescribed burns are necessary to keep the country from burning out of control.

But the scale of the task doesn't match that of the labor force, whose focus is often extinguishing fires, not starting them. Responding to the increase in natural disasters has left America with few resources to actually keep them from happening. As Mark Charlton, a prescribed-fire specialist with The Nature Conservancy, told me, "We need more people, and we need more time."

This fall, I outfitted myself in fire-resistant clothing and boots, donned a hard hat, and joined a training program called TREX to better understand how prescribed burns work. TREX hosts collaborative burns to provide training opportunities in the field for people from different employers and backgrounds. The hope is that more people will earn the qualifications they need to lead and participate in burns for the agencies they work for back home.

The program's emphasis on learning, coupled with the support of the University of Idaho's Artists-in-Fire Residency (which helped pay my way), is why I, a journalist with no fire jobs on my résumé, could join a prescribed-fire module of about two dozen more experienced participants. I had to pass a fitness test — speed walking three miles with a 45-pound backpack in under 45 minutes — take 40 hours' worth of online coursework, and complete field-operations training to participate as a crew member. While hundreds of people have participated in TREX burns across the country since the program's inception in 2008, the dramatic growth of wildfires is outpacing the number of people being trained to reduce their impact.

The Forest Service manages 193 million acres of forests and grasslands across the country, burning an average of about 1.4 million acres, roughly the size of Delaware, each year with prescribed burns. It burned a record 2 million acres in fiscal 2023. But it's still not enough preparation, considering wildfires have burned over 10 million acres in recent years and people continue building and living in wildfire-prone areas. "It's a huge workload we have, and we know it," said Adam Mendonca, a deputy director of fire and aviation management for the Forest Service who oversees the agency's prescribed-fire program. The agency plans to chip away at the problem with the roughly 11,300 wildland firefighters it employs each year who squeeze the work in during the offseason, when there are fewer fires to fight.

But relying on wildland firefighters can be problematic. "We only have those resources for a short time," said Charlton, who served as the incident commander on the Washington burns I joined this fall. "After a long fire season, people are exhausted. It's hard to get people to commit." Plus, wildfires are increasingly overlapping with the ideal windows to do prescribed burns — often the spring and the fall, when conditions are cooler and wetter, making fires easier to tame.

That was especially true this year: Multiple large fires burned across the West into October. These late-season wildfires, coupled with two hurricanes that firefighters helped respond to, strained federal resources. That month, the nation's fire-preparedness level increased to a 5 — the highest level — indicating the country's emergency crews were at their maximum capacity and would've struggled to respond to new incidents.

In response to the elevated preparedness level, the National Multi-Agency Coordinating Group urged "extreme caution" in executing new prescribed fires, saying backup firefighters or equipment might not be available. "We get to the point where we're competing for resources," said Kyle Lapham, the certified-burner-program manager for the Washington State Department of Natural Resources and the burn boss on the Washington burns.

There's also a qualification shortage. Prescribed burns require a well-rounded group with a variety of expertise and positions — including a burn boss, who runs the show and must have years of training. Charlton estimated that hundreds more qualified burn bosses are necessary to tackle nationwide prescribed-burn goals.

Just as concerning is an interest shortage. The Forest Service has struggled to hire for and maintain its federal firefighting force in recent years, in large part because of poor pay (federal firefighter base pay was raised to $15 an hour in 2022) and other labor disputes over job classifications, pay raises, staffing, and more. The agency is also expecting budget cuts next year and has already said it won't be able to hire its usual seasonal workforce as a result.

Legislation inching its way through Congress could help, though its fate under a new administration is unclear. The National Prescribed Fire Act of 2024 would direct hundreds of millions of dollars to the Forest Service and the US Department of the Interior for prescribed burns, including investment in training a skilled workforce — but it hasn't progressed past a Senate subcommittee hearing in June.

Without a boost in funding, the agency will continue relying heavily on partnerships with nonprofits like The Nature Conservancy and the National Forest Foundation to staff prescribed burns. The Forest Service also recently expanded its Prescribed Fire Training Center to host educational opportunities out West. Critically, though, time is of the essence.

During my TREX training in October, about 20 foresters and firefighters from as far south as Texas and as far north as British Columbia worked beside me. Our group included employees of the Washington Department of Natural Resources and two citizens of the nearby Spokane Tribe of Indians, who have a robust prescribed-fire program of their own.

Over two weeks I got a front-row seat to how much planning (sometimes years) and time a single prescribed burn takes. We conducted several burns in the mountains north of Spokane on the property of a receptive landowner who'd hosted TREX in previous years. He provided the training ground and, in exchange, got work done on his property. This isn't a common scenario — burning on private land can be more complicated, and so more burns happen on state or federal property.

When I arrived, the burn's incident-management team had already put together a burn plan detailing our objectives — reducing wildfire risk to the landowner's house, thinning small tree saplings, knocking down invasive weeds, opening up more wildlife habitat — and the exact weather conditions, like wind speed, relative humidity, and temperature, we needed to safely burn. Prescribed burns on federal lands also go through an environmental review.

At the site, we scouted contained areas we would burn, called units, with trainees making additional plans for how to ignite and control fires. Keeping a fire in its intended location, called "holding," meant lots of prep work, like digging shallow trenches to box the fire in. During the burn, teams monitored smoke and occasionally sprayed the larger trees we wanted to preserve with water when flames threatened their canopies; others poured fuel on the ground, igniting bushes, grass, and smaller trees to slowly build the fire.

Managing the fire didn't end when we finished burning the 30 or so acres. In some cases, it can involve days of monitoring and cleanup. To make sure the fire was out, my crew and I combed through areas we'd burned the day before for smoke or heat. If we discovered something still smoking, we'd churn up the ground with a shovel or pickax, douse the hot spot with water, and repeat. Just when we thought we were done, we'd find another spot we'd missed.

I went to bed those nights dreaming of little puffs of smoke and woke up with small flakes of ash embedded behind my ears. The work was rewarding and exhausting — I left with a deeper appreciation for the workers who do it for a living.

While every prescribed burn is different, it's always a careful equation. Everything needs to line up: supportive communities, the right weather, and, of course, the workers necessary to plan, burn, and extinguish. Only then can you light the match.

Kylie Mohr is a Montana-based freelance journalist and correspondent for the magazine High Country News.

• Montana contractors are struggling to hire due to a construction labor shortage.
• Many contractors say they are actively recruiting Gen Z to get more young people into trades.
• Some firms have apprenticeship programs that help young workers learn on the job.

Although Montana's population has grown considerably in recent years, it's facing worker shortages in several trades, according to a September report from the Montana Department of Labor and Industry.

Construction and healthcare were identified by Sarah Swanson, the department commissioner, as industries that would "need considerably more employees between now and 2032."

Contractors say that although demand for construction in Montana is strong, they can't hire enough people to keep up with all the potential work.

Now some Montana contractors are investing in recruiting efforts to attract more workers to the field, including by launching educational and apprenticeship programs and visiting high schools to encourage Gen Zers to consider construction as a career.

"We're trying to prove and show that these hands-on careers do have value," Bill Ryan, the education coordinator at Dick Anderson Construction, one of the largest contractors in Montana, told Business Insider.

"The tide is turning a little bit," he said. "We're starting to see more Gen Z consider going into trades."

Contractors are raising wages to attract workers

The construction labor shortage is not just hitting Montana, putting added pressure on contractors trying to hire.

Brian Turmail, the vice president of public affairs and workforce at the Associated General Contractors of America, told BI contractors around the US are struggling to fill roles.

AGC's annual workforce survey released in December found 94% of contractors said they had openings that were difficult to fill.

Ken Simonson, the chief economist at AGC, told BI that the number of workers in construction in Montana grew by 7% year-over-year as of October, compared to 3% growth nationally. Even as the sector is growing in the state, there's still more roles to fill.

Turmail said one factor driving the shortage is not unique to construction: an aging workforce.

"We just have a lot of people hanging up the tool belts and moving off to Florida to retire," he said.

He said there's also been about 40 years of federal government policy that focused on encouraging every student in America to go to college to get a four-year degree and work in the "knowledge economy."

As a result, he said there's been underinvestment in vocational or technical training, and in turn fewer young people pursing trades.

Some construction companies have tried to draw more people to the field with proactive recruiting efforts and higher wages — including trying to attract workers from out of state. Montana has already lured a high number transplants in part due to a relatively lower cost of living, especially when compared to a state like California, where many have moved from.

Ian Baylon, a tradesman from California, told BI earlier this year that when he visited Montana in 2022 and was considering moving there, he decided on a whim to see if anyone was hiring.

When he reached out to a company about an opening, they quickly invited him in for an interview. A week later when he was back home, they offered him the job — matching his Bay Area salary, plus moving costs and other perks.

In Montana, wage growth in construction grew annually by an average of 0.6% from 2020 to 2023, according to the state government report, with an average salary of $67,386.

Still, some say the growth in wages has not been enough to keep up with the rising costs of living in the state. An analysis by Construction Coverage, an industry site that reviews construction software and other services, found the average construction worker in Montana would need to work 68 hours a week to afford a median-priced home.

Apprenticeship programs allow young workers to 'earn and learn'

Two of the largest contractors in Montana told BI that folks interested in getting into construction do not need any experience in the industry to get hired — they can learn on the job.

Representatives of both companies, Dick Anderson and Sletten Construction, said they also have dedicated apprenticeship programs that are a draw for new workers to the field, especially young people.

Ryan, of Dick Anderson, said he was hired by the company in 2021 to develop an education program that would help attract and retain employees. The four-year apprenticeship program allows employees to work and earn while also enrolling in classes at a college they partner with. Students who complete the program can come out of it with an associates degree, real work experience, and actual earnings.

While jobs in construction do not require an associates degree, Ryan said they can help with career advancement and promotions, as well as satisfy a desire to pursue some level of college.

"When we are talking to young people and mom and dad are saying, 'You're not going to work. You need to go to college,' we can at least say, 'Well, what if they're doing both at the same time?'"

Michelle Cohens, who works in human resource management at Sletten, said the company also has a four-year apprenticeship program that allows employees to "earn and learn." Employees in the program also take a week several times a year to do trainings with the union, and then come back and hop right back into work.

Both companies said they've developed relationships with high schools and high school educators to help reach young people, who they said seem increasingly open to forgoing college and considering trades.

After several years of trying to get in front of students, Cohens said the efforts do seem to be paying off, with more reaching out about jobs. She said young people are drawn in by the chance to work with their hands rather than sit at a computer all day, and the chance to avoid taking on student loans.

"We highlight how good paying jobs they are, how you can get into the trades right out of high school or without any true knowledge," she said, adding, "You're not paying us to learn, we're paying you to learn."

David Smith, executive director of the Montana Contractors' Association, said companies are also evolving their culture to meet Gen Z workers where they're at. Young people today, he said, don't necessarily want to work 55 hour weeks in the summer. They want breaks. They want to take time off.

In the last five or ten years contractors have realized "you can't just throw a job out there and say, 'Hey, we pay big wages,'" he said. "You've got to have other things, and the construction world has to think differently too."

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