After months of being shuttled from wildfire to wildfire across the bone-dry American West, it seemed only fitting that Kelly Ramsey's final assignment of 2020, a record-breaking season, would be the largest fire in California's history. 

"I knew it was coming. We all knew it was coming. Almost every crew in California was getting called to this fire at some point," said Ramsey.

The crew drove nearly six hours just to travel from the eastern to the northern section of the fire, known as the "August Complex," which had burned through one million acres (404,685 hectares).

They wove through a yellow smoke-filled moonscape of towering trees, which resembled charred matchsticks. The flames they saw turned the heads of even the most seasoned crew members.

"So already it's this feeling of like, 'Oh my God,'" Ramsey recalls.

What it takes to a be a 'hotshot'

One of the crew's first tasks was to torch a stretch of land near a highway caught in the fire's path. Clearing away any potential fuel would, they hoped, halt the insatiable wildfire. At least in one area.

Given the extremely arid conditions, the crew had to be particularly vigilant. An accidental fire start could "add another 50,000 acres" to the inferno.

By this point, Ramsey's physical and mental stamina had been put to the test during her first season on the hotshot crew, an elite wildland firefighting unit often compared to the Navy Seals — recognizable by their yellow shirts and high-laced mountaineer boots.

The United States relies on roughly 100 of these federally-funded 20-person teams to manage wildfires in the most remote, rugged terrain, to prevent them from spreading uncontrollably. 

Becoming a hotshot means running 1.5 miles (2.4 kilometers) in well under 11 minutes and, crucially, hustling up steep, vertical slopes carrying at least 45 pounds (20 kilograms) of gear, or even more for those carrying chainsaws. 

Hotshots are often the first in and the last out. Ramsey's first summer had been a lesson in superhuman stamina and vigilance, and this particular day at the August Complex would prove this once again. 

As she and a crew member dripped fire along the land, the wind suddenly shifted. Embers started "falling out of the sky all over us like falling stars," she said, sending the crew scrambling.

Fuel, oxygen and a spark

Prolonged droughts brought on by rising temperatures and unpredictable weather patterns have left regions of North America bone dry, and trees weakened and prone to insect infestation. The damaged land is becoming fully flammable, experts warn.  

That night, as Ramsey's crew searched for coin-sized embers, it was only a matter of minutes before a tiny spark drifted into a dry, rotten tree stump, engulfing it in a 10-by-10 foot (3 by 3-meter) blaze.

New fire starts are more destructive than ever. According to a study by researchers at the University of Colorado Boulder, by 2020, wildfires in the American West were growing 250% faster over a 24-hour period compared to 2001 and cost roughly $19 billion (€16.8 billion) to suppress.

Experts warn these intense wildfires are also unleashing dangerous ember activity.

In Canada, Hugh Murdoch, an incident commander for British Columbia's Wildfire Service, has watched as wildfires throw embers well in advance of themselves, even flying across natural breaks, like lakes and rivers.

Luckily, for Ramsey's crew, the tree stump blaze "wasn't hard to catch it, but you know, imagine if we hadn't." 

Mutual aid more important now than ever

By the time the crew tracked down every last ember, they'd been on their feet for 13 hours that day. 

"I think that night I didn't even need a melatonin or a Benadryl or anything I just was gratified and tired, and looked up at the sky and just fell asleep," Ramsey said.

When the season ended, Ramsey enthusiastically signed up for a second, despite knowing everyone would be pushed to their limits. 

A catastrophe like the August Complex required the help of more than 4,000 personnel over almost three months. according to non-profit site Wildfire Today. 

With extreme fires on the rise, this type of demand threatens to drain resources quickly as calls go up the chain from local to state-level, and in the worst-case scenario, to foreign partners. 

In 2023, for example, when Canada experienced its worst fire season on record, over 12 nations, including the US, sent help. If they hadn't, Canada's "landscape would look very different today than it does," Murdoch said. 

Experts who spoke with DW agree that countries will need to invest more in preparedness and prevention to save lives as fires become more complex. Long-standing cooperation between the US, Canada, Australia, Mexico and other countries – which already share personnel and equipment – will become indispensable to these efforts, they said.

The struggles firefighters face

As time went by, Ramsey grew used to the marks firefighting left on her body – black gunk in every crevice, chaffed armpits, and numb hands from vigorously swinging an ax into the soil, scraping away its flammable inhabitants.

After two seasons, she developed an autoimmune disorder and decided to step away. 

"What if fire made you sick?" she later wrote in her forthcoming book, "Wildfire Days: a woman, a hotshot crew and the burning American West."

Ramsey became part of the estimated 45% of wildland firefighters who leave each year, according to a 2024 report by investigative site ProPublica. 

The fatigue that leads to such high turnover boils down to a variety of health issues, she writes, like prolonged smoke exposure, insufficient meals that fail to provide the necessary 5,000 calories a day, and the stress of near-death situations. 

The pay is also low. Ramsey earned $16.33 an hour, plus roughly 1,000 hours of overtime. The salary is lower than what Amazon pay its warehouse workers.

Her hiatus ultimately became indefinite when she started a family, a factor she believes contributes to the high attrition rate, including for men.

Ramsey still describes wildland firefighting as the "most fun job I have ever and probably will ever do," but for now, that chapter has come to an end.

"I'm no longer a hotshot. I'm a washed-up former hotshot, but I do miss the job all the time."

This article was adapted from an episode of DW environment's podcast, Living Planet. To listen to the episode, click here.

Edited by: Tamsin Walker