Through Fire and Smoke: Documenting the All-Female Burn Crew in Florida’s Scrubland

Words and photos by George McKenzie Jr, Live Wildly Adventurist

 The scrub looks ready to burn. I could feel it when I arrived—palmettos thick with dry fronds, sawgrass brittle beneath the crew’s boots, and pine needles scattered like tinder across the landscape. The Florida sun hadn’t even climbed high, yet the heat was already settling in, promising a long day ahead. I swung my camera over my shoulder and started following the crew to the edge of the firebreak.

They’re an all-female team, each moving with purpose as they prepare their tools—helmets strapped tight, gloves pulled snug, drip torches primed. There’s a rhythm to their movements, a quiet confidence. The land they are about to ignite requires both precision and care. Like this one, prescribed burns are about balance—giving the land what it needs by taking away what it doesn’t.

Lighting the Land: Fire in Motion

The first flames snake across the ground, crackling through the underbrush as the crew walks their line. One member steps deliberately, the torch tilted at just the right angle, setting the land alight at her heels. Smoke twists upward into the blue sky, making the air dense with the sharp scent of pine and palmetto.

I crouch low to capture the moment the fire takes hold, clicking the shutter just as the flames reach the first tuft of grass.

Through my lens, I watch the fire crawl—at first playful, then hungry. It moves with urgency and control, contained within the boundary. I tried to make another photo of a firefighter walking along the line, torch in hand, fire flickering around her boots. There’s a strange beauty in how fire consumes—violent and quick but necessary. Without it, this land would stagnate, smothered by overgrowth.

Tension Builds: On the Edge of Control

Just as everything seems under control, the wind shifts. It’s subtle—barely noticeable at first—but it instantly changes the fire’s path. Flames leap the firebreak, racing toward a grove of palmettos the crew didn’t plan to burn. Radios buzz with quick commands and the pace quickens. I follow the crew, heart pounding, documenting when they spring into action.

One of the newer members hesitates for a second, uncertainty flickering across her face. It’s the moment that could go either way—freeze or act. Through the radio comes a steady voice: “Stay calm. Trust your training.” That’s all it takes. She grips her torch and moves forward, carving a new line just in time to divert the blaze.

Through the smoke, I catch her grin as she rejoins the others. I make a photo, documenting the soot-streaked triumph on her face. It’s not just about containing the fire; it’s about pushing through doubt and learning to trust yourself—and those beside you. 

Fire in Full Force: Saving What Matters

As the flames press forward, another member sprints toward a grove of palmettos, where scrub jays are known to nest. She knows not everything can be saved, but that doesn’t stop her from trying. She rakes away brush, creating a buffer around the fragile nesting ground, even as the fire roars nearby.

This is about more than fire management—it’s about stewardship, protecting a delicate ecosystem that relies on fire to thrive. Some things will burn today, and others will survive. That’s the balance they work toward.

Through my lens, I catch a flicker of acceptance in her expression—the understanding that the fire, like the land, will do what it must. And sometimes, all you can do is guide it.

Turning the Tide: A Fight to the Finish

The crew pulls together, working quickly to contain the fire. They rake and dig, cutting new fire lines as embers drift through the air. The firefights back, but they stay ahead of it, pushing it back into the designated burn zone. Their movements, though frantic, have a rhythm born from trust. They know each other’s steps and anticipate each other’s needs.

When the flames finally die down, the crew gathers at the edge of the blackened scrub. Helmets come off, gloves are peeled away, and for the first time all morning, they exhale. One member leans on her rake, wiping sweat from her brow. “The fire has its own story,” she says quietly. “And so do we.”

I lower my camera for a moment, just listening. It’s in these quiet moments—after the work is done—that the weight of it all settles in. The fire has passed, leaving behind scorched scrub and the promise of new growth.

Through the Lens: Meaning in the Burn

The scrub, now blackened and still, will recover. Within weeks, green shoots will push through the ash, stubborn and vibrant, reclaiming the space the fire cleared. That’s the beauty of fire—it strips things down to their essence, leaving behind only what is strong enough to survive.

Like the land they tend, these women are shaped by fire. They carry its lessons in how they move and work together, in the quiet confidence that comes from mastering something difficult. Fire teaches resilience—not just to the land but to those who manage it.

As I pack my gear, I look at the crew, laughing and talking as they head back to base. They’ve completed the prescribed burn and won; however, more than that, they’ve grown through it—just like the land beneath their boots.

Click. One final shot of the open field, smoke rising into the clear sky, a reminder that nothing stays the same for long.

The fire is out, but the story isn’t over. It never really is. That’s what I love about this work—every burn, every image, is part of a bigger narrative.

And that’s the beauty of it.