A Beginning

January 1989

I discovered upon leaving school that a recession was in full swing. The economy was improving, but it was slow going, 1980’s 21% interest rates relaxing to 12% by the time I left school. Luckily, I had a job. The commodity markets were set to tank. Hard times were ahead.

Was it the job I wanted? Not particularly. Was it a job that I’d prepared for in school? Not at all. Was this what I wanted out of life? Not a chance. I was hired as an underground labourer, a position I’d find a lot of my former college classmates had been forced to settle for after leaving school. It turns out that Technology courses were not what they were cracked up to be; we were sold a bill that declared that technologists were essential to the engineering process, the hands-on, go-to data collectors of the industrial world, but the world had moved on, opting for Engineers and only Engineers. If you think on it, I could have applied to the mine five years before and saved myself the fuss. But had I, I would have missed out on an awakening, one I would never have experienced had I not gone to post-secondary education.

How’d I feel about my working as a labourer? Resigned, I suppose. I expected that I’d have to work a couple years before a better, more suitable position arose, one where I’d get to exercise my education; until then, I’d work, I’d save, I’d buy a car and get an apartment, and life would be as life was, rising for work, collecting a paycheck, getting on with getting on. I had no clue what that all was, but I was sure I’d find out in the course of time. But with the prime lending rate at 10.5%, and the interest rate at 12%, I didn’t expect that to happen in the coming year. Until then, there was getting on to get on about.

This is not to say that I didn’t have ideas and aspirations. This is not to say that in the long run techs didn’t have a leg up on the competition. Most of us did finally settle into tech or supervisory or safety positions. But not to start with.

I began my career in training, as everyone in mining does. Six weeks of common core in 2 Mine, my old stomping ground, where I would learn to scale, to muck, to blast, and do perform all variety of mine service.

I paid scant attention to the early introduction to mining. I’d been through this before and had it all down to memory. We got our orders at the wicket, collected our lamps, and settled into the waiting room for the cage. A cloud of cigarette smoke pressed against the walls. Spitz cracked underfoot. The din echoed off the poured concrete, the bare metal bit racks. Sweat, diesel and oxides rose from the men. The newest of the newbies caught their breath at its sharp reek. I didn’t recoil from it. I’d grown used to it over the years. It smelled of Mine.

A cackle from a mine pager announced our destination and we rose with those others headed for the bottom of the mine. I shuffled along with the rest, hanging back with Don Johnson, our trainer, while the top deck was loaded, the decks were changed and we final 60 were herded in. The cage door crashed down through its guides, landing hard with a rattle. Bells were rung and we dropped down into the cooler depths of the lower floors, then through the bone-chilling icy blast of the fresh air rushing into the shaft. When I say dropped, I mean dropped. Butterflies took hold of my gut and lifted it up.

The light failed, plunging the cage into an inky black broken by the beams of a cap lamp here and there, their lights writhing and dancing across the walls. The deep freeze faded after 800 feet, became a coolness at 1600, and then began to heat up, becoming hot by 4000. It caught in my throat as we slowed and then inched to 4600.

2 Mine had changed a lot since I’d been there last. 4600 Level had been a circle loop for ore pass blasting above the 4700 crusher when I’d been there last. It was a hot, stagnant, dusty place. It was now an access level, connected to the ramp, a hive of activity, overflowing with workers. And it was hot. Sauna hot, hotter than it had ever been, were that possible. I was overdressed. It was January, after all. I had worn long-johns and a flannel shirt under my coveralls, and had already sweat through them by the time I reached the refuge station. Twenty guys piled into that tiny space that was designed to fit six.

Instant coffee was prepped and tossed back. I began to chafe. “Where are we working?” I asked Don. “Are we staying here?” meaning in that stagnant heat, or were we to work in a highly ventilated area. I knew the difference, if the other newbies didn’t. Let’s not forget, I’d actually been in this gig for five years, already.  He said it was going to be hot everywhere we worked over the next couple weeks. Although that was helpful, it wasn’t exactly what I was fishing for, so I asked, “Are we having lunch here?” When he said yes, I began to peel off my sodden layers.

The old salts laughed when they saw the long johns left after all that undressing.

“What the fuck,” I said, taking their humour in stride. “I dressed in layers. I had no clue where we were working.” Had we been in 1 Mine, I’d have frozen my ass off in some headings.

Those first two shifts, I was to bolt the first rounds of the 4600 mechanical shop, and the 4700 down-ramp. Equipment rushed past us throughout, belching suffocating exhaust and smothering heat into our already deathly hot stub.

My throat closed off to it, refusing to inhale when they did.

I drank about six liters of water each day. I didn’t piss once.

It was like being thrown into a furnace.