Mining Games, Part 6, The Hoist

Upwards and onwards. I was asked if I wanted to train on the hoist. I accepted. Why not? Clean air. Quiet rooms. An end to toil.

But we were short on hoist men, so I was fast tracked. It usually takes six months to train someone on the hoist. I was given two. Not a problem, you’d think if you’ve ever seen a hoist room. There are buttons and monitors and a single gear stick that can be manipulated either up or down. Simple. Not so. There are laws, lots of them, a book of them, and not a short book by any means, and you have to know them all. There are daily safeties and break checks to perform and be logged. There are weeklies. There are monthlies. There are annuals. And you have to know them all.

There are bell calls to memorize: call signals for levels, and the far more important universal shaft signals to remember:
1 bell—stop
1 bell—raise cage
1-2 bells—chair cage
2 bells—lower cage
3 bells—cage in motion
3-3-1—raise cage slowly
3-3-2—lower cage slowly
4 bells—blasting
5 bells—release cage to hoist
9 bells—emergency

If the signals are given from the counterweight side, they mean the same, but the motion is reverse for the hoist man.

And there is a fine touch on that stick that needs mastering. Have you ever driven stick and had to inch uphill? Did the car roll back a little before the clutch engaged? That better never happen when operating the hoist. You could kill someone. Oh, by the way, almost every time that hoist is in motion, there are lives at stake. There may be someone right under it on a platform. Someone’s fingers or arms may be in jeopardy. And twice a shift, there are only about a hundred lives resting on your fingertips. I’ve known competent guys crack under the strain while training and step away, saying they can’t do the job.

Oh, and by the way, there are different types of hoists, too. There are bucket hoists (sinking hoists); friction hoists; double drum, double clutch hoists. Double clutch requires rebalancing when skipping from different horizons to take the stretch out of the ropes. Too much information? Too bad. Learn it or lose it. Makes you think, doesn’t it?

And I had two months to master 2 Hoist. I had to read the Green Book (the Ontario Mining Act) daily, memorizing all those laws. And I had to develop a feel for that stick, first with the skips, then the auxiliary cage, then the main cage. My palms were sweaty the first time I lowered that double deck cage into the depths of the shaft, over one hundred souls aboard. They were my charge. They were my responsibility. They were my most precious cargo. They were my friends.

I had to give them a smooth ride. Engage that stick too fast and they’d drop like a stone, weightless for a moment, their stomachs lurching in their guts. Slow them too quickly and they’d weigh a ton, each of them, their knees pressing into their chins. Stop too quickly and the cage would bob up and down like a yo-yo, tossing them around like rag dolls clutching at each other for purchase and balance.

And I’d hear about it too. My cage tender would call me up with a “What the FUCK!” And rightly so.
But once you got a feel for it, it was a piece of cake. I’d watch them herd in on the main cage monitor. I’d watch the top deck cage door pulled down like the guillotine it was. I’d see and hear the shaft signals rung. 3-3-1. I repeated it back. I’d engage the hoist, raising it, watching that sickening height between the decks drift by as the bottom deck rose up to the deck floor, all those guys too close to its open hole, all the while. I’d hear the expected signal, ONE bell, as the magnet level indicator light snapped on, its red eye hot and brilliant on my console. The bottom deck guillotine door would crash silently open, and the last of my charges would flow into the cage. All the boys in, the door would crash down, the cage tender’s arm would reach out, and he’d signal for 4600. I’d repeat them, he’d signal TWO bells, and I’d repeat them. I’d wait two seconds for his arm to retreat back behind the door and safety, and then I’d engage the stick, ever so gently at first, then with a logarithmically heavier hand as it gained ever greater speed, until it topped out at 300 feet per minute, the preprogrammed max speed for the main cage, nothing as fast as the 3000 feet per minute the skips travelled at. That would be the last I’d see him and it until the cage rose to surface again. Down in the depths, there were no cameras. There were bells. The same bells cage and hoist used for as long as there were cages and hoists.

I kept a watchful eye on the depth meter, slowing the decent ever so slightly between 4400 and 4600 (there was no 4500, there were no odd numbered shaft stations, just 800, 1200, 1600, 2000, etc., 4000, 4200, and such to 5000), inching the final feet until I heard the single bell for me to stop the cage, just as my level light indicated that the cage had reached the level magnet, my hand on the stick throughout. It had better be; it’s the law. Don’t talk to me while the cage is in motion and my hand is on the stick. You better not. It’s the law. There’s a sign in the hoist room that reminds you not to, too.

Distract me and I might miss the level. Slow them too fast, stop them too quickly and they’d bounce and I’d hear, “What the fuck!” Give them a perfect ride and I’d never hear anything of it.

Why would I? It might be my job to give them the prefect ride, but the cage tender was the important one, the most important person in the Mine, as far as the boys were concerned. Everyone knew the cage tender. Everyone said “hi” to him at the mall, on the street, wherever they met him, baffling him, because he’d likely recognize one in ten of the well-wishers.

“Who’s that?” his wife would ask.

“No clue,” he’d say.

I know. I was that cage tender, once.

Once I was in the hoist, I was a ghost, a spirit up on high who everyone knew existed, but nobody ever saw, a mythical being, The Hoist Man.