Alaska

The descent back into Vancouver was uneventful, if a little nauseous. The Sea to Sky highway is a winding switchback that weaves between lakes and coastal cliffs, the angle steep, making it seem like I was always leaning forward as we plunged back down to the coast and Canada Place where we were whisked aboard the cruise ship, even though we weren’t able to claim our cabin until after lunch.

Lunch was served aft, two decks above our room. It was quite a selection” pizza, soup, sandwiches, pasta, salad, and more. If you’ve never been on a cruise ship, you know that access to food is not a problem. Overeating is. Over-drinking may be a problem, too. Champagne as we boarded, beer, wine, brandy, not to mention water, tea, coffee and pop, all of which I consumed that first day, owing to the drinks package purchased. Mustn’t miss out on getting my money’s worth! I’m such a Northern Ontario boy.

We took possession of our cabin shortly after lunch. 1140, Deck 10, three from the starboard stern. There were fresh cut flowers, fruit, and a bottle of champagne awaiting us. Just what we needed, more booze. No point letting it go to waste, we nibbled and sipped as we checked out our room. We had a sizable balcony, easily twice as long as the largest I’d seen along the flanks, and those above us, large enough for two lounge chairs, a table and two chairs. It stuck out so far, we could see the table and chairs from the aft lounge above us.

We dressed and caught the early show in the Celebrity Theatre before supper in the Grand Restaurant, a vast open concept spanning two decks. We sat on the lower of the two, towards the centre. The food was fantastic. It always is on a cruise ship. Lunch was as large and as elegant therein as during the supper seating, so too breakfast, if you were so inclined.

We somehow completed our first supper, despite being bloated by lunch and a tide of fluids. Bev thought her prime rib divine, my coq au vin as good. FYI: all meals are replete with appetizers, bread, soup or salad and dessert. Not to mention the accompanying bottle of flat or sparkling water. One must waddle from the table. One sleeps on one’s side after such a feast, unable to either lay on one’s belly or tolerate the weight of said belly above one. I must mention that there were over fifty wines on the menu, far too many to partake of in one sitting.

I found Michael’s, the piano bar, shortly after supper. It quickly became my favourite. It was a woody affair, reminiscent of smoking rooms of old where gentlemen in tuxedos drank scotch and brandy while buffing on fat cigars. The cigars were gone, banished to the promenade, but the brandy and scotch was still there, along with a beautiful Russian girl behind the bar. Just for ambiance’s sake.

The space was not perfect, though. The piano player was not to type. Where I’d have preferred someone along the lines of Dooley Wilson, projecting the likes of Gershwin and Sinatra into the dim lit space, “As Time Goes By,” eagerly anticipated, the player in attendance was more akin to Groucho Marx. Richard Rubin manned to keys. You don’t remember him? He was a participant on a cheesy game show called “Beauty and the Geek.” I think the music ought to match the mood of the place, and that place radiated a melancholy romance. Richard did not radiate such a mood.

Our first day was at sea. We passed the most scenic portion of the passage after sunset the night before—go figure. It would have been nice to take in the view of the Pacific coast and Vancouver Island falling behind us from our balcony, but we left port too late for such a view. We woke to a view of the sea, with only our wake visible behind us. The air had cooled.

I felt great. Bev did not. Bev had grown queasy.

She did not make her spa treatment. She grew more sea sick with each undulating roll of the deck, collapsing onto the bed after tossing back the pills our butler brought from the infirmary.
Once I knew she was okay, I went to the spa, where I was treated to the hard sell of my need for a continuous stream of spa treatments throughout the voyage. I declined. I did return to find Bev worse off than I’d left her. She slept through lunch, rising for supper, even though she didn’t feel up to eating much. She sipped a little soup before retiring again.

I had kippers for breakfast. Why? Because they come highly recommended by Supertramp. Thereafter, I always had kippers for breakfast. Why? Why not, I reasoned. How often would I be afforded the opportunity, afterwards? I was treated to whales breaking the surface as I ate. They blew geysers and leapt, their spray as long as they were.

Bev was feeling better. The sea-sickness pills were kicking in and she was probably getting her sea legs. We played a game of shuffleboard on deck, Bev kicking my ass early, until I got a feel for the deck and recovered in the second half. We don’t really know the rules, if there were any beyond placing the disks within the numbered squares and triangles, but we carried on, regardless.

We retired to the Library for a while, as the day was damp and growing cooler, the wind gusting past the deck. I wanted to go to the theatre after lunch to learn the tango but Bev bailed at the theatre entrance. She may have felt a little queasy still, not firm of foot, so she left to go back to the room. A partner could not be found for me. Most people arrived as couples or in twos, so I watched for a time.

I now know how to watch the tango.

Progress. Small steps.

Sea to Sky

We rose early. We were flying out on Timmins on the first flight of the day. You’d think I’d have grown used to early mornings by then, steady days for the past four years, but alas, 4 am is early by any reckoning. We were treated to a preview of west coast weather, wet if not actually an outright deluge. We arrived with only ten minutes to spare before being herded into the security lock-up. We need not have rushed. All fights were backed up, even then, delayed, if not grounded by the wall of thunder and lightning passing over the province.

B.C. was better: sunny, 28 degrees, a welcome contrast to Ontario’s gloom. We checked into the Fairmont Vancouver, a grand old CPR hotel much like the Royal York. But it would be, wouldn’t it? The CPR hotels were designed to be the same. Palaces at measured distances across the country, a showcase of urban and rural opulence. Granite walls, graven façade, copper roof, it radiates style and opulence unlike the architecture of today.

We had the afternoon to ourselves, with nothing planned. Late lunch, with no need to eat again for the rest of the day, we made our way to Gastown, browsing Water Street’s cobbled way. It’s wonderfully attired, as well kept as one would expect of any tourist magnet. Clusters of globes top ironwork streetlights, limestone and slate and red brick buildings tell a tale of the 18th century. Low slung chains mark the space between street and sidewalk. I loved the steam clock, gathering with the other tourists in time for its whistle chiming. The rest of Water Street was a disappointment, the shops either selling the same kitschy souvenirs or high end jewelry, or those things neither needed nor portable, like camping and hiking and mountaineering gear, or woven rugs and walled canvases too large and far too expensive for the meagre floor and wall space we had in abundance in our little abode. Had we planned our day through, we would have eaten there instead, the restaurants seemingly more to our taste and budget than the Fairmont had been. Pubs and coffee shops broke up the stream of souvenir shops, their windows tall and wide, their tables spilling out into terraces shaded by tall elms. Better for people watching. Better ambiance.

We found our way to Canada Place, pleasantly pleased to see that the Port Authority building looked very much like the cruise ships moored alongside it. We took in the Olympic Torch, The Drop, and Douglas Copeland’s Lego Orca.

We walked too far to Stanley Park. Maps are deceiving, aren’t they? We ought to be able to judge distance by them but we seldom do. We watched as a few buses passed us on their way to where we too were headed. We arrived too late and too tired from too much sun to spend too much time in the park. It’s too large anyways, taking up the tip of the Peninsula in its entirety. We did walk around some of the Lost Lagoon’s perimeter before heading back to the hotel by transit. $2.50 was a small price to pay after such a foot-sore trek.

We found a great little restaurant up the street from the hotel for breakfast the next day. The Bellagio, no relation to the casino in Las Vegas, terrace on the street, wrought iron tables and barrier, plush leather chairs. We watched the city wake up and get busy as we lingered over coffee.

Then it was time to take the Sea to Sky highway to Whistler, considered one of the most scenic drives in the world, according to our coach driver. I can understand why. It’s beautiful. It’s also steep. We gained a great deal of altitude in the three hours it took us to reach the world famous resort town and the Fairmont we were staying at in the Upper Village. It was a departure for Fairmont, not old, not steeped in the ages, but as fine in its own way. It was designed to be the chalet lodge it was, and not a European castle like the Frontenac or Royal York were. The room was not spectacular. It was like any other room in any other hotel. But we did have a spectacular view of the Blackcomb.

We toured the village, threading through the shops and ultimately eating at Earl’s, just inside the village, at the top of the dizzying height of stairs descending into it.

Whistler is a selection of distinct areas, Creekside (the lower village), Whistler Village (at the foot of its namesake mountain), and Upper Village (at the foot of the Blackcomb). The actual town was south of these on the shores of Green Lake, Alta Lake, Nika Lake, and Alpha Lake. That’s a lot of lakes for such a small town.

Dinner in the Wine Room, one of the restaurants inside the Fairmont. Jazz flowed through its dimmed expanse, the ceiling as high as one would expect from a chalet. A sommelier attended us, pairing wines with each of our courses, extolling the virtues of each and why they mated so well. The food was excellent; so was the wine; but as to the perfection of pairing…I must say that a full glass of wine with each course does not do a head good.

I needed to walk off the meal afterwards. Too much food, too much wine. Fresh air was what the doctor ordered. I found the walk claustrophobic. The mountains boxed me in. I could not see the sky except for the narrow strip of it directly overhead. Below that, there was an indistinct black wall, the trees blurring my perception, making depth impossible to ascertain. I retreated back indoors where I had a nightcap in the Mallard Room to a soulful blues guitar.

Our stay in Whistler was short. It wasn’t the main attraction, after all, just an add-on before the main event. I was bent on making the most of it, I’d signed up for a horseback excursion. I’d never been on a horse before, so, why not climb a mountain on one, that sounds a reasonable first step. Smokey was patient with me, better at walking the trails than I’d have been on foot. Going up was easier than down, when I felt like I’d flip headlong over his neck with each rolling step. I clamped my legs around his torso and leaned far back in the saddle on the return, further than I thought comfortable, but perception is not particularly true when descending down such a slope. I had to haul back on the reins too, our pace a little quick for someone of my questionable skill. I survived, more than survived; I wanted to ride more. But I didn’t have the time. I dismounted, pet him, and scratched him behind the ears as I thanked him for the gentle ride he gave me.

There was only one more thing to do. I wanted to stand on top the mountain. I hopped on the chair lift and swung up into the air. The height freaked me out at first. I’d forgotten to set the safety bar in place. But once it was down, I was alright. I was not good, I’d never been good with heights, but I was not pressed so far into my seat as to leave an impression of my spine in it anymore. Two lifts later, I was on top of the world. Ice was present if not aplenty. There were one or two skiers in attendance, but more mountain bikers and hikers. I did neither. The afternoon was getting on and I had no desire to find myself racing the sunset on my way back down. I took the gondola over to Whistler Mountain from Blackcomb before descending. Descending was worse than going up. The ground dropped off so quickly, I caught my breath. I was too panicked to close my eyes, though. I breathed deeply. Once, twice, and the fear receded some, and after a while I enjoyed the ride, loving the view, keeping an eye out for the black bears that once or twice stepped out to watch me pass on by.

But before I descended, I walked around a little, revelling in that chill mountain air. Much like atop Table Mountain, I felt the heat of the sun in my face while my back felt the onrush of winter. I faced it full on and closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation of those disparate temperatures taking hold of my body.

It felt wonderful.

Mine Design

I had no idea how little I knew about AutoCAD or mine design until I began to work in Design. Not much was expected of me at the beginning, thank god. You’d think they’d been through this before. True to expectations, I spent more time bothering the other designers than actually doing my work.

I was surprised, no, panicked, when they gave me a stope to work on. “What was I supposed to do with this?” I wondered. “What did I know about design?”

What I expected was that someone would sit with me to show me the ropes. That didn’t happen. I was informed to pick at it. “How?” was the only thing that crossed my mind. Luckily, it wasn’t due to be mined for months. That might seem like a long time, but it wasn’t, not if you have no clue what you are doing. While I tried to figure that out, I was given a few driving layouts to polish and then design, then a few raise bore prints, then a few drill books. I can’t say that they were any good. In fact, knowing what I know now, I suspect they were horrible and likely riddled with errors.

They probably looked perfect on paper. But AutoCAD drawings have more depth than the thin sheet of paper printed. They are built with 3D wireframes. There are cavity surveys and previously blasted ground investigations to be carried out. Drill hole deviations to consider. Azimuths and grades and legal elevations. A bunch of technical stuff you probably don’t know about or give a damn about. Suffice it to say, I didn’t have a clue how to do the 3D stuff.

My skills improved. Baby steps. I got much better. But I was never happy with how I was trained. It was sporadic. It was inconsistent. I discovered that everyone did everything differently. Sometimes with good results, sometimes not. If not, then AutoCAD rebelled and crashed a lot. I inherited a couple that were not done well. Needless to say, they were difficult to work with; so difficult, in fact, that I deleted them and began anew.

It offended me that no one did things the same way. It offended me that some people’s drawings were a wireframe mess, that their layer management and naming were a mess, sometimes indecipherable. I had taken the time to figure out why my initial drawings were bad and I learned to do better. Why hadn’t they? Was it their training? If theirs was anything like mine, I wouldn’t doubt it. I decided to do something about that.

I began to write down what I did in a few word documents, do this and then do that documents, let’s call them manuals. One for block plans, one for driving layouts, one for raise bores, and one for drill books. Just as I was finishing them, I saw our newest student having the same problems I had. And she too was wandering from designer to designer, looking for guidance like I had.

“Try this,” I said, passing her a copy of my design notes. “Maybe this will help.”

It did. Within two weeks, she had completed a block plan and all the driving layouts and initial drill books.

I printed a number of copies and asked the other designers for input. I wasn’t an expert, after all. Manuals and procedures can only get better with feedback. And I was not so vain as to believe that the others didn’t have “tricks” that I didn’t and theirs might be better than mine.

I received no feedback. In fact, they each tossed my procedures aside and never once looked at them. One even held up his hand and said, “I’m not fucking interested.” That was unfortunate; he was one of two I believe needed the most help. He had post-its everywhere to remind him how to do this or that, post-its to remind him how to do everything. His drawings were a mess. Whenever I had to pick up his slack, and I had to from time to time (he could never keep up, always asking others how to do things even though he joined the group a year before me), it would take me two to four hours to clean it up and set it right before I could even begin, otherwise I’d never have been able to complete the task given me.
I suppose they thought me arrogant, insinuating that I knew their job better than they did when I’d only just begun. Maybe I was. I really don’t care. All I knew is that my prints were easier to work with than theirs were. People in other departments had told me so.

I informed my boss what I had done, asking if he might like to review it. He was the head of Design, after all; it was his department; everything done ought to be vetted through him, I believed. I thought he’d be pleased; he had always said that everyone should do things the same way; he’d even tasked Dan Groleau to teach us to do just that. That met with limited success. But Dan never wrote anything down.
I don’t know what I expected. I wasn’t sucking up. I’ve never sucked up to any boss. I just wanted everyone to be able to open the other’s drawings and not be baffled by what I saw. I thought Gordon was of the same mind. Gordon told me that he was looking for just such a project for the EITs in the group and ordered me to give it them to do.

“But it’s done,” I said.

“They need a project,” he said, “and our boss wants me to light a fire under their asses and get them working, so give it to them. I’m sure they can take it and make it workable.”

Workable? Well, that was insulting. It was workable. Our student had already proved that.

I was pissed. Gordon hadn’t even looked at it and he wanted me to give it to another person to take credit for it. What did I expect? Praise? Probably. I’ve always been seeking approval, or one reason or another. It’s a failing, on my part.

Whatever. Gordon didn’t know how to use AutoCAD, so his input would have been irrelevant. He probably wouldn’t have had a clue about what I’d written, anyways.

I swallowed my pride. I gave electronic copies to the EITs. One did nothing with it. The other, Dave Lerikos, took the body of work and interpolated and extrapolated it. He added pictures to the word document, showing the toolbars and icons referenced. He added plan views and sectional views. In short, he made it better.

I’m thankful for that; I’m thankful that the document is still in use today.

Time passed. There were rumours of another strike at the Met Site. The Mine decided to prepare for it.
A number of us were called into the boardroom, where we were informed by the Chief Engineer that we were going to be trained in the operation of the Mill. From that day forward, he said, all vacations were cancelled until further notice, likely until the impending crisis was resolved.

“Does anyone have any holidays booked over the next month?” he asked.

I raised my hand. Everyone laughed.
“Oh,” he said, “when are they?”
“Tomorrow,” I said. Everyone laughed again.
“Are you going anywhere?”
“Alaska.” Everyone laughed again.
“I’m going to need some proof of that,” he said.

I printed off the emails I had for the invoice and itinerary and presented them to him. He looked at them long and hard before saying, “I guess I have to decide if I’m going to let you go or recompense you.”

My gut tightened. How could they cancel my holidays just like that? I’d spent $10,000 on it. It was bought and paid for. I was packed. I did not mention the cancellation insurance I’d purchased.

“Go,” he said, handing the emails back. “It’s only training. Take lots of pictures.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

Ground Control, Part 4, an End

All things come to an end. So too my time with Ground Control.

I’d spent a lot of years learning to be a go-to man. Those years were hard come by. But I’d succeeded. I’d gone from being perceived as a lazy dog fucker by French crewmates who neither worked with me, nor communicated with me, often. They conversed in French and had developed a report with one another and I was left on the sidelines, clueless as to what they were about. No wonder they thought me lazy. I wasn’t. I was waiting for instruction. Things changed in Oreflow when I asked my shift boss, “What can I do to help you help me get my Code 5.” I began to rise within my ranks, finally becoming a hoist-man and then a spare shift boss, in time.

I found lessons hard to come by in Ground Control, as well. My boss rarely went underground. He was stuck in meetings all day, all week. I had to learn the job piece-meal, putting it together on my own, in most cases. I listened to him speak. I observed what he observed in the photos I took and the jottings I drew on layouts and in my notebook. I asked questions of development and drilling bosses. I kept my eyes and ears open and I absorbed what I saw and what I heard. In time, I got better at what I was doing, at auditing headings, investigating ground faults and failures, at making decisions. I think I did a good job. I could have been better at it. To think otherwise is sheer hubris.

I certainly visited enough sites during my tenure. I made 500 site visits my first year (beginning June 16^th 2007), 925 the next, and 1000 the year after that.

Then I was marginalized. Dave Black was hired upon Montcalm’s closure and he began to take over my role as Ground Control’s underground presence. It began slowly at first, then completely and abruptly after the Junior Engineer in the group didn’t want to do cable bolt layouts anymore. I was given the job and I found myself stuck behind a desk, pumping out print after print, two or three a week, eighty sections per print. It was time consuming. It was a challenge at first. It ceased to be within about a month, when it just became onerous and boring.

I snuck underground to check on and chart electrical cable borehole placement, and to inspect what I thought I might need to see with my own eyes. I had to. The position of such things like electrical cable and dewatering holes were only “draft” doodles on Level plans, not surveyed in, their exact positions not concrete at all; and “I” had already struck a dewatering hole on my first print. I began to be cautious. I began to worry about diligence, so I went underground with a “disto” to see such things for myself, to site in their exact positions for my prints.

I only made 151 site visits that final year. The rest of the time I sat at my work station pumping out one print after another until I had my JDAP for that year (my Job Description, Action Plan), where my boss declared that all upcoming training would be directed towards Dave Black and I would spend another year pumping out cable bolt prints.

I’d had enough. I was jealous. I was angry.

I saw a posting for the Design group and applied. For some reason, I had to prove my worthiness again, taking the same aptitude tests I’d had to take when I’d applied for the Engineering Group four years prior. I didn’t see why. I’d passed them already. No matter. I took them again, and passed them again, and was interviewed and offered the position. I accepted.

When Dave Counter found out I’d applied to leave his group he was livid. He fumed. He pouted. He stopped talking to me except in the most gruff, terse way. So be it, I thought. It was time to move on.
But I had to train someone to replace me first. So sayeth Dave Counter. Okay. That was reasonable, right and proper. But Dave Counter took his time posting my position and then even more time in choosing my replacement. There was a perfect candidate, early on. She had all the qualifications; indeed, she had experience in Ground Control and Rock Mechanics. Dave passed Kaylah by, probably because she was a girl, and he didn’t think she could handle the physical aspects of the job, pull tests, the installation of stress cells and such. He had a point. We handled some pretty heavy stuff, from time to time; but that didn’t stop him from accepting a female EIT once. (She was hired in the end, though, but with Production Engineering, instead.)

I candidate finally came along that fit Counter’s criteria. No experience, though. Fresh out of college. Most importantly, male.

I set about training him. I even took him underground once or twice, too, but I mostly chained him to my desk and taught him what AutoCAD skills I had, to prepare him for the drudgery that would be his for the next year. That way I could escape.

I also taught Dave Black what AutoCAD skills I had, expecting that he’d have need of them in time, too. This gave Julien, the new guy, an opportunity to escape his chains every now and again. Once he did, he was hell-bent to escape them for good, finding every reason to accompany Dave Black underground.

I decided that Julien was trained. I decided that Dave Black was competent to replace Julien in a pinch, too. But I still didn’t get my release from Dave.

I talked to Gordon Shepard, head of Design, about my lack of release. Gordon advised me to seek out Counter and press the issue. Counter was standoffish, not answering my question as to whether I could leave, but he didn’t exactly say I couldn’t, either. So, I asked the Chief Engineer and he said that I ought to just move. I’d been accepted for the new position, and they’d waited six months for me to fill it. My replacement had arrived and been trained. My new boss saw no reason why I couldn’t make the move anytime I wanted to.

I didn’t see the point in waiting any longer, either. A desk was open, recently vacated by a student who’d gone back to school. I began to move that day, that very hour.

My time in Ground Control had come to an end.

My moving was a bittersweet victory. I loved Ground Control, just like I’d loved Oreflow. I was sad to leave both.

But it was time for a change.