Prolonged Drudgery

My first year of work seemed to take forever. A new employee at Kidd received one week’s holidays, regardless when he began. Had I begun in December, I’d have received one week’s vacation, but as I began my employment in January, one week’s holiday was all I got, and that single week was hardly enough. That year seemed interminable.

There was much to learn, as well; when I was working the construction end of Backfill, erecting walls and constructing conveyors. But I didn’t do that often. I spent the lion’s share of my time tending conveyors and cleaning up under said conveyors. There was a lot of clean-up too. I was used to that, having spent years in Oreflow, where ore and waste was moved from bin to bin by conveyors, and conveyors invariably left piles of fines beneath them in need of a shovel. Backfill wasn’t that different, in that regard.

For the most part, I worked with Jim Imoff, Norm Cheff, and Danut Ungureanu (Donut, for short; a Romanian immigrant who was hired the same day I was, who completed his common-core alongside mine, who landed on the same crew as me). That first year, there was Dan Zanchetta, too; but Dan quit before the year was done, moving back to Sudbury, eventually landing in sales. I don’t blame him, knowing what I know now. But before he left, he told me, “What do I have to put on a resume? I watched conveyors and I shovelled under conveyors. I can’t see myself doing that for the next thirty years.”

Neither could I. But back then, I believed that there was a need for technologists, and that within a couple years I’d be in the engineering office and away from underground labour, once and for all.
Little did I know then what the future had in store for me.

What did I do when I wasn’t shovelling? I transferred waste rock from bin to bin, and I filled enormous holes, so that the stopes adjacent to those empty holes could be mined. One thing I can say about it: there was a rhythm to my work. Each week, I would man a different conveyor, working from top to bottom, week after week, until my turn came to backfill a stope. There were a number of transfer conveyors, so it took a few weeks to get to the bottom: 8-2A, 8-1A, 8-1B, 1200, and 16-2-19. Below them were the fill levels. Fill levels were the top of empty stopes. When filling, I’d sit at the head-end of the conveyor system, adjusting the amount of cement added to the aggregate, the next I’d sit in the control booth, operating the conveyors, and ordering the batches of cement from surface.

Sound boring? You’ve no idea. It did allot a lot of time to reading. I burned through hundreds of books tending those conveyors, waiting for something to happen, for anything to happen. Sometimes it did. Sometimes I’d have to pick some scrap out of the muck, or out of a transfer chute, sometimes I’d have to reset a pull-cord or breaker. A few times I’d have to clean up a spill. But mostly I read. Feet up, eyes snapping up and down from book to monitor to monitor. Waiting for something to happen.

What it didn’t allot a lot of time to was companionship. There were some weeks I didn’t see a soul for the entire shift except for when my shift boss came to call. I was sequestered to an isolation booth for so long that it was a pleasure to be released into the company of others, even if it meant weeks of shovelling.

Don’t get me wrong. Boredom and routine are good underground. So is company. Excitement is something to be avoided at all costs.

You don’t believe me?

Donut and I were filling on 1600. I was Operator that week, comfortable in the isolation booth, whereas Donut was at the headend, freezing his ass off. 1600 was always cold; briskly air-conditioned in the summer, frigid in the winter, owing to it being exposed to the bottom of the pit. I did not witness what occurred, but I was a party to its aftermath.

There was a block-hole driller across the stope from the headend. Donut caught sight of him once or twice early on, but the block-holer was drilling oversized muck for blasting, and was retreating backwards, around a bend. Before long, all Donut could see of him was a flicker of light on the walls. Then nothing at all. The flickering began again, this time faster than before, a frantic scintillating flash. Donut took note of it, but thought nothing of it. Donut thought that someone was welding over there. Time passed. We had lunch. But we didn’t go to the lunchroom, opting to eat in the booth, instead. It had all the fixin’s a refuge station had, and the refuge station was further on, and we were too lazy to walk all the way there. Lunch complete, Donut went back to the headend. There was no more flashing, so he thought the welding complete.

About an hour later, a few lamps appeared across the stope, their beams dancing here and there, finally settling on Donut, across the stope. They left.

And appeared again on our side of the open hole. White hats. A production shifter, his crew rep and a Captain (general foreman).

“What did you see?” they asked.

“Why didn’t you call for help?”

“Why didn’t you go see what was going on?”

Donut was beaten with dozens of questions and angry accusations.

“What?” was all he could think to ask of each of them.

An investigation was called for. Our shift boss arrived, our crew rep in tow. Donut was questioned again. So was I, for that matter, but not for long, as I was not a witness or a party to the proceedings.
In case you’re wondering, Donut was completely exonerated from blame after the heat of the moment was spent. He was neither found stupid, or negligent. He was found ignorant, for lack of experience.
What happened, you ask?

Slimer, the production block-holer, had set up across the stope from our headend (where we come up with these nicknames is beyond me). He saw Donut across the stope, waved hello. Donut waved back. The Slimer retreated to the extent of Donut’s rang of sight and began drilling short holes in the oversize muck. With each rock drilled, he was a little more out of view, until neither could see the other at all.
Slimer’s drill steel jammed, so he reached across the chuck to hammer it some. His hammering did the trick, but the drill had snagged the tattered cuff of Slimer’s parka. It caught it, twisted it, drew it in, and began to pull and wrap Slimer’s sleeve round the action. Slimer pulled hard on his sleeve, but it was stuck fast. He reached for the controls, but they were just out of reach. He tried to take off his coat, but the zipper had stuck.

Slimer felt his arm twist and then bend and then snap. His arm snapped again, and again, and again, and again, his bones crackling until his arm was a link of sausages.

Slimer screamed, but the drill’s exhaust drowned him out. He screamed and screamed until his voice too cracked, rasping to a harsh whisper.

Slimer began to shake his headlamp against the wall, begging Donut to see and to help. But Donut didn’t see the cap lamp’s frantic flickering for what it was. So, no help came. And Slimer surrendered to the agony that must have driven out conscious thought before it had consciousness.

Thankfully, the drill stalled. The parka twisted so tight that the drill could twist no more, and it stalled. Had it not, the drill would have torn his arm off.

Slimer’s shifter arrived and found him in that state. He shut the drill off and released him. 8111 (our emergence number) was called, and the wheels of rescue began to turn. They saved the arm, but it was reduced to a construction of pins and rods.

Slimer never worked a day underground ever again.

I’ll take boring over excitement, any day.

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.

Freshman on Campus

Mining school. What was I thinking? I wasn’t, apparently.

The facts as I knew them. Timmins was/is a mining town. So, I was very aware of mining as an employable industry, with thousands of jobs in the district. My neighbour, George Miller, worked for Texas Gulf (the anomalous copper mine in a gold camp) for as long as I knew him, so did his brother, so did most of his friends. Marc Aube, my future ex-brother-in-law, had gone off to the college to take Mining Engineering Technology at Northern College’s Haileybury School of Mines campus. Aside from that, I was utterly clueless about mining. I had never been particularly good at math or physics, so why did I choose that as a career path? I have no idea, not a one. But I had enrolled, was accepted, they took my money, and I was on my way. Glory be.

College began in the usual way, as I’d learn in the coming years. I packed the essentials, not knowing what said essentials might actually be. Dishes, cutlery, clothing. Most everything I owned was still at home, only two and a half hours away, so all was not lost should I discover I’d forgotten that crucial this or that. But I did pack what I thought I would need for the year, including winter gear.

I need not have packed winter gear yet. I was a young 18 and travelled home every weekend that first year, regardless what might be happening in Haileybury. All my friends were still in Timmins, still in high school, where, I believe now, I should still have been, too. Water under the bridge.

Did I enjoy that first year? Yeah, I suppose I did. I’m of mixed opinion about that. Did I really enjoy where I was, what I was doing, who I was living with, who I was meeting and hanging around with that first year. No, I did not, not particularly. There were some guys I liked or I wouldn’t have stuck it out, I suppose. But I was persistent. I was tenacious. I was stubborn.

I packed everything I/we thought I needed into the trunk of my parent’s car and we drove the two and a half hours to Haileybury in a talkative state. I was nervous, new chapter in life and all that, the knot in my gut tighter with every kilometer. We arrived, piled out of the car, and were greeted by my landlady, Shirley. I’d opted to live in the same rooming house as Marc, the same place he’d lived in the year before, 680(?) Lakeshore Rd. S, on the corner of Georgina Street (Georgina is little more than a laneway).

Shirley’s rooming house was a two-story house, with a converted attic. We students were crowded in, five to the 2^nd floor, with the potential for four more on the 3^rd. Marc said the rooming house was full the year before, but I don’t recall there being boarders on the 3^rd that year. My room was a long, narrow closet overtop the porch roof, hanging off the front of the house and exposed to Lake Temiskaming. Its floor sloped away from the center of the house in two directions. I would discover it cold and drafty in the coming months, the space heater within running 24-7 just to keep the icy winds that blew off the lake at bay. Winds howled off its walls, traffic sounds rattling them as clear as day, despite its paper-thin insulation. Dan Seguin shared my precarious perch across the hall to the north. He had the worst of it; he awoke one morning to discover a snow drift laid over his scalp. The one phone available to all tenants was set between us. Cream coloured, rotary dial, as heavy as a brick; remember that? My mother was probably horrified of the prospect of leaving me there for a year, but she handed over the postdated cheques, all the same. We left the house, drove up to the school at the top of the hill, went inside, and looked around for a few minutes. There wasn’t much to take in. It was an old school, two stories, two hallways, one stacked atop the other, and no more. The expected graduating class photos lined the halls, between classroom doors. Peering through windows revealed an amphitheater, labs, classes, much like any school, but with higher ceilings than most. Lots of aged oak. There was a gym, a library. With that, the tour was complete. We found a restaurant, ate, and then there were hugs and kisses all around, and with me holding back my tears and fear of abandonment, I watched my parents drive away.

That’s when the drinking began. Marc took me in hand, so to speak, and the house dragged me to the Matabanick Hotel to initiate me.

The Matabanick was a dilapidated, somewhat tumbledown, hole in the wall, even then. God knows what it looks like now, if it still exists (I’ve seen its exterior on Google Maps, so I suppose it still does). We tumbled in and I saw tables wrapped around its thrust bar, a stage near the entrance on its north wall, washrooms and jukebox on the west, pool tables to the east, beyond which, I remember, was an enclosed porch where the shuffleboard table lived. There were fellow students already in attendance when we arrived, some already three sheets to the wind.

Rounds were bought, and I immediately fell behind. I didn’t have the year or more of their future 12 step program under my belt. The night flew by, and then dragged by. Towards its end, there were five opened, untouched blurry beers floating on the table awaiting me. But I could not drink anymore. I was so drunk that my body refused to swallow more than a drop at a time before my throat closed to it. I heard coaxing from some distant fuzzy voices, and what I suspect mockery from others. There was mockery. Given time, given proximity, exposure, and familiarity with these people, I began to recognize from which voices each came. I began to wonder if I’d made a mistake coming there.

We stumbled back to the house, and I was introduced to the 680 Lakeshore 1 am tradition: after-hour’s spaghetti and Bravo sauce and about a litre of choked back water.

School began the next day under the cloud of the worst hangover of my life. No classes, thankfully, just the expected hazing. We wore togas for the occasion, much as I did for O’Gorman’s now distant prep rally induction.

There were activities the whole week, usually scavenger hunts and the like, usually involving more beer and rye and vodka and shots. Sign-ups for clubs, to which I chose archery, thinking that might be the coolest club I’d ever heard of, or imagined. And classes. I met new people, those who I’d be spending the next year with. Hangovers every morning. Comas interrupted by the incessant blare of the fire engine red Big Ben wind-up alarm clock that would accompany my entire post-secondary career.

Then came Friday, the first weekend of college. I bought a ticket on the Northlander bus to Timmins, to get home and dry out for two days before beginning the process all over again.

I was so happy to see my friends. They missed me. They pounced on me. They buried me with questions. I filled their heads with stories and expectations of what for them was yet to come.

Thus ended my first week of college. I’m surprised that I remember anything at all.