I was stuck at Code 4 and nothing I did seemed to change that. I had to chase
after my boss to get the temporary codes due me paid to me; without them, I
could not prove that I was worthy of the code increase and the raise that came
with it. I found myself working side by side with people who were less trained
than I was, who made more money than I did. And I was leading them. I’d had enough.
I saw a posting for people to apply to Oreflow. I knew people who’d already
transferred to Oreflow years before and they were Code 6 now while I was still
the same code I was when they had transferred. I filled out the transfer
application. I even approached my partner, James, and said, “Come with me.
We’re stuck. We’ll never get a raise if we stay where we are.”
“Why?” he asked. “I love backfill. You always get a vehicle; and no one ever bothers you.” (Untrue, we were always harassed about our inability to keep up with mucking, a physical impossibility, if you understand what the jobs entailed.)
James did not apply, no matter how much I reasoned with him. James was content where he was. James was never the ambitious sort.
But I applied. And I was accepted. And I began my training, doing some of the same jobs I did as a student, picking belt and clean-up. I began training as cage tender for 3 Shaft.
Things were good. Things were looking up. I bought a house.
Then the bottom fell out from under me. The commodity market was in the toilet, copper and zinc prices plummeted, and there was serious discussion about layoffs. The Mine decided to lay off contractors instead, opting to transfer those employees with the lowest seniority on each crew to Capital Development. I’d only been in Oreflow for three months, so that would be me. We were informed once we got there that we were lucky, that the mine had seriously considered laying us off but had decided on this course of action instead; but they also said that if the market did not improve that we would probably be the first to be let go.
My first shift on my new crew I discovered a note that Bev had put in my lunch pail: “I love you very much," It said, "I hope you have a good day on your new crew.” I almost wept.
I found myself driving a 30-ton truck up and down the ramp, hauling waste from capital development headings to fill stopes, essentially doing what I’d been doing for years, except not having to order slurry cement from surface. What was different was that we were driven like slaves, called the one-foot-out-the-door-crew, harassed by our supervisors and captains who had until recently been contract bosses. We were subjected to countless time-studies to prove that we were slacking, informed that we were not to use travel time and any other reasonable delays, like fuelling, as proper delays in a shift. Their expectations were unreasonable, if not impossible.
I could not believe my ears. My crewmates and I discussed our predicament and came to the conclusion that the Mine was trying to kill us or force us to quit, whichever came first. I dubbed my department “Capital Punishment.” I still call it that, even after all these years.
I got mad. We all did. We rebelled. We called the Ministry of Labour to complain that there was not enough ventilation in the down ramp, that the air was blue, that it burned our eyes and that we were suffocating. Our bosses threatened us. Had we been contractors they would have fired us on the spot; so said the contractors who worked with us. The Ministry investigated and found that there was about 80 cubic meters of equipment trying to inhale 2 cubic meters of airflow and it shut the down ramp down until the airflow could be rectified. That’s when the time studies began, people gathering data on how long it took to load us, how long it took for us to travel a length of ramp. We began noting all company policy delays we incurred. Our supervisors and captains told us that those delays did not apply to us. We complained to the Ministry. They agreed that we were to follow company policy and the Mining Act in the pursuit of our work. I could go on.
Then I had an injury. The ramp was rough. We all knew it. We’d complained about the lack of roadbed material many times, but the much-needed crushed rock failed to materialize. It was so rough in spots that I had to stand up when driving down ramp. But one can be distracted. One can lose one’s bearings as to where one might be from time to time. Boredom can do that. I drove over a rough patch while driving through a blind bend. The truck bounced, the truck leaped, my seat tossed me out of it and when I fell back into it, I landed so hard that I bottomed out. I blast of pain hit me, sending sparks from my pelvis to my teeth and toes. I saw stars. Tears rushed from my tightly pressed lids.
I was careful after that. I stood up from my seat, my knees bent to absorb the impact of each and every bump and hole. And I went up early to report the back pain to the nurse.
A month later, I was driving the same 30-ton truck down ramp again when I was forced to exit the ramp into a re-muck (a side alcove) to allow a Toyota pick-up to pass. My back had just begun to heal. It was still tender, but the daily chronic pain was subsiding. I drove over a piece of loose (rock on the ground). When the truck slipped off it my seat bottomed out again. The prior pain was dwarfed by what followed. I nearly passed out. I reported the incident again, and found that I could not move the next day. I made it to my doctor, who assessed me, prescribed Tylenol 3s and anti-inflammatory, suggesting that if my back did not improve, I might require surgery.
The Mine challenged my injury. The Ministry denied their challenge.
Bev had her own injury at exactly the same time. She fell down the stairs at work, giving herself a bruise from hip to knee. Her office did not challenge her injury. But we both did hobble about like arthritic octogenarians for a couple weeks, neither able to care for the other.
Seven months after I began with Capital Punishment, I had enough. I was angry. I was furious. I was depressed. I decided to quit. But I was going to make my bosses lives a living hell first. I complained daily to the Safety Department about infractions. I brought a list of complaints about a meter long to the next crew meeting. I called the Ministry to enquire about harassment charges and what I needed to do to pursue them.
A month later, my prior superintendent in Oreflow, Wayne David, approached me at my wicket and asked me if I’d like to come back to Oreflow. Coincidence? I don’t know. I didn’t care.
I could have dropped to my knees and kissed his feet.
