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.
