ODDS’N’SODS — A hairbreadth ‘scape down Mexico way

Along with a great many other miners who have turned towards Latin America, I had the opportunity of working in Mexico last year.

I have worked in, or visited, many of the famous old mining camps of yesterday, among them: Butte, Mont.; Virginia City and Ely, Nev.; Silverton and Central City, Colo; Iron River, Mich; Park City, Utah; and Cobalt, Ont.

I held all these places in reverence because they had such a long and colorful mining history. Old headframes, mill buildings and mine dumps could still be seen, along with the occassional powder box.

However, my understanding of the term “old” rapidly changed when I arrived in the mountain city of Guanajuato where silver and gold mines are still in operation after some 250 years. Leach tanks constructed of stone and mortar and equipped with belt-driven agitators are vestiges of previous centuries. Indeed, the older mine complexes are reminiscent of European castles in that they feature high stone fortifications that served as defences against marauding banditos. The top of one shaft where a horse-drawn windlass used to hoist ore, and where the horse corrals can still be seen, is now equipped with a small headframe for the hoisting of caged cars. The plaza surrounding the mine dry and offices features gardens which are beautifully tended. The city is underlain with a system of hand-constructed masonry tunnels following the original drainage systems, which are connected by rock tunnels — a picturesque complement to the town’s fascinating mining history.

As it so happens, however, my experience in the area proved more picaresque than picturesque. I had just finished up some placer exploration in the mountains of Sinaloa and had prepared to leave the camp early in the day for the 8-hour drive down the mountain, a distance of only 80 km. The road was in rough shape and it clung to the sides of some very steep mountains.

We had travelled for about three hours when we were flagged down by local ranchers who warned us that there were armed bandits operating on the road ahead. This did not come as a great surprise, as a couple of nights earlier some locals dropped by to investigate our placer operations. One of them was carrying an AK-47 rifle — for “deer hunting” — and was kind enough to let me shoot it. (He was much more polite than the fellow who stole my cooler from the pickup truck on the first day in camp and then took a pistol shot at me when I started down the mountain after him.)

The driver, Sergio, and I discussed our options for awhile — until we were joined by two pickup trucks. We decided that there was safety in numbers and started off in convoy. I felt a sense of relief because we had decided it was safe to continue. But that feeling quickly evaporated when Sergio stuffed his wallet under the floor boards, made the sign of the cross and started reciting a prayer. Five tension-filled hours later, we rolled out of the mountains into the flat lands and were able to breath a genuine sigh of relief.

I had had enough excitement for one day and decided to treat Sergio and myself to a decent hotel with air conditioning, clean sheets, and no intrusions.

I booked us into a decent “tourista” hotel, and Sergio and I settled down in front of a color TV with a couple of cold cervezas. To my delight, the Montreal Canadiens were playing in Los Angeles and I explained to Sergio that this was “Canada’s game.” After watching intently for some 15 minutes, my puzzled companion turned to me and asked, “Senor, what do they have on their feet?” For Sergio, ice came only in cubes.

There are greater barriers than language between Mexicans and Canadians.

— Richard LaPrairie, P. Eng., is a mining engineer based near Montreal.