Into the deep

A group of nurses from Red Lake, Ont., including myself, once participated in an underground tour of the gold mines there. We signed in at the gatehouse, donned coveralls, boots (big, honking, HEAVY boots!), goggles, hard hats, lamps and battery packs. Getting dressed alone was harder than some of our hospital duties. We would be underground for four hours; that news silenced our nervous banter while we dressed. Our guide escorted us to the cage, a contraption designed to squeeze the heart muscle of all who enter. No Otis elevator here — no soft music, no recessed lighting, no plush carpet. The decor was Utilitarian Steel, much dented, ventilated by half-doors, and lit by only our headlamps and brief glimpses of light at each level as we descended. Aptly named the cage, it was claustrophobic with eight of us jammed inside. It was difficult to determine whether we were scratching our own itches or someone else’s.

A deafening blast of an overhead buzzer signalled the very quick downward descent. Snatches of light, a jumble of rock face and timbers, sporadic bursts of some kind of dirty liquid spraying out at us — all this rammed home the fact that only the hoist man’s expertise, well-maintained equipment and the will of God stood between us and the eternal sleep. We were riding on a workhorse, serving the no-frills transportation needs of a working mine.

We arrived at the bottom-most level in a matter of minutes. Some kind soul let us know that the surface was more than a mile straight up. No chance of escape now. As we emerged from the cage, I felt embraced, or rather, engulfed by so much rock. The need for rock bolts and screening did not elude me as small chunks of “loose” skittered down from a recent blast. This was a place of noise, dust, fumes and all-consuming pitch-blackness that had our group teetering on the edge of panic.

Only a thin layer of upholstery relieved our backsides during the butt-bruising, bone-wrenching ride in the underground bus. Two planks down the sides of the box served as seats. It was one of the few times I was thankful for my “middle-aged spread.”

We enjoyed several educational walkabouts, with detailed explanations of the ore extraction process, emphasizing safety. Prior to our excursion, “raise” was something you discussed with the boss when you needed more money, “mucking and slushing” was what you did on a rainy day in the barnyard, a “drift” was a heap of snow, and a “crusher” pulverized ice cubes for your fuzzy navel.

We spoke with an interesting man who constructed raises for a living and had actually survived a couple of serious falls while doing so. We watched a miner transferring rock to a waiting vehicle, manning his scoop with the precision of a micro-surgeon. We saw for the first time, unrefined gold in core samples obtained by squealing diamond drills. It seemed such a solitary game, this underground mining business.

The hours slipped away quickly, more quickly than we expected, and soon we were yanked back to the surface and its bright array of lights and welcome fresh air. We thanked our tour guides for allowing us that look inside, and returned home with a new awareness of underground mining. I will never again begrudge a hard rock miner those bonus dollars. These folks earn every red cent they bring home. We “surface” workers will forever appreciate the fact that we can look out a window while we toil and see bright blue sky, and breathe in fresh air that doesn’t stink of diesel fumes and mining dust. A tip of the hard hat to all of you who drill out a living beneath the Earth’s crust.

— The author resides in Thunder Bay, Ont., and works as a community nurse, plays in the Maple Ridge Bluegrass Band and writes freelance articles. She can be reached at glotou@tbaytel.net