Back around 1955, I met up with three Irish prospectors from Noranda in northwestern Quebec. Joe, the vice-president (“in charge of vice,” he’d often say), ran an exploration outfit with the assistance of his son and nephew, both of whom were big and strong.
Joe optioned a property in the Val d’Or area, well known for its high-grade gold mines, from two shifty prospecting brothers. The claim group featured only one outcrop, and a small one at that; it was in the middle of a swamp.
“Well, that’s perfect . . . for the vendors,” Joe said. You can’t get a handle on the local geology. Since it’s all covered by overburden, it’s unknown. There’s only one way to tackle this: blast open the rock.”
Jutting out from the outcrop were a couple of narrow quartz veins with some visible gold. But Joe was a bit leery about this showing, even though it was in an area known for its sometimes spectacular specimens of free gold. He told his son and nephew to drill a couple of short holes with the plugger underneath the quartz veins and blast with a small amount of explosives . . . “just enough to loosen the rock,” Joe advised.
The nephew, being new at the game, put a whole stock in each hole. The son lit the very short fuses and the two ran like hell to get under some cover. Joe, being slower, had stayed quite a distance away. In those days, nobody blasted with long fuses, and the blaster had to get away in a hurry. I know, from experience, how tense blasting can be, especially if you forget the crimper to connect the fuse to the blasting cap. That’s when you have to use your teeth, and be extra-careful. One wrong bite and you not only lost your teeth, but most of the top of your head.
After a very loud BOOM, the three walked back to the outcrop.
“Holy @#!*!,” Joe shouted. “What did you put in there?”
“One stick,” replied the nephew sheepishly.
“One in each hole,” added the son.
“You dumb @!*#@! Half a stick would have been enough. You done blasted our brand new mine right into the swamp!”
They all burst out laughing, sat down on top of the “mine” and passed around a bottle of Irish whiskey.
— Paul Martin is a retired prospector, not the finance minister.
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