On Going Down into the Bowels of the Earth, and Coming Back Out Again

I've never been trapped in a mine.

I have been underground, though, not a lot, but more than once or twice, and it's an experience I recommend to anyone.  Sure, we all understand, intellectually, that there's a lot of rock under our feet, and that some of it's (relatively) full of metal.  But until you stand in a 4 meter by 4 meter drift, looking up at the narrow vein of copper glittering golden as it runs along the ceiling, you don't understand it viscerally.  (Just don't think about the tonnage of rock above your head, if you're bothered by that kind of thing.) 

A trip to the underworld starts with the long, dark ride down in the cage - that's what miners call the elevator that traverses the shaft - the only light coming from the cap-lamps that are slung over their shoulders.  (Etiquette dictates that you refrain from  mounting your lamp on your hardhat in the cage: you'll end up blinding everyone standing in front of you.)  20 or 30 guys (let's face it, even in 2010, it's almost all guys, except for the occasional geologist, or environmental specialist) crammed in together, almost inappropriately closely, and probably all looking at you, knowing you're a visitor, because your hard-hat isn't quite dinged enough, or your coveralls are too clean.  And besides, you don't have a lunchbox.

A miner's lunchbox is, it must be said, a thing of wonder.  No small square box with a Power Rangers decal like you carried on the bus in third grade, or a nylon bag with a bottle of water strapped to the outside.  Miner's lunchboxes are large, ocean-going vessels - great stainless steel coffins with a handle on top, and the promise of a smorgasbord inside.  If you see a guy with a hardhat and coveralls carrying a gargantuan toolbox, he's not there to fix the ventilation - he's come to dine.

You drop pretty fast, and there's not much of a view, just a grey wall of rock sliding past, punctuated by the occasional flash of a tunnel.  Depending on how far down you're headed, your ears may pop.  It starts to smell both damp and dusty.

When you get off at your stop (a 'level', designated by its depth, as in "We're headed to 2200 Level"), you quickly realize a couple of things: first, 50 feet down and 5000 feet down look pretty much the same; and second, it's going to be rather dark should the lights go out.  If you ever want to see darkness, real darkness, a mine's the place to do it.  Find somewhere with no powered lights, and then turn off your lamp.  Complete darkness.  Total absence of light.  You should see it, once, just to know what it's like.  Then turn your lamp back on.

Every level has a lunchroom (no quick hops up to the surface for a Tim's, down here) - a small room blasted out of the rock, the walls painted white, and equipped with a phone, tables and chairs, possibly a microwave, and a water cooler or bottled water.  No mere break-room, this: in the event of an emergency, this is the refuge station.

When the alarm is given underground, it's usually in the form of an offensive odour.  Stench-gas (ethyl mercaptan, the stuff that makes propane stinky), is added to the ventilation system as a quick and effective way to send a message.  Auditory warnings might not work, as many of the miners will have hearing protection in place due to the proximity of heavy equipment, and depending on what the crisis is, the radio network could be inoperative.  When they smell the gas, the miners make their way to the nearest refuge station.  It has its own ventilation shaft to the surface, in case the air in the mine becomes dangerous, and materials to seal the door if they need to keep smoke out.

I've been in several such refuges, though never in an emergency, but I have to admit, I've never once envisioned being stuck in there, with 32 of my closest and dearest friends, for two months.  It's a staggering thought.  I'm not claustrophobic, and frankly you're unlikely to meet a miner who is, but it's hard to imagine being cooped up in that size space with that many people for that long and not having somebody go nuts.

Of course, nobody goes underground without the expectation that they'll be back on surface at then end of the shift.  If you allow yourself to think like that, working in a mine, you won't be working there for long.  Sure, things happen.  The power can go out.  The cage can break down.  Rock moves.  (I was once underground when the miner next to me said, "There's an event."  I looked at him.  "You mean a seismic event?" I asked.  He nodded.  All I'd heard was the sound you'd make if you hit a stone, lightly, with a rock hammer: a tap.  "Not very big," he assured me, "and not close."  Still: something, somewhere, had moved.)  But they don't happen often, and well, I mean, they won't happen to me.  Right?

The stranded miners in Chile, who against the odds returned, mostly unharmed, to their families this week, did have two things working in their favour.  One, that they had, in their subterranean prison, each other: miners, men who worked underground, knew the risks, but more importantly, understood the fragile bargain they made each day with the earth to return them safely to the surface.  But they also had a world of miners above ground, working to get them out.  In a tight spot like this, that's who you want on your side.

I'm sure I'll go underground again, and I won't go fearfully or with trepidation.  But I might step off the cage at the end of the day with a small sense of triumph.  Or maybe it will just be relief.