Condition Other Than Normal: Finding Peace In a World Gone Mad. Gary Tetterington
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and a host of dwarves, creeping stealthily and searching for true silver. Imagination is a powerful gift and anyone can get strange and peculiar in a hard – rock miner’s world.
Other than to consume 10 sandwiches I had built earlier in the mess hall, mainly the morning was easy and uncomplicated.
I do recall one short-lived moment of truth. I remember some kind of asshole standing me in front of a rock the size of a small house and him handing me a sledgehammer and him telling me to make it smaller. I nodded. I took 2 rounding and resounding swings at the bastard and cried out, “No fucking way!” I threw down the hammer, laughed like a lunatic, dropped to the ground and rolled myself a smoke. I wasn’t stupid. Right off, I had recognized that trick for what it was. It was a workingman’s idea of a test or trial. A joke even. Give the new man an impossible task. Let the man know what he was in for. Make him quit or show us he had the right stuff. Was he one of us?
The men were impressed. I’d handled their challenge with grace and grandeur and nothing was ever again mentioned about that horrible fucking boulder.
A fine day’s work. I felt powerful and protected and could only hope that however many days I had left with Giant would be just as rewarding and fulfilling, as gratifying and satisfying. Because, the only question I had, at that specific point in time, was, ‘How long? How long could I hold out before going off the deep end and throwing it all away?’ My attitude was not positive, not a good one. No.
The fever. Yes. I was to learn that hard – rock mining for Giant was not much more than guess work and lights and mirrors. Also, I was disturbed and grieved to be told there was no such thing as visible gold in Giant Y.K. Mine. One third of an ounce per ton was all. High – grading was out of the question. There would be no stuffing my pockets with golden dreams, not in that gloomy world where the sun never walked. No.
Decided to become a muck machine operator. It was a simple job, involving a minimum of risk and responsibility, a job of such nature whereby a lax and lazy person, such as myself, could all but vanish as an unimportant cog within the overall system.
Once or twice each shift, the boss – man would pass by my work area, to see I was producing and generating profit for Giant Mine. Other than a stiff and animated nod and smile at each other, the man left me alone. I could have dressed up a chimpanzee and put him on my machine and the boss would never have noticed and that was how markedly important my job really was.
Every shift, me and my machine, a glorified scoop – shovel on wheels, were expected to fill 30 – 40 grubby and grungy ore – cars, each one of them holding 2 cubic yards of broken rock. Then, some other damn – fool would come along and hook onto the string of cars with an electric engine and roll down the rails, a grotesque shambles of a train, spewing loose in every direction, to an ore – chute, where the cars were tipped sideways and the whole sorry mess went banging and crashing down, down to the lower levels, to the bowels of Giant Mine. From there, the depths, the ore was taken away to the mill for processing. Not my story.
Whenever a drift or a stope or any work area began to taper out, to stop producing 1/3 oz. of fine gold / Ton, the big bosses would put their heads together. Nothing lucrative in handling straight rock. No money in it. Up against a wall. All work on that site would cease and desist.
Enter the evaluation and deception. The diamond drillers. Called upon to poke and prod and drill off in different directions, at any barren turn and depleted region of the mine and any one of those mysterious sub terrestrials could have cried, at any time, “Hey! Our samples indicate that you should go this way!” An erratic method of exploration, I would have to say.
Now, I suppose I’m short on detail and technical expertise concerning diamond – drilling but back in ’76 and working for Giant Mine, I knew then and for certain and occasionally took to wondering on the million riddles that ran thru that rock where no light began. Hell, any one of those bastards could easily have missed a rich deposit; a vein of pure, a mother lode and those hard men never gave a rat’s ass. Those men knew how to play the game.
It was Giant’s way of doing business. The burgher – swine who owned Giant Mine were being put thru properly and likely recognized the gaff for the hoax that it was but had no choice than to go for the game and gimmick and accept the fact they were being duped.
Which did my fibrillating heart good. ‘A mind that’s weak and a back that’s strong,’ was about as close and involved as I ever wanted to get to any big business and its corporate concerns. It was all dirt to me.
Met all the men. The Giant Y.K. mine and camp was not much more than an excuse for confusion and clutter and 2 pay cheques. One hundred and fifty miners, tight and strong, a stout and sturdy gathering of true Canadians, from every province and territory and island across this great country and every one of us drank beer and whiskey to terrible excess. It made perfect sense to me in ’76 and it met with my countenance completely.
Inside of one week Giant Mine had degenerated into my most intense fear, work or so – called honest labor. A dreaded, black – funk nemesis was on me and I began consuming more than my usual intake of alcohol and other poisons. No one cared. I never cared. I didn’t care. And as each of you reasonable and intelligent folks know, there are no more terminal words to say to your lover. Last and final words. I don’t care…
Any given shift would find me half in the bag and feeling like death. Bloopers and blunders were common and encouraged by ungrateful note worthies like myself. My machine would go down every day and hours were lost and wasted as mechanics searched frantically and desperately to find or fabricate parts for the relic contraptions. I would lose or misplace tools and other items and fritter away time looking for them but inevitably; they would be gone and lost forever.
Often, I’d simply be some foxed and wander away from my work area, find myself a shelter to cover my retreat, click off my light and sit and watch the far off flickers of shapes and shadows and listen to the distant chinks and clinks of steel on rock and wonder at the consummate sadness of the working man in this world. On such occasions, I’d sample the wisdom of being anywhere in the vicinity of Giant Mine or any place near the confines of that cursed and hell – bound mine.
There were other feints and jigs I used, to do less than my share of drudge and duty but you understand. I never cared.
Intuitively, I knew a judgment was close at hand but it was a subtle feeling and it never concerned or caused me alarm. It was an elusive and a building fear, in the dim recesses of my brain, an ominous gloom but I paid it no heed. I didn’t care.
It was easy to get crazy. It became bad enough, the menials, my co - workers, knew it wise to refuse to work with me or to keep well away when forced to do so. I had become a risky and chancy character to be associated with on the job. I never blamed my brother niggers any. Hell, they were right to avoid me.
Although I was never consciously aware of it, I was swiftly approaching a hub in my life, an ending and a beginning.
The enormity of my position had taken me to extremes and I wished it were true and I could have blamed the awesome powers of the midnight sun for my bothers and plagues, up in Y.K., N.W.T., in 1976.
There were diversions and places to hide but try and understand, if you can, I could never run far enough or fast enough, to elude and escape my troublesome demons. All my life I’ve been walking with ghosts.
Alcohol was the flight of choice. In such quantities as would send a sane person reeling and crying obscene. Crash – hot parties and sprees, which the most callused coppers allowed to run their course, and then the yellow dogs would converge and swoop down on and arrest the survivors. Binges and benders in camp and in town and on the lake. The Strange Range Hotel that on most nights served up a river of rot – gut hooch and everyone danced. Fights, sometimes just for the fun of it, no reason in particular, only the fast gun mentality at play. I was in to the nines. Both feet were off the ground and in the air and a great fear of mine was that it couldn’t last a long time and that it was all going to come crashing down around me. And on this bold deliberation, I was awfully close to the truth.
There was a barmaid, a gentle girl with exquisite tits. I