Underground Mining - PART 5

(Return to PART 1, PART2, PART 3, PART 4)

Strict Union rules still prevailed in Western Oz mines through the early nineties when I started drilling. Most underground mines still adhered to three, eight hour shifts.

I wanted to work twelve hours shifts like surface mines were beginning to bring in. It was a contentious issue back then. The wrong opinion could get you a busted head in a pub argument.

Constant strikes and go slows sapped our pays. Most strikes weren’t even for an improvement of our conditions anyway. We were expected to go out in sympathy for some other Union. Usually the Wharfies.

I’m all for the ‘workers’ standing up to ‘management’ in cases of unfair working conditions. Unfortunately, that wasn't on the program. We already had fantastic conditions and rates of pay. The Union Bully Boys had done the hard yards and were spinning their wheels with nothing much to do. They remembered the days of old when people respected their muscle and wanted to prove how powerful they still were.

We’d know when they planned to strike. The Union bosses would turn up on site with boats hooked on their cars and eskies in the boot. They’d vote to strike, knock everyone off, then go fishing. The miners got to sit at home, with no pay, and wait till they were told to go back to work. Union officials got paid out of the Union slush fund.

I was disgusted at this arrogant, traitorous behaviour. I said I’d never belong to a Union that treats members like this and never paid Union dues since. Even if my stance brought me grief from the odd Shop Steward, I’ve never bowed to Union pressure.

As contract drillers, we were used to being treated poorly and ignored. Even amongst other miners, we hold a position near the bottom of the hierarchy. Drilling only took place away from active mining areas since production always took precedence over exploration. Disused shafts and bricked up drives were our places of work. Insulated from the everyday running of the mine, sometimes we’d be forgotten about. One particular shift I remember, had a detonation planned outside of normal blasting times. The pressure wave, dust and smoke that swept around my body was an experience me and my offsider will never forget

(Like it? See - Part 6)

Tanami Desert Diary - PART 3

(Return to – PART 1, PART 2)

My first day at Tanami mine could be described as stressful. I had to change five tyres some bastard had left behind from their last camp visit. The new boy gets these jobs even though the saying ‘you fucked it, you fixed it’ meant something back then.

Then I loaded two armour-plated Toyota utes with supplies to take to the exploration crew deep in the desert. The utes were bulldozers on wheels and we used them that way too. 10mm thick bash plates underneath, reinforced bull bars, and full roll cage braced to the chassis.

Since it was my first time out I was given a guide. A lad called Deaf Mick would show me the way. With around a tonne and half on the back of each ute in 44’s of fuel, food and other crap we drove off down the Tanami (goat) Track.

Deaf Mick disappeared in the dust and even at 140kph I couldn’t catch him. I also couldn’t see because of the dust he threw up. The overloaded ute wandered back and forth across the loose sand. I clung to the wheel, foot to the floor shitting myself. I had no chance of getting Mick on the radio. He had a habit of turning it off. He’s deaf, why would he bother with it?

I had to back off and only got to the camp late by following his dust trail from many kilometres back. He wanted to know what took me so long. I was too insecure to explain what a frightening trip I had.

Deaf Mick wasn’t much for conversation. He had a hard time making sense of what the rest of us were saying without seeing our lips. After I grew a beard he stopped taking to me altogether. Not because he didn’t like me, he just couldn’t understand what I said with all that hair in the way. He used to have a hearing aid but somehow it had fallen out as he’d leaned over a hundred metre deep open drill hole. Down it went. He wasn’t getting that back.

(PART 4)

Underground Mining - PART 4

(Return to – PART 1, PART 2, PART 3)

After the first week the boss must have figured I wasn’t a total loss. He started teaching me how to run the rig. It’s a powerful piece of equipment that demands respect and a good ear. Not that you could hear much. The rig was so loud we wore earplugs and earmuffs over them. It was like going to a Heavy Metal concert 8 hours a day, every day. The vibrations actually loosened one of my fillings. Hate to think what it was doing to the rest of me.

The rig shouldn’t be that loud but we’d ripped off the silencer box to relieve back pressure and stop the rig from freezing. There was so much water in the compressed air the rig motor would ice up and slow down. Even running the exhaust hose was a pain. You had to be careful near the end of it as the ice would build up until the rig coughed up a ball of slushy, oily ice and fired it down the drive. The icing up problem got so bad we took the exhaust hose off. That baby really started to howl then. The whole mine could hear it. We got a reputation in one mine as ‘The Moaning Cow crew’. That's what they reckon it sounded like, resonating down kilometres of drives.

Tuning in to the rig is like learning a foreign language. There’re subtle sounds and vibrations that would tell you what it was saying. I could lay a hand on the rig and feel what the diamond bit was doing by the vibrations sent back up the rods, even when it was hundreds of metres down the hole. We only had a single gauge to watch. The pump’s pressure gauge. That erratic jerking needle could tell you many things. Little fluctuations warned of the bit bogging in or the core wedging in the barrel. The other indicators we used were the colour of the cuttings coming out of the collar, the rigs stance and sound of the exhaust. It was all hands-on gut-feel stuff. I started to pick up on tell tale warning signs and could correct problems before they occurred.

To really throw me in the deep end the boss would get the rig going then disappear for a crap or a look around the drive. Later he told me he’d duck around the corner and turn off his cap lamp then come back and watch how I’d react. Always did wonder how he’d reappear just as the pump pressure rose or the rig loaded up. It’s a training method I used on my offsiders later.

(Like it? See - PART 5)

Underground Mining - PART 3

(Return to – PART 1, PART 2)

Drilling up-holes suck. Getting soaking wet is unavoidable. There’s also the added danger of several hundred kilos of slippery rods spearing out of the hole if the brake fails to hold them to consider. This could be especially hazardous when we used additives. Elephant snot, a mucusy, slimy liquid meant to stop water loss and lubricate the barrels and rods, makes core retrieval easy and rod handling difficult.

I was always extra-keen to get to the change rooms and out of my wet overalls at the end of up-hole shifts. I should mention the ‘dirty’ side of the change rooms could almost make you vomit at times. Most of us wore the same gear for a week at a time so you can imagine the smell with heaters going full blast even in summer.

Our cross shift liked a joke. They found my soaking wet overalls which I’d hung from ceiling on a pulley as was the custom here. Instead of feeling sympathy for my hard shift, (didn’t expect any really), they tied a tight knot in one of the legs and rehung them to dry.

Now you should understand that underground water is loaded with minerals and salts. When the water dries, your clothes become so stiff you can hold them out horizontally like a piece of cardboard. Clothes tied in a knot when wet aren’t going to be easy to undo when dry. When I discovered what they’d done the next day I tried everything to get that knot out. Eventually I had to admit defeat and soak that leg in water to free it up. I started the shift with one flapping wet leg and the other stiff starched. Bastards. My boss got his boots filled with gravel.

We had to retaliate. At the end of our shift my boss shows me a trick. We overfilled the rig bearings with grease and leave everything else neat and tidy. Our changeover is all hearty laughs about their funny jokes with our clothes. HAHAHAHA. Next shift we see our amigos covered caps to boots in a fine spray of black grease. You can sure tell who doesn’t bother with safety glasses. We are cool about it so they don't twig but we double check all our gear before we start. Pay backs are a bitch.

The cross shift aren’t real annoyed as they get a monstrous 51 metres for the shift. I’m pissed off. I’d finished a long hole, pulled down the rig, set up and collared the hole for them the previous shift. Totally rooted me for a minimal meter bonus. They waltz in, drill cream 4^th gear ground of soft greenstone and unbroken core for the entire shift. At $8 a metre not a bad days work. I bitch a bit but placate myself with what comes around goes around.

Later I found out they used 21 metre barrels and three metre head rods, a risky gamble that can damage the equipment. My boss made over $7000 for the day so he tempered his annoyance at the abuse of his gear. He’s a bit old school. A careful, by-the-book driller. He looked at the plod book and said “Cowboys”. I filed the information away for later.

(PART 4)

Underground Mining - PART 2

(Return to - PART 1.)

My boss only asked me if I’d been underground before when we were packed into a small cage ready to drop down the shaft the next morning. I made the casual comment that I hadn’t. I felt very small as he exchanged meaningful glances with the other miners. As a young bloke, a new employee and a driller, (reduced status according to ‘real miners’ like airleggers and jumbo operators), I could only have taken one step further down in their eyes. Admitting to being a green-hand had successfully done that. Moron.

The rattling cage rushed down the shaft at high speed. The miners had stirred up the winder operator about going too slow on the previous shift and he was retaliating with a free fall ride. I felt them watch me, hoping that I would lose it. (It happens. I’ve seen blokes freak out as they go down the hole over the years since then. Embarrassing for them and any witnesses.)

Disappointingly, (for them), I made it to the plat, (the opening to an underground level), without crying. A Mahindra 4X4 ute waited for us. A Mahindra is a cheap, Indian made, Suzuki Sierra and this poor little rusty overloaded ute had spent its entire life underground. It had the thousand dents and scratches to prove it. I’d only ever seen this many men stuff themselves into a micro car when I’d been at the circus. FOURTEEN of us climbed in or on it. No one wanted to walk several kilometres to their drives. We were hanging off the sides and back, and a couple rode on the bonnet. The little workhorse was a happy sight at the end of the shifts as well. Walking up the 7 in 1 decline when you’re knackered had zero novelty value.

We were drilling in a deserted part of the mine and had to walk another kilometre or so deeper into the maze. I didn’t think I’d find my way out if the driller broke his leg and mentioned this. He pointed out the services, (air, water, electrical cables), hanging from the backs, (roof), and told me the valves all faced the direction of travel. If I followed them in reverse I should get back to the plat.

Dewatering was only considered important in active mining areas. Exploration was not active mining so these drives were mostly semi-submerged. If you slipped off the higher rocks you’d end up with a boot full of hyper-saline water. Nothing like starting a shift with wet feet. The treacherous floors of loose boulders had to be carefully managed. Tripping resulted in spending the next 7 hours soaked and freezing.

Huge vent doors closed off certain areas and redirected air around the mine. They were a hazard my brief induction had not made clear enough. At least my driller took them seriously. As we struggled to open one massively reinforced barn door a howling gale started up and tried to slam it closed. Even with a counterweight it was bloody hard work. He held it open while I went through and stood back, but not too far. He let go and ran past me down the drive, giggling like a school girl. The air screaming through smashed the door shut. It sounded like the Gates of Hell had closed. I instantly gained great respect for the potential damage a vent doors could do to legs and arms by that display. Aside from attempted murder, the door also brought a tidal wave of filthy water. Before I could run the wave flowed halfway up my crotch. At least the driller had a laugh.

The rig I would get to know well was a Kempe U39 compressed air rig. They were basic and required manual labour at every stage. An offsider had to work damn hard to keep up with it. The motor, its largest piece, weighed over 100 kilograms and I couldn’t lift my side. Withering looks from the driller gave me the incentive to help drag the lump of metal into position and ineffectually help him lift it onto the rig. I knew I’d have to go hard to impress this man and keep my job, so I threw myself into the tasks enthusiastically if not very effectively. I had the muscle mass of a flea and the stamina of a 90 year old.

I was absolutely frigging rooted by the end of the 7 hour shift. I’d made heaps of mistakes and the extreme noise of the rig hadn’t allowed much conversation. The driller screaming requests to get this or that and spending valuable rest minutes desperately fixing my fuck ups occupied me fully.

I was sure he’d sack me. Back topside we stripped off our soaking wet, grease covered clothes and washed ourselves with caustic truck wash solution to get the grease off. (You had to be careful not to get truck wash on the more sensitive parts of you.)

He said. “You did alright, I s’pose. It’s quick shift tonight so make sure you have a sleep. We’ve gotta be back in 8 hours.”

Still tired after 4 hours sleep, and in pain from torn muscles, cuts and bruises, I got ready to go back down the hole. I kind of wished he had given me the arse.

(Like it? See - PART 3)

Underground Mining - PART 1

My first working experience in the real world took place after taking a redundancy payment and leaving my flaccid Government job.

I went gold mining. Underground. Bit of a change really.

The early 1990’s were a time of opportunity so I jumped in my Torana and left Darwin on a whim. The crossroads at Katherine made me toss a coin to choose which way to go. I went west. Western Australia.

It took a while to get to Perth as I drove down the coast looking for a fishing trawler to work on. I found it’s a closed industry. You’d have to kill someone to get on one. Once in Perth I decided to be a miner. I found the shonkiest mob of mine-worker trainers in the paper. They promised high paying jobs at the end of their course. The trainer, an ex-surface driller, knew it all. No worries, here’s my money, teach me to drill.

The course lasted two days and consisted of the most basic surface drilling information.

An introduction to the drilling equipment. (Slide show.)

How not to get squashed or killed. (Shows us missing fingers on his hand.)

How the various rigs worked. (Noisy, dirty and you buggers better move your arse to keep up with the drilling rate.)

And how to use a massive pair of steel Stillson wrenches to break out rods. (We had no rods so we took the paint off all the veranda poles at the training facility and left sharp metal splinters for the next person who leaned on it.)

None of us had ever driven a truck before so the trainer hired a 12 tonne rigid and let us take turns grinding the cogs of a Road Ranger gearbox in an effort to get the truck moving. We were expected to sink or swim if we scored a job and had to drive one for real. His way of weeding out the useless ones. Fair enough. Using the Eaton box came naturally to me after years of battling with the gearstick in my Torana's rooted gearbox. Some of the other guys couldn't work it out. Less competition.

At the end of the course we were handed a badly photocopied list of drilling companies. I naively thought we got to choose which one we wanted to work for. That wasn’t the case. They’d pulled the names from the telephone book and had no prior relationships with most of the companies.

It dawned on me that we’d paid out good money for a worthless certificate and were in no better shape for preferential employment than a bloke off the street.

Not to be discouraged I sent my creatively reworded resume to every name on the list. A week later I scored a job. I didn’t even know I’d applied to an underground operator. I didn’t know what a Kempe compressed air diamond drilling rig was, and I’d never heard of the small town that I had to find on the map.

My employer probably could believe his eyes when a young skinny bloke turned up on his doorstep with zero experience and a big mouth.

He probably didn’t think running around the massive storm drain system under Darwin, ‘inspecting it’, counted as underground experience either.

(See - Underground mining - PART 2.)

Tanami Desert Diary - PART 2

(Return to – PART 1)

What’s in a name? I got my nickname (Coops) in the desert and it has stuck to me for the last 15 years. I barely respond to my real name now.

The necessity to give me a nick name came about at my interview for the Tanami Exploration job. The boss looked at my resume and said “You seem OK, but I don't know. We’ve already got a Mike, a Mick and a Michael out there. It might be confusing on the radio.”

I wanted the job bad enough so I said, “call me Coops.”

My brother worked at the same mine. He was also known as Coops, so I don't know that my theft of his nickname made identifying us any less confusing.

Arriving at a new job already labelled is handy. There’s less likelihood of being tagged with something a creative joker might come up with when you screw up royally. I’ve had good reason to worry about screwing up.

I knew one guy called ‘Whoremonger’. No kidding! He actually introduced himself that way.

I never thought too much about being called Coops until I met a bunch of traditional owners who’d broken down at Rabbit Flat. Another Fieldie and I gave them a hand to fix their car. They shook hands with us as they left and wanted to know our names. I introduced myself as Coops. The elder jerked his head back and said “What? Like chicken coop?” I shrugged and said “yeah, close enough”. My mate was next. Juck. A nick name from childhood when his little brother couldn’t say his real name properly. The elder looked amazed again “Juck? Coops? And you think our names are strange!”

(Coming soon – Tanami Desert Diary – PART 3)