Thunderheads Below

Another long shift end and I meander up the broken ground of the ramp towards the cage and the first of three way-markers to the surface world. Turning the corner my face is assaulted by a wave of heat and a roiling cloud of dust. The dust swirls angrily about lashing at my face and seething by, carried by the burning winds. My headlamp flickers ahead in the partially obscured darkness and I see the reflective tape of a tractor marking the entry to the collar of our 9000 level. Swinging to the left I glance ahead and see a motley collection of lamps ahead. Some pointing to the back others lance toward my own. The men are gathering for our first shuttle home. The cage drops into view and everyone gets into single file, nice and orderly to prepare to board. Stops at 88, 83, 82, 77, 75, 68, 56, 48, and finally 4700 and we have completed the first leg, well almost, as there is now a quarter mile walk to the awaiting train. Camaraderie and friendly cajoling accompany the walking trail of the near dead. Not many have any sort of energy remaining but whatever expenditure lies ahead far outshines the prospect of remaining behind so we push on. The air is cooler and slices through wet coveralls but it is refreshing at the same time, heavier with oxygen and lighter in noxious diesel. Weary bones and aching muscles creak and groan as more than a hundred men pile into the small open cars of the train. Eyes and teeth poke out of the intermittent light showing the smiling faces of the men whose lifework is plying a filthy trade in the bowels of the earth. Even after whatever individual difficulties each has faced the knowing looks of men recalling families and lives on the surface world begin to bolster faded energies. A blaring dual blast of the horn and the iron wheels begin squealing as the train pulls out and into the mile-long tunnel ahead. The rush of air muffles the conversations of men seeing hours ahead. The noise almost quells the voices but some are loud enough to carry broken bits on the winds. The tunnel is completely straight until the last corner, which indicates the end of the ride. As we enter it, the men about me begin gathering their water jugs, lunch-pails, tools, and other gear. Ready to hand for a quick disembarking and final walk to the last cage. A slow and grinding halt and a slight jolt stop the iron horse and we pour out of the open doorways to turn the corner into the raging winds from surface that pour down the main shaft. The last vestiges of wetness expire in the face of the cool tongue of icy winter above. It licks at our bodies and reminds us of what lies ahead. A brief wait and the cage arrives. Two decks fill and the cage tender rings the bells to send us heavenward. The smell in the tight confines congeals and is gratefully broken by the gusts from each level as we race upwards. A slow light bouncing stop and we are back at the head-frame area. The door slides up and men pour forth like rats from a sinking ship. Past the waiting area, and into the hallway where lamps are set to charge on the lamp racks for the next day. Up the final flight of stairs and the tag board where filthy fingers pilfer the tag that somehow manages to represent a single man in the vastness below.
Just as I drop down a level to our wicket to file my report for the day. The air goes quite and then a resounding blast echoes throughout the halls. Tiles in the shower fall to the floor. Desks are shaken and our counter rocks back and forth. Men stumble to regain their footing and paint peels from the walls in sheets. Concern and astonishment lights on the faces of every person as they look about to find some cause for this disturbance. Concussive waves emanate from the ground below and talk goes immediately to some improperly timed blast that has gone awry.
(con't)