R. Saunders - Underground and Radioactive

Somewhere in the recesses of my mind has lingered the thought, however farfetched, that maybe, someday, somehow, some way, I could do it all again. That, perchance, the call would go out for experienced though older, much older, former miners. The time has come to acknowledge the personal collection of mining experiences and anecdotes I have been harboring for many years now will be expanding no further, and should be shared.

I suppose for some, who spend the bulk of their working lives moving from one mining boomtown to another, there is nothing especially unique about that life but, unbeknownst to me at the time, my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity was to live and work in one such place in New Mexico, then known as the “Uranium Capital of the World.”

Though decades have passed since I last set foot in a uranium mine, not many days go by that I don’t miss both working underground and living in a boomtown. It was an exciting time to have lived through and left an indelible imprint on many of us who experienced it.

Although much has been written about the merits and faults of the uranium mining industry, neither of which I touch upon here, frustratingly little has been written about the life of an underground uranium miner.

Even less is known about those working underground at Ambrosia Lake, an ancient, long waterless seabed in northwest New Mexico that is part of the Grants mineral belt.

Over the years I have occasionally told interested listeners about working underground, drilling, blasting, and mucking the sandstone of Ambrosia Lake.

I always enjoyed talking about my time underground, sometimes relishing the incredulity expressed by the listener that often followed the conclusion of the anecdote, but more often appreciating the opportunity to recall the humor of it all because, while mining is deadly serious, much of what happened underground was just plain funny.

The passing of time hasn’t tempered the humor much, although it became apparent over the years that my outlook back then was a luxury afforded to me by having no family, no responsibilities, no bills, and no life experience to speak of.

Recounting these experiences took me back underground to the unique sights, sounds, and smells. I especially recalled the characters and personalities that, as the years go by, continue to stand out for their singular uniqueness.

There is no other fragrance or resonance I know equal to that produced by the Jackleg rock drill operating at full bore; no other sight that matches that of walking up to a miner sitting atop a couple of hundred pounds of dynamite and casually finishing up his cigarette; and no more colorful characters than miners who spent the majority of their working lives underground.

These were the sights and sounds and smells I loved and the people I admired and respected, and each time I had a chance to talk about everything and everyone was to once again step on the cage and back underground.

The experiences and anecdotes I share here are true to the best of my recollection. They come from the small world of a sole miner, working on one level of a single mine among over one hundred in the Ambrosia Lake area. My goal is to provide the reader with my interpretation of specific events as I experienced them.

There were many unique personalities to be found underground and unfortunately, due to the confines of the relatively small areas I worked and the limited number of people who were in them, I didn’t get to meet everyone at my particular mine, undoubtedly missing some good anecdotes too.

I never worked with a woman during my time underground although I am aware of at least two who worked on another level of my particular mine, so I am unable to comment in this narrative as to what specifically they were doing. However, there were relatively few job classifications in ore production and none of them were easy. If you were there, you did the work.

There were a number of Native Americans, from the nearby Navajo reservation and the Zuni, Acoma and Laguna pueblos, who worked underground but as was the case with women I never had occasion to work with them.

With few exceptions the conversations I recall here are composites of specific situations as I remember them and should not be considered verbatim.

Where possible, I used the actual names of the people I worked with. I infrequently used aliases because while I have forgotten some names, I haven’t forgotten the experiences.

A special thank you to the New Mexico Mining Museum in Grants, New Mexico, for their spectacularly authentic recreations of what life was like underground and for preserving the history of uranium mining in New Mexico through their many wonderful exhibits.

The New Mexico Mining Museum is located just off I-40 on historic Route 66.

Please visit the museum’s Facebook page for more museum photographs, announcements, and contact information.

The New Mexico Mining Museum

100 Iron Ave.

Grants, NM 87020

For additional information about Grants, New Mexico, Cibola County, and beautiful western New Mexico, please visit www.grants.org.

I thought I was going to live. That hadn’t seemed likely an hour earlier when I was fighting to breathe and unable to move. Although I wasn’t out of the woods yet, the veil of uncertainty was slowly lifting.

The mine rescue squad had gotten to me quickly, and now I was at the surface again on a stretcher board, waiting for an ambulance to take me into town and to the hospital.

As I lay there staring up at the faces peering down at me, it was the notion that I might get out of this that dulled the searing pain I felt in my back. There had been many injuries in the past two years at Section 35, but this time it was me lying there, looking up at all those faces.

I thought, don’t you guys have anything better to do? I was ashamed that a time or two I had been among the circle of faces.

I heard Shotgun’s authoritative voice. “Men, we don’t need you here; get on out about your work.” Thank you, Shotgun.

On occasion I had heard or read about people in situations like I was now in, or worse, where the first thing that came to mind was, how did I end up here? Not so for me. I knew.

The curious crowd dispersed, and I was alone there on the floor, waiting, thinking.

The furthest things from my mind just a couple of years earlier were the thoughts I was having now of how much I’d miss the underground work that I had come to love.

When I arrived at Illinois Wesleyan University as a new student from suburban Chicago, my first stop had been the front desk of Magill Hall, an all-male residence unit. As I was checking in, the student aide in charge of handing out room keys and other information pertinent to life in the dorm informed me that my roommate would be Cowboy. I looked at the aide and said, “My roommate is Cowboy?”

“Yeah, you got Cowboy. That’s your roommate, Cowboy. Room 232. Go up these stairs right here. Matter of fact I think he’s up there now.”