MINING

 
The flight from one of those distant fly-in, fly-out camps was diverted to another province — lightening at the intended airport precluded landing — so we flew to another place to top up on fuel. I fretted and fumed. I wanted to get home. I knew I would miss the 6 p.m. flight and who knows when the next leaves, or if seats are available. I felt ignominious in the presence of the others on the flight who joked, laughed, and chatted as though nothing untoward had occurred.
Yet they had spent upward of two to three weeks on site and were now headed home for fourteen days of family and life. This delay of a few hours appeared to be nothing to them. Many still had long, overnight flights to Quebec City or Port Hardy. Their flights at the intended airport did not leave ‘til midnight or they still had a night in a local hotel before catching a flight at ten the next day.
As one of them put it to me when I calmed and started to chat along with the rest: “Fourteen days on; four days travel; and ten with the kids.”
They chatted about old work crews, bosses now departed, mines now closed, and colleagues now dead. They gossiped about current co-workers, bosses, and newly appointed VPs. I dare not repeat what they said; I would be censored soon enough. But they were clear-eyed and perceptive in their assessments of upper management: avoid spending, decisions, and trouble.
Having missed my connecting flight and having four hours to the next available flight, I headed straight to the bar. For two nights I had eaten and gone to bed sans alcohol. I was parched and in great need of a stiff drink. (Although it had been nice to wake up with an entirely clear head.)
“How do they go fourteen days without a drink?” was the question uppermost in my mind. “Must be the money that makes it possible,” my reasoning. I dared not ask them; although a fair number were also in the bar quaffing beers.
On site as part of my visit, we got in the truck and travelled around site. The air was cold, the sky blue, and the snow a dirty dust. But at least we were outside.
“How do they spend fourteen days inside?” was another question on my mind. “Must be devotion to work and a disinclination to be outdoors,” was my tentative explanation. Although the fellow en route to the northern tip of Vancouver Island assured me that he would spend ten days outside fishing and that would help relieve the pain of too much inside.
I suppose the long, regular meetings provide a touch of stimulation to relieve the boredom of long days away from family. They all seem friends as they sit yet again in the canteen. They sit at the usual tables, with the usual folk, and chat about the same topics.
That is life lived around the routine of a fly-in, fly-out mine. It is nice to visit occasionally. It is impressive to see how the hardy miners do it. And it is humbling to see their patience in the face of my chagrin.
For more from Jack Caldwell, see his blog, I Think Mining
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