High in the upper right corner of our new stope face, I had seen a large piece of twelve-by-twelve square-set timber that I estimated to be three feet long. I knew from a lot of experience lifting similar remnants during the sand-fill clean-out phase that waterlogged pieces that size tended to be extremely heavy—so heavy, in fact, that it usually took both Anthony and me to lift one and move it to the side.
This particular piece was embedded in the sand at the corner of the exposed face on the right. It was clearly visible, and we should have brought it down before beginning to drill. While it was up high, the block of wood seemed to be far enough away from the small mound that I intended to drill and blast flat that Anthony and I would be safe. It could be dealt with later when we actually got to drilling the face. Still, I had resolved to keep an eye on it and asked Al to do the same.
As was a helper’s responsibility, Anthony was setting up the drilling machine while I surveyed the job, all the while obsessing over the trying weekend I had experienced. Having already planned out the operation in the days prior, I wasn’t getting into much detail with myself about the job by considering options and alternatives. The end result was that I overlooked safety.
I have mentioned previously that when at full speed, the Ingersol1-Rand drilling machine made an ear-splitting racket and literally shook the entire environment in the immediate proximity of its operation. One downside was that talking or yelling to my partner became impossible with the machine running, so we relied on hand signals and stayed relatively close to one another for that purpose while the drill was on. Both partners constantly watched the back and ribs for signs of loose slabs and, when seeing one, would stop the drilling long enough to take care of it.
The vibrations the machine caused usually didn’t have any effect on a work area properly supported. It was why most miners would never drill without stulls or a roof jack or both. Many, me included, would build square-sets right out to the face and use that for support and cover. But then, in the 502 things were different.
While this was not a ballroom, the back was too high in places to install a roof jack or a stull. The shape of the open area was too irregular for square-sets.
Anthony and I had used scaling bars and, in the spots we could reach, chipped away at the back, peeling off any piece of rock that had the potential for danger. Out in front of where I would be drilling, only that large chunk of wood high in the sand to the right posed any potential problem. If Anthony and I both kept an eye on it, I thought we would be fine.
With Anthony standing a few feet off to my left, I let the drill roar to life. Once again real production mining had returned to the 502.
With the machine going full speed, I stood there in the rejuvenated 502 with one hand on the throttle and let my mind wander back to the weekend. Most other days I would have been more aware of what was happening in the stope and might have seen the wall of sand that had been vibrated loose and was cascading toward me. But not that day.
The huge wall of sand to my right broke free along with that three-foot section of square-set post. Somehow I was not buried by the sand but was hit squarely in the back by the waterlogged chunk.
Getting hit hurt, and I knew in an instant that even if I didn’t get buried by the sand, I wouldn’t be getting up and walking out of this one. It was no little slab from which I stood up wondering what had happened. Oh no, this was something much more.
The rush of sand stopped, and I was left lying on top of it, miraculously saved from burial within. I lay there in agonizing pain, having great difficulty breathing, gasping for air.
Anthony Gonzalez, while grazed by the wall of sand, had managed to escape the worst of it by dashing toward the manway. When the sand stopped falling in, he had come running over to where I lay. He might have wished he hadn’t.
I grabbed his arm and put a death grip on it that had to have hurt, and I wouldn’t let go. It wasn’t that he didn’t try to leave to find help, because he did, but I wasn’t letting him go anywhere.
Several minutes passed, and I was still having some difficulty breathing and still squeezing Anthony’s arm for all I was worth. Then, slowly, I began to recover my breath.
As I experienced intense pain, it dawned on me that assistance was needed. It was then that I loosened my grip on Anthony. When I did so he was gone in a flash, down the manway on the way for help.
Section 35 had a rescue team that was fast, professional and serious. The guys I had come into contact with who worked rescue seemed to rarely smile, perhaps because they had seen too much or perhaps because so many depended on them. I had seen this team in action and knew that once Anthony let them know where I was, it wouldn’t be long until they reached me.
Because the 502 was a relatively short distance to the station, it must have taken Anthony no longer than five minutes to reach a shift boss or a telephone. In approximately ten minutes, the rescue team arrived. Not knowing which would be needed, they brought along a rescue board used to transport miners suspected of sustaining a back or neck injury and a basket used for those having suffered, for example, a broken or missing limb.
The man leading the rescue team was James Baca, one of the premier miners at Section 35. He did jobs nobody else could do or would do, and he volunteered for both. He was making around $300 an hour from what I saw on the miner’s contract board, and while I didn’t know exactly what he did to earn that kind of money, I knew he must have been very good at whatever it was.
I didn’t know James Baca, so here we were meeting for the first time, with me lying there doing all I could not to scream out in agony and him trying to get me to the surface as quickly as possible. I was reassured when James told me it wouldn’t be long before they got me out of there.
I was in a tough spot, knowing I couldn’t get up and save myself, knowing I had to rely on others for that. Fortunately, I could move around a little, and everything on my body seemed to be working, but there was definitely something wrong with my back.
Having ascertained the type of injury they were dealing with, the rescue crew took great care in lifting me onto the stretcher board, strapping me in and tying me down so that even had I wanted to move, it became impossible. Four members of the crew then picked me up and headed off toward the only way down to track level, the manway.
When we reached the manway, there was some discussion among the rescue crew as to how exactly I was to be lowered. It was finally agreed to attach the stretcher to the winch used to lift supplies and slowly lower me that way. There wouldn’t be anyone with me on this trip, and it would be a slow one.
Fortunately, the manway was only about twenty-five feet down to track level, so while it was a slow trip, it was also a short one.
A few more of the rescue crew were waiting at the bottom of the manway, and when I arrived they carefully removed me, and we all headed to the station at the quickest pace they could manage.
When we reached the station, the cage was waiting, and up we went. I estimate that from the time of the accident to reaching the surface could not have been much more than twenty minutes, if that. I have always been grateful to the rescue personnel, themselves miners, who acted with such urgency and took such great care to get me out of there.
Now I was lying there in the Dry staring up at the curious faces. Thankfully Shotgun had everyone get back to what they were doing, and I was lying there alone, waiting for the ambulance.