THIS OLD MINE, AN ESSAY ON SURVIVING

THIS OLD MINE

 

The skeletons of the past

Cutting into the mountain's skyline

Remain anchored to the hillsides

Like old gnarled mesquite.

Their rusted crumbling features remain

Despite all men's efforts

To build 'round them

Or ignore their presence in this place.

 

Dust rises and then settles

On these still‑bound creatures

As I pass them. 

I continue on in haste.

Mine nor others' rumblings

Have yet to cause them pain.

Our passing is only

An instant of their grief.

Oh, how proud they must have

Stood in their day of glory.

 

I wonder what stories are held

In the dust on their timbers

And the scaling on their walls.

I wonder if they've served

Their time in full.

I wonder if they cry for my concern

Or if they're only as they seem‑‑

Just a record of man's efforts to survive.

 

As they wait in patience

Firmly holding to their hills,

These challenging scepters on the skyline

Dare man to progress past their evidence.

They lie in wait

Only giving in to nature's

Grizzly hand of time‑‑

Losing err so slowly.

 

Will they be there when I'm gone;

Like generations in pasts I've not known?

I feel some remorse in leaving

In a passive sign of interest and of care.

I'll not lay hold of these creations

Nor will I pass judgment on their peace.

Their fatal retention is my sorrow.

 

 

              February 26, l989

 

 MIAMI ARIZONA, 1989

 

           Miami Arizona is a small town in East Central Arizona that was once a booming mining town with an equally dynamic popula­tion that grew and waned over the years while mining companies made it big then shut down because of the economy or went broke. Over and over the mines rose out of the dust of previous ventures driven by wars and cycli­cal econo­mies. When the wars were over or when the economy took another plunge, the towns and the mines either died or were reduced in size and scope. Like nature's own dramatic chang­es, man's efforts to find a new way to capture and produce the cop­per and gold hidden deep in the mountain's guts caused changes in the landscape so phenomenal that no one who remembers back then would be able to tell even where things had been before.

         Holes were blasted and the mineral-bearing earth was re­moved. Waste material, hauled away from the mine-site was piled high and dumped over banks covering everything in its way. Buildings and processing structures that once stood proud no longer cast their shad­ow under these mounds of waste material. Conveyors, corrugated iron walls of buildings and trusses no longer existed in their original form. Most either stood rusted and crumbling or bent over from the winds and bull-dozers. Other structures hung there in pieces on their foun­da­tions where they had once proudly stood. All that were left seemed to mourn of their loss, standing wounded against the actions of the sun and rain. Some were hang­ing off their piers like they were waiting, waiting for that day when life would be pumped back in their veins.

         I traveled to this place for the first time in February 1989 and the impressions I have of it never left me. While I was there working on a consulting assignment, in my spare time I walked around and drove from site to site look­ing at these edific­es. Wherever I went, I saw the skeletal struc­tures of the past secured on the mountain's sides where they remained an­chored to massive concrete foundations. Like old gnarled mes­quite, their rusting, crumbling structures stood despite the mining companies' efforts to build around them.

         Dust rose when I drove by some of these features of my visible landscape. I passed most of them with dissolute glances while I contin­ued in haste to keep from disturbing their solitude. At first I felt nervous that my rumbling by would cause them more pain. But I concluded that my breach would only be an instant in their grief. When I looked at some of these structures closer, however, I thought, Oh, how proud they must have stood in their day of glory.

         I wondered what stories they held in their past, these buildings and structures and holes. I'm sure the dust on the timbers and sheet metal shells, and the scaling paint on their sides said some­thing. I wondered if they'd served their time in full. I won­dered if they cry for my concern or if they're only as they seem . . . just a record of man's efforts to survive.

         While these monsters of the past wait in patience, firmly anchored to their foundations, these challenging scepters on the skyline dare man to progress past their evidence. They seem to lie in wait only giving in reluctantly to nature's grizzly hand of time . . . losing ever so slow­ly. Will they be there when I'm gone like generations in the past? I wondered. I'll never know. But I do know that man will continue his persistent struggle to survive and wars will bring him back to these dying places for their hidden treasures.

         Just before I left this place I was travel­ing down along one of the wide abandoned ore-haulage roads to get back to town. The road for this partic­ular open-pit mine that I was on had once been a main haul-road from the pit down to the mill. When the road rounded a bend it entered what had once been a vil­lage, obvious­ly by its position a company housing complex. The houses that still remained stood vacant and boarded up. The wide haul-road cut through the edge of what had once been the village and I was certain that some of the homes must have been covered or moved when the road was built. However, just as I was round­ing the last bend before leaving this ghost town, part of one home that was there next to the road was still standing. About ten feet had been removed from the corner of the home to make way for the road leav­ing the rest of the home untouched. I stopped my car so I could get a better look. Dingy, dusty curtains still hung on the inside of the remaining boarded win­dows. A table stood resilient next to one wall-papered wall and a picture hung on another. It all seemed silent and peaceful. I stayed but a moment, not wanting to violate this peaceful scene any more than it already had been.

         I felt some remorse in leaving the Miami Mining District and the people that still live in the town. I had developed a passionate interest and caring for all I had seen of the abandoned mine and the town’s remaining survivors. I hold no judgment on their resilience and I marvel at their ability to survive.