He had a Bowie Knife...

“…. He Had A Bowie Knife Strapped To His Leg ...”

 

Over my career, I’ve had a lot of unique, one-of-a-kind experiences at work, some of which were very serious.  Ones that required my utmost attention for fear of loss of limb or life.  In some cases they made my heart skip a beat, and there were a few that made it stop.  Some were stupid or goofy or outright funny, others made you thankful that you went to church.  One of the weirdest, maybe the most disturbing experiences I had occurred during the construction of my third airshaft.  

 

This shaft was for the Bailey Mine, the most productive and most profitable underground coal mine in America.  The shaft was a little unique in that its purpose was to pull “return air” from a series of longwall panels 600 feet below the surface.  It was strategically placed at the back end of the 8,000-foot longwall panels to suck out the explosive methane, that might lay in the caved-in ruins after the longwall miner removed the coal.  Thus the term “return air”.  By most standards, it was a small shaft, 10 feet in diameter, just over 600 feet deep with a 400 horsepower centrifugal fan.  It was unique in many ways to me.  First, it was a “blind hole” shaft, a shaft-sinking technology that I had not been exposed to, not necessarily a big challenge, just a new one.  Second, it would use a centrifugal fan, which has a much different performance characteristic than the axial ones I installed on my previous two shafts.  Together they were probably indiscernible differences to laymen, and even most coal miners, but not to the engineer responsible for the budget and schedule.

The shaft’s location is a major factor in this story.  The shaft was 6 miles from the Bailey Mine’s portal, prep plant, and offices, but to get to this site it was a 15-mile trek on public roads.   

The shaft was located up a hollow (it is called a Hollow in Pennsylvania, or a Holler in West Virginia), about 3 miles from the nearest two-lane highway.  Overall it was about a 60-minute drive from the Regional Office.  By all standards, it was located in what many would recognize as deep Appalachia.  If I was going to visit this construction site it essentially shot my day.  Like all hollows, it had a small creek that ran through the middle of it. In this case, the creek was on the left-hand side of the road as you would drive up towards the airshaft site.  Unlike most hollows, the road was paved. The creek did not crisscross the road.  Also unlike most hollows, there was not a power line running up the road, so the tree canopy over the road was dense and the brush along the sides of the road was thick.  The canopy and cover of the road made for a nice green umbrella, on a summer day it provided shade and, in the winter it almost kept the snow from reaching the road.  Both sides of the hollow were steeply pitching.  Driving up this hollow there was a near vertical wall of rocks and trees on your right, and on the left was a sharp drop off, 10-15 feet to the creek, no guardrails of course.  Although we were still in Pennsylvania it had the look and characteristics of a deep Southern West Virginia or Kentucky holler. 

The shaft site was carved into the hillside across from the creek.  Due to the terrain, we had to construct a sharp switchback to get to an elevation that gave us enough width to build the construction pad.  The switchback was so sharp that it required a 3-point turn of the pickup truck. 

The construction site was about 3 acres in total; one acre was for the shaft and future fan. The remaining 2 acres were for the cuttings pit and sedimentation pond.   It was designed to hold the cuttings and drilling fluids that would come out of the blind hole shaft.  
For this site, the civil design and layout were done by the Bailey Mine Engineer and his draftsman. Once the earthwork contractor with his dozer crew showed up on site, they laid it out and constructed the pad within a few weeks.  As with anything new, the fresh site initially looked great.  But after the first rain, the place turned into a mud hole.  The designers forgot to put in a water-divergent ditch up above the cut line.

 

After some spring rains, it was obvious that a significant change order was needed to resolve the water issue.  
During an extended rainstorm that lasted two days, I drove out to check the site, but just before I left I called the Mine Engineer and asked that he meet me out there.  While at the site we evaluated the conditions to our astonishment, right there before our eyes, we witnessed a geological slip when about a third of an acre of the hillside slipped down into the cuttings pit (think California mudslide). 
For any mining-civil engineering student, this was a once-in-a-lifetime event, and it was a sign of an obvious failure of the site design.  A week later I was out at the site with an earthwork contractor, fixing the slip and installing a divergence ditch.   One of the many times in my career I would find myself cleaning up other people’s mistakes.    

While the site construction was underway, I was busy with the shaft and fan specifications and bidding the work out to several contractors.  During this process, I found out was there was only one company, Zeni Drilling that performed blind hole drilling of air shafts. Thus, making this project a much dreaded “sole-sourced project”.  However, just before we sent out the bid package our Purchasing Department got a call from a former Zeni Drilling manager, asking if his new company could bid on the project.

This disgruntled manager formed a new company called NA Drillers.  Seeking some competition for this million-dollar project and realizing that there were at least another six similar shafts to be built in the next few years, I felt that developing some competition was crucial to keeping the shaft cost within budget.  Sounds simple on paper, and of course upper management thought it was a great idea,  but in reality, developing a new competitor in any industry is tough and filled with risks.  And yes, it goes against all the fair play rules to award a project to a brand new, untested, uninsured, with no financial history.  Especially if it’s an off-shoot of a competitor, headed up by a disgruntled field manager. 

As more of a lark than a focused strategy, I agreed with the Purchasing Department to bid out the work, expecting Zeni Drilling to bury NA Drillers with a lowball price.  My thought train was that Zeni would never let an ex-employee underbid them.  So when the bids came in I was shocked to see that both prices were well below the budgeted values and the NA Drillers bid was substantially lower than Zeni’s!

 

My reaction was like that of a dog that chases a car and unexpectedly catches the car.  OK, now what do I do?  I instinctively knew that if it was awarded to NA Driller I was headed for a lot of trouble, wrangling over commercial terms, change orders, and schedule slippage.  
In the confusion of my many other projects and daily tasks, I lost track of this contract and its procession through the Purchasing Department.  Assuming that in the 2nd round of bidding the more experienced contractor would prevail.  So I was stunned to hear the Purchasing Department awarded the contract to NA Drillers. Apparently, the standard commercial terms like creditworthiness, experience, and safety records that I thought would rule out NA Drillers were overlooked.  The explanation I got was that these aspects were glossed over “just this one time”.  No doubt the contract price was 99% of the evaluation. 

With nothing that I could do to change the award, I set up a meeting with the principals of the company.  We held the meeting at the Regional Office, two people showed up: the ex-manager from Zeni Drilling and his partner, a young man in his 30s.  It became clear pretty quickly that this was a two-man company, the young man was an investor, who acted as the business manager, but he was greener than me, apparently, he, or his family, had money.  The ex-manager had the experience and strong leadership skills, but when I asked to have a visit to their field office and inspect their equipment, I got some vague, BS responses.  Of course, I dug deeper and eventually, they revealed that they did not have any drilling equipment at all!  It was all being procured and in the process of being delivered.  We closed the meeting with promises by NA Drilling to have the equipment on the site within 60 days.  

The next 60 days were filled with phone calls and meetings as they explained how the manufacturing of the critical 80-foot tall tripod was progressing, of course, it was behind schedule.  Eventually, the tripod was finished and showed up on site.  I arranged to be on-site the day after the tripod arrived.  The foundations for it had been placed weeks before, so once the multiple truckloads were unloaded, it was a quick effort to hoist it into place.  I must say that it did look majestic, but it also looked naked.  At that point panic hit me, while focused on getting the tripod to the site, I never really asked about the massive 20-ton drilling bit or the 1000-hp engine that would drive this monster.  Again, I had never done a “blind hole” shaft before, lessons were being learned.

The ex-manager had his excuses, but his delays were eating away at the float in the schedule.  With some relief, the 1000 hp engine did show up a few days later along with some of the shaft casings.  However, it was apparent that there were issues with procuring and delivering the critical shaft bit.  The ex-manager had mentioned numerous times the bit had been procured from a mining company in Mexico, where it was used as a tunnel boring machine.  But there was always an excuse explaining why the delivery was being delayed.  With time running out, I issued an ultimatum, if the drill bit wasn’t on site in 7 days I would kick them off the site and terminate their contract.  

Of course, Consol’s Purchasing and Legal Departments went nuts when they heard of this.  A quick meeting was pulled together at the Regional Office with me, my boss, Purchasing, Legal, and the Regional VP.  Legal and Purchasing wanted my ass, or at least to be disciplined, but some firm and short explanations by me quickly won over the Regional VP.  He understood the overall risk and chastised Legal and Purchasing for not listening to my earlier concerns.   He didn’t stop there and admonished them and their zest to bring in unproven competition and how it exposed the company to major safety issues let alone a major timing and ventilation issue with the company’s most profitable coal mine.  He also gave some words to my boss for not supporting me and putting me in this difficult position.  It was a good day to be me.  It was an experience I would use to judge my future supervisors.                    

With the 7-day deadline established, the NA Driller ex-manager jumped on the next flight out of Pittsburgh to Mexico.  On day 6 a low boy tractor trailer showed up with the massive drill bit!  It was a 12-foot diameter bit, not the drill bit found in your garage or basement.  There were rumors that they had to pay off the Mexican customs officers at the border, but I generally dismissed it. No time for rumors, we needed to get this machine drilling.  Amazingly, it only took two days to assemble the rest of the rig and get that massive bit into the ground. 
Once the drilling got started there seemed to be no stopping this newly arranged combination of drill bit, caterpillar engine, and 80 ft tall structure.  Like all large machines, it can be mesmerizing to watch.  But, as the bit progressed down the hole, the site developed a problem.  There was a small leak from the partially sunk shaft.  

I know you were wondering when the “educational lesson” part of this story would play out, well here it is.  A blind hole shaft is essentially like drilling a typical oil or gas well.  As the drill bit progresses down the hole, drilling fluid is used to fill the void left behind. This drilling fluid is made up of water and bentonite, a specialized form of common clay.  It’s a standard industry practice that’s been utilized from the beginning of deep well drilling (late 1800s).  

Losing water in the hole is a major concern, it jeopardizes the stability of the hole (sides caving in) and can lead to environmental issues. Fortunately, the leak stopped after a few days. 

*****

During this time period, my plate was full at work, it seemed like I was working 60+ hours a week on various field projects. The office work alone associated with creating and reviewing permits and the monthly and quarterly mine planning activities took up 30+ hours a week.  Plus, I was newly married and was building a home on a 10-acre lot.
A lot of my time was lost traveling between the mines, work sites, and the regional office.  In a few ways, the long drives had a positive impact on me, it gave me some valuable time to think, especially since the company pickup truck didn’t have a radio and cell phones were more than a dozen years away.

 
Another side benefit to the long drives was that it greatly improved my driving skills.  Whether I was driving my pickup or the company one, racing around the West Virginia and Western Pennsylvania hills was a nice little benny.  The Dukes of Hazards had nothing on me.  It only took me a week or two to find the shortest path between the project sites and the regional office.  On more than one occasion these shortcuts would go off the map, I mean that literally, I would use old-abandoned logging roads or power lines right-of-way to shave off some miles or minutes

.

These trips were adventurous and fun at the same.  Having a four-wheel drive pickup truck allowed me to traverse these nonpublic trails, but one of my favorite feats was when I could put the truck in rear-wheel drive and zip down a dirt or gravel road and let the light backend of the truck fishtail on every corner.  

*****

The next week I was back at the project site.  The shaft was down about 400 feet of the eventual 600 feet depth.  Coincidentally, Paul, the Mine Engineer from Bailey Mine, was there, it was a pleasant surprise to see him.  We walked the site, while I explained the details of the operation.

 

Like me, he was amazed at the whole process, specifically how a relatively small 100 hp air compressor, utilizing the Venturi effect, could raise the cuttings of the drill bit 400 feet down the hole and bring it up to the manmade cuttings pit.  He was even more amazed when I reached into the edge of the pond and showed him the banana-shaped-sized rock cuttings each about 5 lbs. in weight.  

While we stood there, about 100 feet from the shaft sinking operation we looked back at the rig and watched as the two-man crew began to change out the 10-inch diameter drill rod and add another 40-foot string.  I had seen this process a thousand times, from small core drilling rigs that could be hitched to the back of a pickup truck to the big boy rigs that could go down a mile or more for oil or natural gas deposits.  It’s a simple repetitive process, but dangerous, that we have all seen in movies many times.  One wrong move and the driller helper/roughneck or roustabout could easily lose a finger, hand, arm, or his life.  

It was immediately clear to me that this specific rod change-out was different, for some reason, the operator had wrapped a chain around the turntable chuck and raised it to the top of the rig.  This chuck is an integral part of the rig, it transfers the power of the 1000 hp caterpillar chain drive into a circular motion to turn the drill bit.  It’s a very stout piece of steel about 3 feet in length and width and six inches thick of tempered steel that weighed 2 or 3 tons. 

As we started to walk to the rig to see what the problem was, we could hear the caterpillar engine struggling for no obvious reason.  It was puzzling since the rig was not drilling.  We watched as the roustabout got down on his knees and bent over to look into the hole where the turntable chuck was normally located. Maybe there was something wrong with the turntable drive system we thought.  We were now about 40 feet from the rig when we heard the roustabout holler instructions over the whaling of the engine to the operator.  Either he heard it wrong or accidentally pulled the wrong lever, in either case, his action put an additional strain of upward pressure on the chain holding the turntable chuck about 40 feet above his head.  

Simultaneously we both knew this was wrong, deadly wrong, in unison we both hollered to stop, and ran towards the rig, but the noise of the rig drowned out our pleas and neither the operator nor the roustabout saw us.  It happened in just a few seconds, yet it played out in super-slow motion.  The strain on the chain caused it to snap and release the 3-ton chuck.  It plummeted down the 40 ft drill rod to its home, the hole in the turntable. 

The only thing between it and its normal resting place on the turntable was the head of the roustabout.  In a split second that I have run through my mind a thousand times, the roustabout raised his head just in time to let the free-falling 3-ton block of steel whooshed by and hit its natural home within the turntable.  The collision was loud and violent, but it was not bloody.  By some luck or guardian angel the block missed his head.  The force of the collision rocked the whole structure and threw him back about 6 feet almost knocking him off the drilling worktable itself.  

We arrived at the rig and climbed up the 6-foot ladder to the worktable, fully expecting to see a decapitated man.  There we found a smiling roustabout, a skinny, man in his 20’s laughing off his near-death experience.  The drill operator had a much closer view of it all and he was shaken to the core.  He tried to hide his ashen face as he fell to his knees.  His in-attention almost got his colleague killed and the guilt was overwhelming him.  We stayed on the rig for about 15 minutes talking to both of them, as they gathered their wits. 
Then it became apparent to us there were two choices in front of them.  They either would leave the site, and likely would never come back, or they would suck it up and go back to work.  They choose the latter.  Paul left the site, with a “hope we never see something like that again” comment back to me.  I stayed behind and reviewed some papers in my truck as I watched them.  I stayed until the end of the shift and tooted my horn at them as they drove off, down the hollow in their pickup truck, maybe to return to a loved one, but definitely in search of a cold bottle.    

          
It took another two weeks but eventually, the drill reached the coal seam and the drilling phase stopped.  At this point, the massive drill bit was raised and removed from the hole via a reversal of the process used while drilling.  The next phase started as large casings of steel, were dropped down into the shaft to provide the permanent walls.  These casings would be 10 feet in diameter and about 20 feet long. The sections that would be placed at the bottom of the shaft would be made of massive 4-inch thick metal and the last pieces installed near the surface were about 1 inch thick.  By any standard these were big, massive sections of pipe.

 
YET, this project with all of its issues: a virgin contractor, bribes at the border, and a possible decapitation, all together they did not add to what I would experience next!

*****

It was a few weeks later, the installation of the shaft casings had come to an end and the massive casings were permanently grouted into place. On my next trip to the site, I arrived just after dawn to watch the pouring of the concrete for the fan foundation.  With only seven concrete trucks the pour went quickly.  The proper concrete samples were taken and I witnessed the required vibration of the concrete as it was placed between the steel rebars. 

With some spare time, I decided to do one last check of the adjoining creek to make sure that any runoff from the site had not reached these waters.  I climbed down from the paved road to the creek bed. The creek was 3-4 feet wide, at this time of the year it was mostly dry. Using it as a path I walked the entire two miles down to where it emptied into a nice-sized stream.  

The confluence of the two waters was a rather pretty sight, very tranquil.  The main stream was trout-stocked.  It was about 15 to 20 feet wide and even with the heat of summer it ran 4 to 6 inches deep.  As it meandered through the valley it seemed to play with the geological layout of the land, creating some very picturesque pools.  These pools were located mostly on the bends of the stream, each with its own overhanging trees that provided shade and kept the summer sun from heating the waters.  It was pretty evident that the trout loved these small pools of cooler water as it was easy to spot half a dozen or more in each pool.  

Although there was no business reason to do so, I traversed down the stream a few hundred yards, just to enjoy the scenery and spot as many trout as I could.  It was fun and challenging to cut back and forth across the stream, always landing on a dry rock.  The water was crystal clear and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, making for a rather warm September day.  I made a mental note to come back in a few weeks when the fall foliage would be at its peak.  With this melancholy moment behind me, some guilt set in and I realized I needed to get back to the site.  
I worked my way back to the intersection of the two creeks.  I climbed back up to the main road.  Immediately across the road, from where I emerged, was an old burnt-out farmhouse.  Probably built in the late 1800s or early 1900s.  I paused and thought of how a long-forgotten family would have built that home and how they lived in such isolation.  I imagined how they likely farmed the meadows on the sides of the stream, how they were schooled, how they probably made seasonal trips to the nearby towns to get supplies and wondered how many times they would have fished in the stream, ala Little House on the Prairie.

The afternoon was upon me, I knew that the thick canopy on the hollow road would make the trip back to the pickup truck a cool walk.  I was about halfway back to the site when a pickup truck with the workers came by.  They stopped and explained it took them past their normal quitting time to finish the rubbing out of the concrete, being a Friday, they were off to the nearest 7-11, maybe 10 miles away for some gas and beer.  Enough to get them back to their homes more than an hour away.  With a “see you next week” goodbye, I continued my walk back up the hollow towards the site and my parked pickup truck. 

After about another half mile I noticed in the distance a figure up ahead.  At first, I thought it was very odd, who could possibly be walking on this road at this time of the day?  Once I completed that thought, I realized that this was not a good thing.  There were no homes up or down the hollow or even along the main road for another 2 or 3 miles. The only home within 5 miles was the burned-out structure.  What was this person doing on the road?  

My attention, and to some degree internal paranoia, was on high alert.  As we continued to walk towards each other, I feigned attention and purposively stared through this person.  Based on the simple principle that if I exhibited fear he would smell or recognize it.  I had nothing on me to help if I were attacked, nothing but the keys to the truck.  My nearest salvation, escape route, and safe harbor was my pickup truck, but that was at least another half mile away.  While this was all running through my head, we continued to get closer.  I was able to make out that it was a man, wearing a cowboy hat, cowboy boots, and wearing blue jeans shorts or cutoffs. 

This observation didn’t help my concerns.  We were both walking on the same side of the road, the side closest to the creek.  I was tempted to cross over to the other side and give myself maybe ten feet of separation when we would meet, but I second-guessed myself thinking such a move would show a sign of fear, I stayed the course.  At this point I began to realize that this person approaching me was a young man and was quite muscular, I could tell that even from a distance of a few hundred feet by the outline of his tight tee shirt and shorts.  But I kept trying to rationalize why there would be anyone in shorts, wearing a cowboy hat and leather boots be on this road!

 
At about 100 feet away I kept my eyes fixed on him, waiting for any sudden moves, and then I saw it, on his boot he had a strap-on bowie knife!  A big bowie knife, with a 10-inch blade or maybe more. 

My heart quickened, but now I knew what to watch out for if he made a move for the knife, I had two choices; flee or attack.  I internally strategized that my best bet was to tackle him and hope that getting him off his feet I had a better chance.  Chance at what?  I hadn’t figured that out yet.  We were about 50 feet away and I realized that he was extremely muscular, almost bodybuilder category, but he was shorter than me, and although I only weighed 175 pounds I had a clear weight advantage.  I firmed up in my mind that if he made a move, tackling him was my best bet.  

As we got within 25 feet of each other, my attention went from his hands and arms to his face.  We were about to pass within 2-3 feet of each other and I wanted to look this guy straight in the eyes.  Maybe, just maybe that would intimidate him and he would leave me alone.  Within a second we were crossing paths, I stayed focused on his face, trying to catch his eyes under his tilted cowboy hat, but it didn’t happen. 
I grunted a rough “Hi” and I thought I saw his head make an approving nod.  At this point I desperately wanted to catch a look at his eyes under his tilted hat, it seemed like he was purposely trying to hide his face.  There was a moment, a singular moment, I thought it was my imagination, but I could swear he didn’t have one, he didn’t have a face!  

But before I could comprehend what I saw, he was past me.  My heart was racing and as we separated, I used every bit of my peripheral vision to make sure he hadn’t turned.  After about 5 steps I looked tightly and cautiously over my shoulder to make sure he was continuing on his path down the road.  He was, with that glance this event was over.  My heart was putting on the brakes.  The tension in my shoulders and arms was relieved and I had a general feeling of great relief but for an unknown reason a tint of sadness.  

After realizing we were over 100 feet apart all the tension in my body was gone and I began to think that I had overreacted.  No doubt it was a very odd, very scary experience, and no, I did not hear banjos in the background.  Again, the image of his face, or lack of one, was embedded in my mind. 

I reached my truck, climbed in, and locked the doors.  I spent at least 2 minutes collecting myself.  The adrenalin was leaving my body, and the reality of this encounter was sneaking in.  I headed down the hollow fully expecting to see him and knew there was no way I was going to offer him a ride.  

Adding to this mystery, I did not catch up to him.  I only had to walk a quarter of a mile to the truck and he had at least a mile to the intersection with the two-lane main road.  When I reached the intersection I looked both ways, to the left I could see at least a half mile to the right a few hundred feet.  There was no way he could have walked far enough for me not to see him, even with a 5-minute lag.  This raised the fear level again within me, the adrenalin was starting to rise.  I wondered if I had imagined the whole thing.  Where did he go?  I turned the truck to the left and headed back home. 

*****

I didn’t get back to the shaft site until the following week, after a quick inspection I decided to stop by the mine and give them an update on the progress.  After bringing Paul and Dave, the draftsman, up to speed, I opened up and began to tell them of my encounter on the road with the stranger in the cowboy hat and cowboy boots.  Both Dave and Paul said in unison, “You ran into Jason”.   What?  He does exist, and you know him?  Taking turns they confirmed what I saw. 

Jason was a 25-year-old man who worked on a farm about 5 miles up the hollow. He didn’t have a car or driver’s license, so he walked to and from work.  They explained he lived in the house at the intersection of the hollow and main road.  I stared in disbelief; you mean he lives in the burnt-out farmhouse?  They said yes, and that if I had looked closer, I would have seen that the back end of the farmhouse had a blue tarp over the section that he lived in.  Again, I repeated my disbelief, that I never saw any lights at that house and was certain the power lines were cut.

 

They didn’t argue, they said he’s been living there like a camper, using a grill to cook on and lanterns for light.  No electricity, no running water.  I said “So he will be moving along when winter comes” like a migrant worker and they said no, he has been living there all his life!  
This odd story was now getting bizarre.  With somber faces, they went on to explain that he was raised in that home and was abused, sexually abused, by his father.  Now this story was turning ugly.  

There was a collective pause in the room, I broke the silence and said, “I swear he had no face; it was one of the scariest things I ever saw”! The tone in the room went dead silent, eyes turned away, chins were dropped and Dave quietly sidestepped his way out of the drafting room.

 

Paul then spoke up and explained to me the full story.  It was about 7 or 8 years ago, that Jason as a teenager had enough of the abuse and shot and killed his father with several rounds from a shotgun, he then set the house on fire.  Apparently while standing on the road while watching the homestead burn, he put the shotgun to his mouth and pulled the trigger!  The firefighters found his body on the road, but he was still alive. They were able to get him to a hospital and his life was saved.  The consequence of this action was that the shotgun blast blew off half his face including his right eye.  

How do you react to that news?  Sad, yes.  Scared, yes.  And unfortunately, unforgettable.  Under my breath, I said a few prayers, what else could be done?

Paul went on to explain that Jason was a straightforward, honest, hardworking guy.  He had an educational level of about an 8th grader.  After many surgeries, physical therapy, meetings with social workers, and with no family to help him recover or turn to, he came back to the farmhouse and became an isolated person.  Paul said he made enough money from Social Security and during the summer season to survive through the year.  It was hard to begin to imagine what kind of life he lived.  

 

Of course, I always kept an eye out for him whenever I made a trip to the shaft, but inside me, I knew I never wanted to run it to him again.