The Deep Dark: Disaster and Redemption in America's Richest Silver Mine

From Publishers Weekly The 1972 fire at Idaho's Sunshine silver mine was one of America's worst mine disasters, with 91 miners killed—some in mid-stride—by a "stealthy tornado" of smoke and carbon monoxide. True crime journalist Olsen ( Abandoned Prayers ) has the narrative chops for this story. His suspenseful account conveys the already hellish everyday atmosphere of the mine, the panic and chaos of the sudden catastrophe, the heroic efforts to evacuate, the ghastly deaths of victims, the (sometimes overdrawn) horror of their decomposing bodies and the ordeal of two miners trapped in an air pocket. But he goes further, embedding his chronicle within a social panorama of the macho subculture of the miners—whose disdain for safety precautions may have raised the body count even as their hard-bitten sense of fraternity held them together in the emergency—and of the larger working-class community that frayed and bonded in the face of the tragedy. Like Sebastian Junger's The Perfect Storm , Olsen's is a story of male workers engaged in a primordial resource-extraction occupation, battling natural elements—earth, fire and (poisoned) air—that overwhelm the ties of masculine solidarity. In his gripping treatment, stocked with vividly drawn characters, one finds a metaphorical elegy for America's doomed industrial proletariat. Photos. Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. From Booklist On May 2, 1972, a fire broke out deep inside the Sunshine Mine, in Kellogg, Idaho, while nearly 175 men were at work. Nearly half the workers made it out safely, and there were 91 deaths. This poignant book offers a detailed account of the fire, the toll it took on the small mining community, and the nail-bitingly suspenseful rescue operation to save the lives of two men trapped in the "deep dark" mine who survived for more than a week by eating the bagged lunches of their dead coworkers. Olsen, author of a number of books in the true-crime genre, brings his considerable narrative skills to bear in this true-adventure tale. He tells the story in remarkably vivid detail, forcing the reader to experience the horror of the deep dark and to feel the exhilaration of the successful rescue. David Pitt Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved "Olsen tells a vividly detailed, heartbreaking tale about a dark, alien place, the people who loved working there and a town that has never been the same. He brings to life the hot, dirty, treasure-hunt environment where "danger was a miner's heroin." — Seattle Times "Powerful and haunting"— Seattle Post-Intelligencer “Gregg Olsen is the perfect guide as he leads the reader down into a whole new world underground, with its own lore, language, and laws. The Deep Dark is as gripping and necessary as true-life drama gets.”—Stewart O’Nan, author of The Circus Fire “Compellingly told, honestly written, The Deep Dark is a story that resonates and lingers, long after the final page is read. In addition to being a gripping account of an American tragedy, it is a brutal, enlightening, bone-chilling glimpse into the underground of the nation’s mining industry. Gregg Olsen skillfully captures the details of Sunshine Mine, its ill-fated miners, the friends and family left behind, and the disaster itself with the intimacy of an insider, making you feel the smoke, the heat, the confinement, and, ultimately, the terror of that May day in 1972. It is a story at once horrific and poignant, wholly absorbing and extraordinarily moving.” —Jennifer Niven, author of The Ice Master “In the tradition of Young Men and Fire , The Deep Dark is an exceptional, haunting documentary. Like an epic folk song, it crackles with the language of rough men working—and dying—in unspeakable ways and pays tribute to a community that might otherwise be bleached from our memories. This book does what all superior journalism should do: it unearths an important story and tells it with great feeling.” —McKay Jenkins, author of The White Death “Gregg Olsen’s narrative is so riveting I had to keep reminding myself that this is a nonfiction page-turner, not a suspense novel. The grit, the darkness, the stifling air and choking smoke, the fear of being trapped deep underground, the tender camaraderie between the toughest of men—I experienced all of them reading this book.” —Stephen Puleo, author of Dark Tide: The Great Boston Molasses Flood of 1919 “Olsen presents the extraordinary story of the Sunshine Mine disaster in gripping, heartrending prose. In Olsen’s telling, we come to see that the story is not merely a deadly disaster but rather a tale of the uncommon courage, perseverance, and heroism of everyday people.” —Edward T. O’Donnell, author of Ship Ablaze: The Tragedy of the Steamboat General Slocum “Gregg Olsen has presented a well-researched, graphic account of the worst underground fire in a hardrock mine in American history. When the ’Shine resumed underground operations in December 1972, I hired out as a replacement for one of the guys who died in the fire. . . . I can tell you The Deep Dark is as real as it gets. I actually found myself short of breath as I read.” —Jerry Dolph, author of Fire in the Hole: The Untold Story of Hardrock Miners "Gripping." — Oregonian "Spellbinding." — Daily Olympian "Harrowing." — Bellingham Herald "A spectacluar piece of journalism." — Missoulian "An exciting, vital, memorable book." — Salem Statesman Journal "Insightful and a powerful narrative." — Vancouver Columbian Gregg Olsen is the author of seven nonfiction books, including the New York Times bestseller Abandoned Prayers . A journalist and investigative author for more than two decades, Olsen has received numerous awards and much critical acclaim for his writing. The Seattle native now lives in rural Washington state with his wife, twin daughters, cat, and six chickens. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1 SunriseTuesday, May 2Coeur d’Alene Mining DistrictMorning rush hour in the Idaho panhandle was a stream of primer-splattered bombers and gleaming pickups on big tires that pushed the cab halfway to the sky. All were driven by miners hurrying to get underground. Many rode together so their wives and girlfriends could use their cars to run errands during the day. Some smoked and nursed hangovers with coffee as they planned their day underground: how much they’d have to blast, and how much muck they’d haul out. Some of the best of them took the Big Creek exit between Kellogg and Wallace. Around a sharp curve on the edge of the Bitterroot Mountains, buildings congregated among the steep folds of stony terrain bisected by the rushing waters of Big Creek. A giant green structure clad in sheet metal was planted as though a twister had dropped it in on the edge of the parking lot. A few other buildings flanked the green monster, though none was nearly as commanding. On the other side of the creek was a backbonelike array of metal and wood-frame buildings that included a mill, dry house, machine shop, warehouse, hoist house, assay office, electric shop, drill shop, and compressor shop. The most visually pleasing edifice was the personnel office, a two-story, variegated redbrick structure with a peaked roof and a walk-up pay window. A sign proclaimed that the property belonged to the Sunshine Mining Company, but the biggest billboard faced the mine yard. In demi-bold letters it read, "Today is the first day of the rest of your life–live it safely."Sunshine has long been legendary, even sacred, among miners. Maine brothers Dennis and True Blake discovered what would become Sunshine in 1884 when a soft glint beckoned from an outcropping on the eastern ridge of Big Creek Canyon. Assaying indicated tetrahedrite, a superior silver ore, and not galena or lead, which was scavenged by other area mines. For a couple of decades the former farm boys worked underground by candlelight while mules hauled out ore and dragged it down Big Creek Canyon on skids. They quietly made a small fortune, calling their discovery the Yankee Lode. Later, in 1921, when they sold their stake to Yakima, Washington, interests, it was renamed Sunshine Mining Company.It was another decade before Sunshine came into its own, when, at a depth of 1,700 feet, an ore vein of astounding breadth—23 feet—was discovered. In time, the mine would give up more silver than any other mine in the world, a distinction it would hold for decades. In addition to lead and copper, it was also a leading producer of antimony, a metallic by-product primarily used to harden lead. Sunshine’s triumph was the result of the development effort led by the go-for-broke, risk-taking owners from Washington State. Most silver mines followed veins from outcroppings that eventually became stringers and petered out. Outside of the Coeur d’Alene Mining District, it was a rare operation that extracted ore at depths greater than 1,000 feet. Not only did Sunshine have viable ore below 1,200 feet, but in the decades that followed, crosscuts chased high-grade ore bodies all the way to the 5600 level. Sunshine by itself was far richer and produced more silver than all the mines on the fabled Comstock Lode combined.Idaho mines shared more than just their luminous underground Dagwood sandwich of lead, silver, and zinc. Labor strikes, chronic absenteeism, and pumped-up wanderlust made the workforces somewhat fluid. Tough and experienced miners moved freely among Galena, Lucky Friday, Star, Silver Summit, Bunker Hill, and Sunshine. But even as itchy-footed as miners could be, every man had his home mine. It was the mine to which he knew he could always return.Around the time Bob Launhardt, forty-one, backed his ’68 maroon Chrysler Newport out of his Pinehurst driveway, the sun had risen, leaving the sky awash in luminous Maxfield Parrish hues. The men of Sunshine’s graveyard shift were leaving the mine. As safety engineer, Launhardt made it a practice to get underground as early as possible—before the day shift rode down to their working levels. He liked to get a head start on the day. Tall and lanky, Launhardt had dark, wavy hair that he combed back with a slight swoop. Black-framed glasses made him look like a schoolteacher, or maybe a middle-aged Buddy Holly. After a five-year absence, Launhardt returned to the district in February 1972, bailing out of another job going nowhere, wanting to reconnect with a part of his life where he felt worthwhile. He was quiet and thoughtful, the kind of man who got lost in a crowd, yet Launhardt believed he stood out because of his fierce dedication to the safety of the men of Sunshine. No one questioned his passion for his work. It was apparent in every move he made. Many, however, found it difficult to connect with him on a personal level. Guys he’d known for years never even got his name right. They called him Bob Longhart. Part of the distance was the result of his personality, but it was also his status as a salaried man. Miners saw Launhardt, other managers, and office workers as outsiders. The fact that Sunshine’s owners were now New Yorkers who hadn’t blasted a round in their lives didn’t help. Yet managers and bean counters were necessary. Silver mining was, after all, a business–and a dangerous one, at that. As safety engineer, Launhardt was there to make certain that each day every man who went into the mine came out alive. That involved working with national and state labor agencies and the U.S. Bureau of Mines (USBM) to ensure that safety regulations were in place. It meant seeing that equipment was up to date and miners were properly trained in evacuation and rescue techniques. Guarding miners’ lives was a crucial job because so much could go wrong. Government statisticians and mining district undertakers frequently acknowledged mining as the most perilous job on or under the earth. Some assumed the safety engineer’s position existed solely to meet government regulations, mitigate the risk of union complaints, and dodge civil lawsuits. Some mine managers considered it little more than a necessary nuisance. The workers themselves understood that there were ways to avoid injury, but they dismissed many of those measures. Many considered risk and danger essential to the job’s mystique. Launhardt, a bespectacled Goody-Two-shoes among his peers, believed that if he could get men to think before they blast, to wear safety glasses, to cool it on the horseplay, just maybe he could save a life. His biggest challenge in 1972 was the same as always: How do you convince men that accidents are unacceptable and unnecessary? For Launhardt, who had once studied to be a Lutheran minister, promoting safety became as important as preaching the word of God.There were many reasons for his vigilance, and all were damned good ones. Sometimes men fell down shafts so deep that nothing remained but bloody clothes and serrated splinters of bone. Rockbursts or airblasts, however, were the most feared of district hazards. Those occurred when the stone ceiling exploded under pressure and sent slabs of rock the size of camping trailers down to pulverize men into biological splat. Other times, it was the floor that gave way. The lucky ones were buried alive until someone could move two tons of rock to free them. Although Sunshine had its share, the district’s Galena Mine was considered one of the worst, if not the worst, for rockbursts. Anyone who’d worked there longer than a month experienced the sudden and frightening reaction of rock giving way to pressure. Old hands knew that as long as the rock was talking—making characteristic popping and grinding noises—they’d be all right. When it got quiet, that was the time to think about moving to a different location or taking lunch early. Whenever it was quiet underground, look out.In the battle being waged by men with jackleg drills against the fractured and folded metamorphic world of the underground, men frequently lost. Every man knew there was no guarantee he’d ever see daylight again.Launhardt knew some accidents had more to do with human error—little mistakes that miners made doing things they did right every other day. Veteran miner Stanley Crawford’s accident was a case in point. Crawford had been setting charges on some blocking in a shaft, as he’d done countless times. He set four fuses, but only three blasts rumbled through the mine. Crawford was confident that two had ignited simultaneously, thus obscuring the distinct sound of a fourth explosion.“I’m gonna go look,” he said.His partner didn’t like the idea. “Stay here and have a cigarette. We can check it after dinner.”But Crawford was impatient and insistent. As he bent closer to take a look in the smoky air, the charge ignited. It was the last thing he ever saw. His eyes were blasted from their sockets like a pair of soft-boiled eggs.Sunshine’s safety engineer knew the inherent reasons for Crawford’s mistake. The greater the danger, the more reckless men became. It was a mix of laziness, tempting fate for the buzz of adrenaline, and just plain ignoring the obvious. More men were hurt and even more died because someone decided to push something to a new limit. Miners sometimes took the extra step toward trouble. Trouble could be a rush.Some health hazards were slower in catching up with the miners. Airborne silica turned lungs into wheezing dust bags. Corneas were trashed by gritty dust belching through the working areas, forced along by the man-made cyclone of ventilation fans. The omnipresent dust that bloomed inside the working areas after blasting consisted of near-microscopic particles of lead, tetrahedrite, and razorlike pieces of silica from the quartz that frequently hosted the veins being mined. After each round was blasted, the air thickened... Read more