of the mine office.”
In the snow surrounded by friends, with Beth BatcheLler on the right.
“I’ll be happy to meet her,” I said, unaware how true that remark would prove to be.
The next day over teacups and gleaming silverware I met Kate Wanzer Botkin and later that afternoon, her husband. A graduate of Yale, Alex Botkin was the son of a former Lieutenant Governor of Montana, appointed by President McKinley as chairman of a commission to recodify the laws of the United States.
Kate, the daughter of the chief consulting engineer of the Union Pacific Railway, had lived in St. Paul where she had conducted a private school. They too were married in 1905 and immediately left for the Tomboy, two sparkling persons radiating optimism and good humor. We felt fortunate and, as George said, “we struck it rich” in finding such friends in this remote eyrie.
A few days later Beth asked me again to join her for tea. There were two other guests that day. Mrs. Rodriguez, a frail Mexican girl, had coal-black hair and olive complexion, deep brown eyes with a melancholy expression, and hands roughened by hard work. She and her husband, a miner, lived in one of the houses clustered near the tailings flat.
And there was Mrs. Matson, a chubby woman from Finland, blond, rosy cheeked, and lively. With nine mouths to feed on a miner’s wages she helped lay washing and ironing for others and that morning had returned the laundry she had finished for Beth Batcheller.
The beautiful silver tea service was in use again. Beth poured tea and served cake with the grace and graciousness of a hostess in a mansion of luxury. I listened to their talk carefully for every bit of information I could glean concerning the problems of living at an altitude of 11,500 feet. Indeed there were problems and I rapidly became aware of them.
CHAPTER 4
Clustered at the mouth of the tunnel leading into the Japan Flora Mine were four shacks, the boardinghouse, change rooms, blacksmith shop, and George’s assay office. From our back door I could see these small buildings and the long snowshed covering tracks leading from the tunnel to the waste dump.
Roustabouts, men who did the odd jobs other than mining or mucking, pushed cars of waste-rock to the end of the track and there, by releasing a catch, dumped the rock over the hill.
As carload followed carload the pile gradually built up to the level of the track which then was extended and again a dump began building. Throughout the mountains, below yawning mouths of deserted prospects, these piles of waste were natural monuments. Some sadly marked the graves of cherished hopes, shattered and lost; others were monuments to dreams fulfilled of vast fortunes gouged from the earth.
One clear day, looking up the slope and hoping to catch a glimpse of my husband, I noticed a roustabout pushing a car from the snowshed to the end of the track. He tripped it and the rocks rolled down the slope. The air was so clear I could plainly hear them falling, but I could see the car tilting dangerously and the roustabout struggling to hold it back.
Too far out for his cries to be heard he was frantically turning his head, looking for someone who might recognize his plight. I knew if the car broke from his grasp it would crash down the steep slope and might bring death to a rider on the trail below.
I ran to the stable and, gasping for breath lost in that short distance, telephoned to the Japan Flora office. Then Fred Diener and I watched anxiously until we saw rescuers run out of the shed and help pull the car back on its tracks. Such an emergency like this prompted action by any and all who might be near the scene. Apparently, I had done the right thing at the right time. I was learning.
It was the time of year when, even far from the glitter and excitement in the cities, the feeling of Christmas was in the air with nostalgic memories of festive gatherings and feasts. The Batchellers of “Castle Sky High”, as they had named their shack, invited Ned Morris, the Tomboy assayer and Al Awkerman, the master mechanic, single men living in the boardinghouse, the Botkins, and the Backuses for Christmas dinner. And on that day it was a castle, indeed!
It was a day of blustering wind and a darkening sky that foretold a storm. But we found a fire roaring in the only fireplace on the hill, and is there anything so cheery and inviting? At the other end of the room the ugly heating stove roared like a lion challenging its foes, the icy drafts lashing in through every crack. A rich red tablecloth displayed Beth’s gleaming silver and glowing candles, a perfect setting for a turkey with all the trimmings except fresh vegetables, which were not available to us.
Only a genius could have managed that feast with the few facilities available. Everything canned but the turkey. A tiny cookstove within arm’s reach from the table warmed the room. One step away on a small stand was what served as the sink, a dishpan and the usual oil can of water underneath. Handicapped by the difficulty of cooking in high altitudes, plus a delicate baby to care for, Beth had spread a feast for our eyes, the inner man, and complete satisfaction.
Shortly after that Christmas day I had a new adventure. Johnny Midwinter, the foreman, suggested that he and George take me into the mine. George thought I would enjoy it.
Johnny met us at the entrance. Outfitted in a miner’s long rubber coat and sou’wester I entered the tunnel where Johnny fastened a miner’s candlestick in the loop on my hat and with a dramatic gesture of his pudgy hand, lighted the candle.
Possibly, because I had made the effort to send help to the roustabout which prevented an accident, Johnny decided my interest in the mine warranted a wider understanding of its ramifications. After we walked some distance along the main tunnel he turned to me with a smile and said, “We’ll start up this ladder in what we call ‘a vertical raise.’ Just climb slowly behind me and George will follow you. When we get up to the stope, take the candle out of your hat and carry it straight up and as far from your face as you can.”
What did he mean by a stope, and would I recognize it when I reached it?
Step by step, clinging to the rungs, we climbed straight up the three by four opening in the rock. As water dripped from above and hit my hat and face, the candle sputtered. I stepped carefully for fear of tripping on my skirt. With the strange feeling of carrying a candle on my head I stared steadily at the ladder. The flickering light shone dimly on the walls caging us in, three sides of solid rock and the fourth made of timbers for the ore chute alongside. Each rung was a little harder for me to reach and cling to. By the time fifty rungs were beneath us I began to waver, then I hesitated, but remembering that George was close below and might be thrown off balance, I plunged on. After one hundred feet of this fearsome climb we reached the top of the ladder where the rock closed in over our heads.
Even today, many years later, the memory of that moment hits hard at the pit of my stomach!
Broken ore almost completely filled the cross shaft, leaving only a crooked passage to crawl through, two feet wide, three feet high. Faintness and vertigo swept through me. But not for anything would I let George or Johnny know how desperately fear gripped me. I could hardly breathe. There must have been oxygen but I couldn’t pull any of it into my lungs. To cover the sick feeling of panic I made the excuse, which was real enough, that I needed to catch my breath after the exhausting climb. Unable, in that flat space, to sit up I lay flat on my stomach, resting, doubting that I could go on.
Through the pounding of my heart I could hear myself saying, “Hattie, you must go on. You are the wife of a miner. Keep going and get it over!” But my head was swimming and my stomach churning. I lay there until terror subsided somewhat, then told
