Sol Tolentino

The steel bucket dug its teeth into the nickel-bearing muck, a four-meter high pile of broken rocks and nickel ore that had just been blasted with a round of Amex. Sol squeezed the middle lever on his remote control box with just enough pressure to raise the orange-painted bucket. Several blocks of excess heavy ore clattered on the tunnel floor as he flipped the leftmost lever to jar the ore load of the scooptram.

It was Sol's third week at the Level 6000 of the MacIsaac Nickel Mine in Sudbury, Ontario. After his tour that night he is off the whole of the week next. It has all been routine since Sol discovered that he could make four times the money as an underground miner than what he received as an accountant in the mine.

That was twenty-five years ago. Every night at seven, he enters through the mine Shaft #2 and walks down the incline to Level 6000 and takes over the withdrawal of nickel ore.

Sol has been operating a remote-controlled LDH (load, dump, haul) Wagner ST-8 Scooptram for six years. It is a low-profile rubber-tired behemoth that collects a 12-cubic yard scoop of broken mineralized rock in the mining face called a stope. He backs up the scooptram all the way the transport drift and dumps the load into the ore chute where the rocks are hoisted to the mill at the surface.

Standing behind the scooptram in the draw point, Sol switched the machine to reverse, as he had done before, preparing for the backing out maneuver. As the scooptram approached, he placed the throttle lever in the neutral position, but the scooptram did not respond. Sol hit the emergency brake, but the scooptram continued to rush toward him.

Sol was slammed on the tunnel wall, the bumper pinned his left leg. The remote control box broke on his chest. He must have lost consciousness when the scooptram hit him. He just knew his eyes were wide open but he could not see a thing because of the pain. He could feel blood oozing in his cramped leg. The monster machine seemed to weigh heavier and heavier. His first thought was that his leg was still there and he should not die because of blood loss. Pain shooting in his back, he ripped the lamp cord from his helmet, groped around the thick metal biting his leg, tied a loop in his thigh, just thinking I should stop the blood loss and I will not die. He reached for a wrench that he always carried in his belt. Twisted the cord with it. It hurt. The cord was cutting into his pants. It was futile crying out for help. Sol kept touching his pinned leg. Still there! he thought. He thought that he should have not gone for a job in that mine. My wife and kids don't know I need help. Nobody knows I need help. He was thankful each time he looked about and still could see the electric lamps in the distance lighting the pile of ore muck. I must stay awake. I will get out of this hell and live. Sol could feel the pain come on and off his leg. Where is my damned reliever? SOB, why don't you come now? I'm going to kick the shit of that guy when he comes. He frequently drew deep breaths. He was counting seconds. Soon he was not counting, just looking at the dark tunnel walls. The lights at the face of the stope seemed so far away.

It must have been three hours since the scooptram trapped him. It must be quitting time because a miner's lamp appeared at the stope portal: It was his reliever operator. He was running. Seeing the scooptram flush on the tunnel wall, he knew right away that something had gone wrong. And Sol was not in sight. Sol was still conscious. Get to the telephone, there was life in Sol's voice. Call for help.

Sol's crushed leg was amputated below the knee. He waited for time before he was fitted with a prosthesis. He had several more after that, the latest one being mostly of titanium and fiberglass. He prefers a walk to a ride when there is a good breeze. And he now calls himself Sol the Lightfoot.