ODDS’N’SODS — The gentle mining giant

To say that Chris Christiansen was big would be an understatement. Chris was huge. In an age when size and strength were the key to the labor marketplace, this Swede had outstanding credentials.

I first met Chris at the Emerald mine, where he was working underground in the early years after the end of the Second World War. I observed him initially at the dinner table in the cookery, where he maintained a conspicuous presence. He could often be seen consuming heaping platters of meat and potatoes smothered in gravy.

When he stood up from the banquet, the reason for this terrific appetite became clear. The man was about three axe handles wide, with huge arms and hands, and legs suggestive of mature oak trees. In sharp contrast to his intimidating bulk were Chris’s eyes, which were kindly, smiling and blue. Chris rarely spoke, preferring to express himself by his zest for hard work. For him, mining was a natural outlet, and he worked in a less-mechanized age when miners required a certain amount of brute strength.

Chris did not appear to exert himself in erecting a 200-lb. bar and arm with a universal coupling, and then casually slinging a 150-lb. drill machine on to the arm and coupling. In the course of a month’s work, he carried tons upon tons of steel drill rods into the stopes. And when it came to employing the Bull Dog No. 7 to clear away broken rock from a freshly blasted face, Chris literally broke the shovel blade and handle with the strength of his exertions.

Yet, beyond all considerations of brawn, Chris possessed a simplicity and nobility of both character and outlook. He was an honest worker who asked only for the right to work and earn his keep. He did not purposefully out-perform the crew; rather, he gave a full measure according to his superhuman abilities.

Chris abided by the rules of camp, cookery and mine. He enjoyed the privacy of his bunkhouse room and indulged in an occasional game of poker. When it came to celebrating, Chris went to town for his festivities. Col. Perry, our accountant, knew Chris over a period of many years and in many mines. Chris was a person of considerable depth and sensitivity, according to the colonel. When they worked together at the Reno mine in Salmo, B.C., and on top of Reno Mountain, Chris would claim his pay at week’s end, proceed down the mountain in the tram-line bucket, walk through the mill, and then ride a bus into Nelson for some celebration.

On one such occasion, the colonel recounted, Chris was passing through the mill whereupon he slipped and ran his hand through the ball-mill gears, severing several fingers. He calmly bound the hand in a large red handkerchief and boarded the bus for Nelson. When the accident was reported, a search was undertaken for him in town. He was found late in the evening, sitting on a street curb listening to the Saturday night serenade by the local Salvation Army band.

Chris had respect for the community, for his fellow workmates and for the circumstances of the workplace. He never accumulated savings or wealth, believing that his super bulk and strength would carry him on endlessly, and that the character of the workplace would never change.

As years advanced, however, Chris came face to face with some tremendous technological developments, many of which rendered his abilities unnecessary. Eventually, he was relegated to the lowly post of dryman, tending the floors and furnaces for a new generation of miners.

The winds of change are endless and remorseless so that even the proud and loyal stewards of the work scene must yield. To his eternal credit, Chris continued to be industrious and to discharge his duties as only a strong and noble Viking could be.

— S.J. Hunter, a retired mining engineer and regular contributor, resides in Vancouver.