There’s probably an old copper mine not far from where you are right now.
By Maurice Crossfield
Local Journalism Initiative
I’ve held a lot of different jobs over the years, each with its own inherent dangers, upsides and downsides. Truck driver in a quarry: check. Newspaper reporter: check. Forestry worker: check. Auto mechanic: check. But I’m really glad that I never had to venture underground to dig copper ore with a hand shovel.
In fact, most people living in the Townships these days have no idea that the region was once Canada’s cradle of copper production. Not to mention iron, lead, silver, and to a much lesser extent, gold. Yes, there’s gold in them thar hills, just not enough to pay off your mortgage.
When the first non-native settlers arrived in the region, their main concern was all the trees. They were pretty much everywhere, and most of them were very large. Pretty to look at, at least at first, but they tended to get in the way of more typical European pursuits, like planting crops, raising animals or having a back yard. So those early decades were all about the endless supply of trees. I’m sure many a pioneer went just about wiggy trying to clear enough land to survive.
With a few clear spots here and there, folks started to gain an appreciation of the land itself. In Brome Township, in what would eventually become known as Iron Hill, deposits of rough iron ore were found. Metal of any sort being in short supply, folks rigged up a way to smelt it into pig iron.
But the first real mining boom was in the 1850s, with a significant find in Leeds Township. That brought out the geologists, both professional and amateur, in search of what lay under the forest floor. Within a few short years large deposits of copper were discovered in Ascot, Bolton and Acton, while numerous smaller deposits were found scattered across the Townships.
Then the American Civil War erupted and with it the demand for copper. Albert and Capelton Mines opened in 1863, later expanding operations into chemicals, explosives and fertilizer.
For the average, relatively new settler, life was isolated and rough. While land was cheap, almost everything else was expensive and hard to get. And money was even harder to come by. The Townships was a nice place to live, if you could eke out a living. For the 200 men and boys who worked at the Capelton Mine they had a one-hour hike up to the entrance, followed by a 12-hour workday, in near total darkness except for the candlelight on the brim of their felt hats. No safety gear here. On the upside, the hour long walk back home was downhill. Oh, you got to have Sundays off, and you earned a whopping $1.10 a day.
And for them, this was their best option for making a living. Sit with that thought for a moment.
There were a few progressive ideas for the workplace: You could only start working in the mine once you hit the ripe old age of 14, and the newcomers got the job of bringing the toilet carts up to the surface. Meanwhile your little brothers and sisters worked down the hill, sorting the copper ore from the rocks. But you were still better off than the pit ponies used to bring the ore to the surface, who would eventually go blind from spending too many hours in near total darkness.
In short, it was dirty, dangerous, backbreaking, soul crushing work. The air was constantly humid, filled with dust and chemicals. Picks and shovels deafened their users and crippled their hands. And at any moment the ceiling could collapse, ruining your felt hat and whatever was under it. Life expectancy? Your best shot was the afterlife.
But the good times wouldn’t last. Capelton and Albert Mines closed in 1907, while Eustis, one of the deepest mines in the world at the time, held on until 1939. Over near Eastman the Huntingdon Mine opened in 1865, closed in 1883, then reopened in 1890 for another three years, and then from 1912 to 1924. The Quebec Copper Corporation reopened the site in the 1950’s, but the ore was too hard to reach to be profitable.
I really do think that we live in the best time to be alive. For the most part the good old days were never that good. And the next time you feel your financial belt cinching as you struggle to make the next car payment, give a thought to those who came before. And be grateful you never had to send your eight-year-old to sort rocks in a dusty shack.
Makes me feel pretty safe and warm in my garbage truck.