Into the Darkness

Forty minutes later, the men discovered Elvis's body. When the older man fell, he was a few hundred feet ahead of where Don lay, still headed in the direction of the fire. He wore no oxygen mask and would have had no protection from the hot, toxic air.

"As long as we were still looking for those guys, the Alma people were fine," Plumley says. "But the minute we got word that we had found them, and it wasn't good, every man in that mine collapsed. It was like you had let the air out of them."

"Lord, Give Us A Safe Day At Work"

IT'S 7:30 A.M., A HALF-HOUR BEFORE THE SHIFT CHANGE AT THE PINNACLE MINE, and the lamp room where workers congregate is already starting to fill up. The older miners like to arrive early -- sometimes an hour or even 90 minutes early -- just to drink coffee and catch up on local gossip. It will be well past 6 p.m. when the last of them leaves for home.

They are a noisy, boisterous group, and they appear not the least bit intimidated by the presence of the mine's general manager, Doug Williams, or that of a visiting vice president from the corporate office in suburban Pittsburgh. Williams, a solidly built former lawyer with a trim goatee, is approached several times as he makes his way through the room. One beefy miner taps on Williams's shoulder and asks, smiling but earnest, when the company planned to rehire his nephew, a casualty in a recent round of layoffs. "We want to bring him back," is the only answer Williams can give.

Nearly all the miners are middle age or older, including the handful of women -- today there are two among the day shift's 93 workers -- who perform the same jobs as the men. Most have labored for more than a quarter-century in the Pinnacle Mine, which U.S. Steel started in 1969 and sold three years ago to a small firm called PinnOak Resources. To arrive here, some have commuted up to an hour, from distant towns such as Beckley and Bluefield and dozens of villages, hollows, subdivisions and trailer parks in between. Their Ford pickups, Toyota Camrys and Dodge minivans nearly fill the parking lot of the mine entrance, a two-story building of blue aluminum siding that could pass for an ordinary warehouse, except for the large elevator shaft protruding from one side.

None of the miners has a uniform, or anything that smacks of uniformity. Each wears a combination of coveralls or jeans, work shirt, helmet, boots and tool belt as befits his personality and job requirements. Many have festooned their hard hats and lockers with stickers and slogans: union symbols, a Christian cross, a Pittsburgh Steelers logo, first names and nicknames such as "J.D." or "Big Dog." The only thing common to all of them is the patina of coal dust that covers every surface, from coffee cups and time-cards to eyeglasses and maps.

In parts of West Virginia where strip mining is common, powerful machines called draglines have made people all but unnecessary. But for underground mining, men and women still dig the tunnels, load coal, drive trolleys, build tunnel supports, check methane levels. With enough years underground, most of the miners will perform every job at least once.

"I've worked in other states and one foreign country, and I can tell you that the West Virginia coal miner is the best coal miner I've seen," says Williams, the mine manager. "These are proud people, and they take pride in what they do. There are other opportunities out there if they want them. But there's something about living here and getting a little coal dust in the blood that brings them back."

At 8 a.m. sharp, conversation in the lamp room halts as the miners take seats on metal benches for a pre-shift briefing. Chief safety officer Jim Bennett starts with a cautionary tale, a report of a new mining fatality in far northern West Virginia. A slab of rock the size of a vending machine had broken away from the "rib," or side of a mine tunnel, pinning the victim against a piece of equipment. "Operators, look at your ribs," Bennett admonishes.

Bennett ticks his way through the usual list of warnings. Watch out for higher levels of methane gas, especially in the waning days of the year when the mine is drier, he says. Keep emergency water lines open at all times. Keep all surfaces coated with a dusting of calcium or powdered rock to minimize the risk of explosion. "Rock dust is critical," Bennett reminds the group. "In the event you do have an explosion, rock dust will get in the air and reduce the impact of the explosion considerably."

"None Of Us Want Change"

BELOW GROUND, THE ELEVATOR OPENS TO A WORLD UNLIKE ANYTHING ON THE SURFACE.

The first jolt is the unrelenting darkness. Unlike subway tunnels, mine shafts are not wired with lights. The only sources of illumination are the headlights of the mine car and the flashlight glow of battery-powered helmet lanterns. The passing beams reveal the rawness of a workplace where all structures are intended to be temporary. Everything underground is covered in a thick layer of chalky rock dust -- a fire retardant -- which causes even newer sections to appear ancient and abandoned, like an underwater shipwreck covered in decades of sediment. Wires and cables snake haphazardly through the shafts. The sides of the tunnels are strewn with fallen rock, old equipment and dusty stacks of supplies. The powerful but oddly sawed-off machines used for shuttling coal and passengers are dust-covered and as banged up as old battle tanks.