admin, Author at The Urban Crows Blog

The Heart of The Matter

Adventures with A Fib

It’s been a few months since I published anything on my motley blog. I’ve been distracted by on going health issues that bullied their way into the tranquility of the Urbancrows e-rookery.

Almost one year ago, I walked into my doctor’s surgery with a sinus infection and came out with a heart problem. It was a Friday toward the end of October, and I was definitely not a happy camper. I was sweating. My skin was an attractive shade of corpse grey, and I was breathing hard -all of which I put down to the rivers of goop coming out of my sinuses, wending their merry way to my lungs.

My doctor, who’s Russian, was listening to my chest to see if the sinus infection had spread to my lungs. She took a listen with the stethoscope, then listened again all the while looking more and more worried. The cold end of the stethoscope was moving rapidly across my back as I breathed in an out, accompanied by the ominous sound of anxious tutting. Bloody hell, I thought, my lungs must be bad -my head flooded with images of a murky swamp full of mucus and bacteria. She sat up, took a long look at my pallid, sweaty face and muttered:

“Listen to me carefully. You must go to hospital right now.”

The sinus infection was obviously worse than I thought.

“Isn’t hospital a bit drastic? Can’t you just give me some antibiotics? Last time I had an infection you gave me Amoxicillin.” I said, coughing and hacking and sweating a bit more for good measure.

The Cherry Orchard

Thanks go to my colleague Polar Bear Dave for filling in the blanks and sending me his pictures from the trip.

“A hungry dog believes in nothing but meat.”
Anton Chekhov, The Cherry Orchard

Every so often, I’ve been privileged to visit a project that is SO woeful that I’ve started to think mid-tour that there must be a hidden upside; something I’ve missed that everyone else can see. A trip to Morocco years back springs to mind. We were there to visit a VMS project which wasn’t. It was a small, shear zone hosted base-metal occurrence. About 600 stream sediment samples had been collected in a 10x10km concession(!) looking for more “VMS” occurrences; enough geochemistry to spot a discarded AA battery 3 miles upstream, despite the total lack of hydrothermal alteration in the country rock.

*“In 20 years I’m going to a crap project in Wenatchee..ha ha ha ha etc.”*

I mentioned another travesty in my last post A Few Thoughts About Optimism in Exploration. This one was blind optimism on such a grand scale that I was actually in awe of the guys showing us around. The total lack of common sense was exceeded only by the hopelessness of the project. When it was over, my colleague Dave and I drove back to Vancouver alternately stunned into total silence or engulfed in hysterical laughter at what we’d just witnessed, checking our notes to make sure it was real.

Zombies Ate My Brain!

We’d done an office review of hundreds of zombie juniors on the Venture Exchange; companies with no cash that may have had a stalled project in need of funding. The work flagged a gold project in an old mine near Wenatchee in Washington; the self-proclaimed Apple Capital of the World by the locals, who’ve obviously never been to Kent in southeast England where I grew up.

*Wenatchee. It’s the apple capital of Wenatchee.*

A Few Thoughts On Optimism In Exploration

This slightly sarcastic piece was massively improved by contributions from 4 colleagues: -Brent, Owen, Neil & Mike- all of whom I’ve been lucky enough to know for years. Thanks chaps. You’ll be able to spot where I’ve used your stuff.

Optimist. noun

a person who tends to be hopeful and confident about the future or the success of something. “only an eternal optimist could expect success”

Bananas

A bit like a 99-year-old man with heart failure buying green bananas, exploration geologists are optimists. We have to be. A bad case of pessimism would be a huge impediment to building a geological career that survives past the initial 5-minute interview with the VP Exploration.

“Can I have a job please? I don’t think we’ll ever find anything, but I’ll give it a go if you pay me.”

“WTF? No. No. No. Who let you in? Piss off. I don’t need a depressed hat stand on my team. Please don’t slam the door.”

A wellness website I picked at random for its daft name, has this to say about optimism. “(it) is a mental attitude characterized by hope and confidence in success and a positive future. Optimists … expect good things to happen….. Optimistic attitudes are linked to a number of benefits, including better coping skills, lower stress levels, better physical health, and higher persistence when pursuing goals.” To which I’d add “poverty” if your optimism is directed at the junior mining sector, although strictly speaking that’s not really a benefit.

My Wartime Roots

My maternal ancestors were ethnic Germans, deported from Czechoslovakia in 1946. This is my mother’s story.

In a departure from the usual mining-related sarcastic drivel, here is a short story about my mother’s dim and distant origins -and hence mine too- which are rooted in one of the key historical events of the 20th Century; the onset of World War 2. Anyone raised in Europe, with parents or grandparents in their 80s who are still alive, has a link to the war because directly or indirectly, it affected everybody on the continent.

*The Catholic church in Graslitz where most of my ancestors live today.*

I should note that this is a very superficial backward glance at a critical period in European history. I deliberately make no judgements on the horrific events of that period -my aim in writing this down was simply to document the family’s experiences for my 2 sons while I still have access to real memories from the time. To be fair, my mum was very small – only 6 when the war ended and 7 when the family was deported- so the stories are patchy and remembered through the eyes of a child but enriched with details gleaned from her parents and historical archives available on the internet.

Out Of Graslitz / Kraslice

For most of my adult life I’ve been aware that my mother’s roots are German-Czech, and that the family ended up in Germany in 1946 but some of the detail was lacking (for me at least.) She was born in 1939, a tiny hamlet called Silberbach on the outskirts of a small town called Graslitz in the far west of Czechoslovakia, 5km from the German border. Now known as Kraslice, it’s nestled in wooded hills and valleys; the town name may derive from the medieval German word “Graz”, a pine forest, which fits the countryside, but it may also mean small castle. The family were affluent ethnic Germans, with a thriving business making lace and musical instruments.

Kevin And The Ostrich Of Death.

Full credit to Kevin Broomberg for writing this down, sending it to me, giving me permission to publish it, and putting up with my simplistic edits.

*When I grow up I want to be an ostrich.*

Here in the urbancrows e-rookery we get a lot of comments about the blog. Granted most are spam bots, or messages from lonely ladies in Russia offering me pictures of themselves au naturale if I just click on a link (which is very nice of them), but every now and then something I write attracts real comments from what I believe are real people. Strangely, I got the most comments after I published the “Field Dump” story, which either 1) tells us something about the human obsession with the act of coiling a rope, or 2) highlights a worryingly low level of maturity in geologists’ humour. Or perhaps both.

To date, I hadn’t received a comment that was compelling enough to make me want to publish it as a full post. They’re mostly short anecdotes, or nice feedback that might add texture to a story, but they lack sufficient detail to make the cut.

That changed the other day thanks to my new mate Kevin Broomberg in South Africa. Kevin’s note pushed all the right buttons for me. He spun me a tale about what happened to him and a few colleagues when they met a rather ornery 8ft tall death chicken. The ripping yarn included dangerous wildlife with nasty big claws, misplaced avian sexual desire, and a remote field camp -how could I not publish it? The only thing missing was zombies (which I wasn’t able to write in to the tale, try as I might.)

*Full Patch Death Chickens looking for trouble.*

So, with his permission, a few of his photos and a bit of editing, here’s his true story about a randy ostrich that made life very difficult for Kevin and his crew. Full credit to Kevin for this piece. I’ve done some editing but it’s 99% his work. Sadly, he tells me all the photos he had of this poultry incident (sorry) were fried in a shipping container which baked in the sun for 4 weeks during a move from Dar es Salaam to Johannesburg so we’re having to make do with whatever pictures we could find.

Polar Bears Are Nasty Buggers

Credit where credit is due. A huge thank you upfront to my friend and colleague Dave for a) suggesting this great story, which he first told me years back, and b) writing it all down coherently and engagingly so that I -with the minimum of work- could turn it into a blog post. Despite my natural tendency to add in some humour, this is a true story, even the swearing. At the time it was terrifying and gave him nightmares for years after. He tells me that this post is in lieu of therapy, which really means he’s too cheap to pay the hourly therapist rate but will never admit it. PS. Did I mention the swearing? Yes, there are bad words below.

We’re Lucky.

Field geologists – lucky souls hand chosen to do God’s work- contend with a lot of wildlife. We hike, bang rocks, hike some more, eat lunch, watch cute critters: all very National Geographic. But the reality is somewhat more sinister. There’s payback for being so perfect. God put bloody great targets on us; huge red letters etched into our skin that spell “Eat Me” to anything that flies, slithers or walks.

*A group of geologists & their camp manager.*

Most of the wildlife we come across may be small, but it’s blessed with an unnatural hunger for blood. Midges, blackflies, mosquitoes and horse flies are just a few of the myriad blood-crazed flying bastards that can and will torment you -stinging or ripping off chunks of flesh until foaming insanity takes hold. You don’t see them coming but you’ll hear them, whining away like a mini Luftwaffe, hunting that small piece of skin; the one that’ll swell up into a red, volcano-sized pustule, oozing fire and pain. Nothing protects you. You can shower in DEET, wear a stupid net over your head -geologists’ lingerie- and envelop yourself in burning gasoline but it won’t help.

Working in the Middle East, I got off lightly. Sure, there were bugs, but all the large animals that could do any serious harm were shot for fun or eaten years back. We did come across snakes, scary tortoises, nasty looking spiders and the odd tick that latched onto the dark, dangly places only medical specialists have any interest in. But honestly, the biggest threat came from the enormous Kangal dogs bred to protect sheep from wolves, which -luckily- were usually in the company of a nice, sensible shepherd.

A Crow Update

There’s Been A Death In The Family

The name of this blog is Urban Crows; a name I picked for its obvious links to earth science. Ha ha.

Three years ago, as a distraction from work, I started blogging purely for my own enjoyment. Could I write? Did I have the discipline to write regularly? Could I write anything remotely engaging that anyone would read other than my mum?

I had the naive goal of churning out lots of fascinating essays about the crows that visit my urban back yard, pushing back the frontiers of corvid behavioural science along the way. What a compelling subject, thought I.

*One of my urban crows. I call it Blackie*

But despite my best efforts to keep the blog a geology-free zone, it was hijacked, tied up and unceremoniously thrown head first back into the familiar world of mining and exploration by a couple of pieces on the industry. Much to my amazement, the mining stuff gained me a lot of subscribers, so the crows were quickly banished back to the roost. Know your audience is a key rule; go where the readers are. So be it. From then on I wrote about mining and geology with the odd piece on my musical diversions.

Crow Poo

Having said that, it’s well past time for a crow update. Things have moved on. Crows have come and gone -although they’re all black, the same size and sound the same so I can’t really be sure that this statement holds water- but more recently a slow moving tragedy has played itself out on my garage roof.

The G-Word: Use and Misuse

With the advent of instant social media -the breakneck world of twitter and bulletin boards where everything and everyone is dissected by impatient investors- I’ve noticed a disturbing trend; a tendency to throw the moniker “genius” at any geologist running a junior that cuts a decent hole into a new discovery. This vexes me.

The junior exploration world revolves around new discoveries. It’s what we live for. Everyone gets excited when someone finds something significant; shareholders, management and the bankers all make money and new mines get built. Hats off to the individuals and teams that have made new economic discoveries. Huzzah.

“*Son, hang around long enough with me and you’ll be averagely intelligent too.”*
*“Thanks Dad, can’t wait.*“

I had the tingly pleasure of drilling a really hot hole once, but it was for a major company and I was a simple salaried geologist. The drill hole results didn’t make the news, but it was a belter. We cut 50m at 11g/t gold and couldn’t talk about it, which was shitty: it was completely immaterial to the big mining house.

If I’d drilled it for a junior company, the stock would’ve rocketed, and the next retail investment conference would be buzzing with people heading to our corporate booth to hear the inside scoop and tell us how amazing we were. I’d be writing this blog from my deck overlooking a warm, blue bay, plucking fresh mangoes from the tree and sipping fine, vintage rum. Alas, I’m in cold, rainy Vancouver, drinking lukewarm tea, squishing big, dopy ants waking up from the winter that think it’s fun to crawl up the inside of my back door. Such are the cards we’re dealt.

Please pass the salt.

They Thought They’d Get Away With It.

Names, dates, locations have been excised from this story to protect anyone who needs protecting -yes, even the guilty parties. People and companies have come and gone since it happened, but other than that, it’s a true tail of mineral malfeasance. This piece would have failed miserably without the crucial input from 2 good industry friends. They know who they are. A big thank you to both of you.

“When markets are hot, scoundrels come out of the woodwork.” Northern Miner, June 1996

For every major gold discovery, there are dozens of failed projects. The exploration business is actually very adept at not finding viable mineral deposits. Most projects fail for want of enough tons to make an economic mine. Some may be big, but they lack the metal grade needed to justify extraction. Others fail because of local politics or remoteness. But a few, a special few, fail because they were never real in the first place. They were simply fictions created by crooked management or a scoundrel out to make a quick buck.

*Field geologists actively failing to find anything in Yemen, 1990s.*

The history of mining is littered with scams. The ones that happened a hundred years ago have become mining lore, acquiring a patina of wild west romanticism with time. Back then, it was a world of snake oil salesmen – Mark Twain’s liar in a hole snaring unsuspecting patsies. Fast forward to the present day, and we rightly regard more recent deceptions as criminal and decidedly unromantic. It’s worse living in Vancouver, because we – or maybe someone we know- could well have a direct personal connection with the perpetrator(s); junior mining is a small world with few places to hide if you’re found out.

Superstition & Mining

It all spells trouble.

Miners have more than their fair share of superstitions. The nasty, smelly bowels of the earth aren’t kind to those who choose to grub around down there, and the more you dig into the old lore, the more you realise how hard a job it was. Death was everywhere. Most miners were lucky to live past the ripe old age of 40. If rockfalls or dead air didn’t get them, silicosis was waiting in line, so it’s no surprise that they looked for signs to warn them away from danger and protect what scant longevity they had.

I’m a scientist at heart and not generally a believer in the supernatural. Even so, I do hold a few superstitions; ones that I like to think are grounded in common sense. For example, never stick your head in a honey wagon tank. It’s really unlucky and your friends will stop inviting you to the pub. Or, another one that’s seen me safely through to a ripe old middle age: don’t smoke huge cigars in fiery coal mines.

Author: admin

The Heart of The Matter

Adventures with A Fib

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