LET'S MAKE DYNAMITE
A former quality control chemist remembers:
By Larry Scott
Going out on the Line, hey?” the Technician asks. “Just remember: when you get home, you’ll definitely need two aspirins. Good luck!”
Today, as a new-hire at Apache Powder Company, I will be introduced to the fine art of making dynamite. My co-workers are preparing me for my first “powder headache,” the bane of anyone who works with dynamite. I leave the office and hike into the hilly region known as the Powder Line. In a few minutes, I reach the Nitroglycerine Weigh House. Thick, earth-filled barricades surround it, and wide board walkways enter and exit through cave-like tunnels.
The Superintendent is waiting for me. As we enter, I pass two wooden pushcarts with fat rubber tires and elegantly soldered copper tanks, referred to by the workers as ‘angel buggies.’
The operator pushes a buggy onto a Toledo platform scale. He carefully zeros the scale and then uncouples a large gum-rubber hose from a nearby tank and places the end in the buggy’s tank. He slowly loosens the large wooden hose-clamp and suddenly I hear nitroglycerine gurgling into the buggy. When the dial reaches the correct weight, he crimps the hose and hangs it back up.
“Ready to go,” he says and, begins easing the buggy out the door and down the boardwalk. Eventually, we pass through the barricade opening into the next building.
I find myself on the mid-level in a three-story building. I see a bronze mixer assembly extending through an opening in the floor.
“Ready to mix!” The superintendent calls. We back away as the buggy operator moves in closer. He uncouples the rubber hose and lowers it into the bowl. Suddenly nitroglycerine liquid is sloshing into the bowl.
“You really slosh that stuff around,” I comment nervously.
“It doesn’t mind a little sloshing,” he grins. “It doesn’t even mind splashing, as long as there’s a water cushion to catch it. What it really doesn’t like is jolting or jarring.
From above, an operator begins screening dry ingredients, from a dope hod, into the bowl. The big screws began to turn. The ingredients begin moving rapidly – around and around. The air fills with an astringent, sweetish odor and within seconds my temples start to throb.
“This is 60% seismograph gelatin.” the Superintendent explains.
The mix looks like canned cat food – thick and dense. This formulation was developed for maximum shattering power in oil exploration operations.
When the mix is complete, the men trot downstairs. The mixer slowly rolls over, and I hear loud thuds as the mix drops into waiting hods at the level below. Downstairs, the operators, scrape out the residue with wooden shovels. Obviously, the powder is much less sensitive than the liquid NG. When the bowl is empty, the operator rolls it back to the ‘ready’ position.
A train has arrived on the track outside, and operators wheel the full hods of dynamite onto a waiting flatcar. The train eases away, and everybody heads back upstairs to start another batch.
During the days that follow, I watch as numerous formulas are made. Appearance and texture varies widely – from something orange and rubbery to slightly damp sawdust. But it’s always called ‘powder.’
Dynamite was packaged in plastic tubes, cardboard tubes, paper shells or paper bags.
“This is a dying business,” the Superintendent tells me later. “It’s too bad, because dynamite is the perfect explosive. But it’s expensive, and hazardous, and miners don’t like the headaches.
He was right; Apache’s dynamite production ended in 1983, just a few years later.
When I got home, I took the aspirin; It may have helped a bit, but not a lot.
When I left Apache, I was given a wooden shovel as a memento. I still have it and, from time to time, I explain to friends that the shovel means I once worked in a dynamite factory. Not many people can say that any more.
A former quality control chemist remembers:
By Larry Scott
Going out on the Line, hey?” the Technician asks. “Just remember: when you get home, you’ll definitely need two aspirins. Good luck!”
Today, as a new-hire at Apache Powder Company, I will be introduced to the fine art of making dynamite. My co-workers are preparing me for my first “powder headache,” the bane of anyone who works with dynamite. I leave the office and hike into the hilly region known as the Powder Line. In a few minutes, I reach the Nitroglycerine Weigh House. Thick, earth-filled barricades surround it, and wide board walkways enter and exit through cave-like tunnels.
The Superintendent is waiting for me. As we enter, I pass two wooden pushcarts with fat rubber tires and elegantly soldered copper tanks, referred to by the workers as ‘angel buggies.’
The operator pushes a buggy onto a Toledo platform scale. He carefully zeros the scale and then uncouples a large gum-rubber hose from a nearby tank and places the end in the buggy’s tank. He slowly loosens the large wooden hose-clamp and suddenly I hear nitroglycerine gurgling into the buggy. When the dial reaches the correct weight, he crimps the hose and hangs it back up.
“Ready to go,” he says and, begins easing the buggy out the door and down the boardwalk. Eventually, we pass through the barricade opening into the next building.
I find myself on the mid-level in a three-story building. I see a bronze mixer assembly extending through an opening in the floor.
“Ready to mix!” The superintendent calls. We back away as the buggy operator moves in closer. He uncouples the rubber hose and lowers it into the bowl. Suddenly nitroglycerine liquid is sloshing into the bowl.
“You really slosh that stuff around,” I comment nervously.
“It doesn’t mind a little sloshing,” he grins. “It doesn’t even mind splashing, as long as there’s a water cushion to catch it. What it really doesn’t like is jolting or jarring.
From above, an operator begins screening dry ingredients, from a dope hod, into the bowl. The big screws began to turn. The ingredients begin moving rapidly – around and around. The air fills with an astringent, sweetish odor and within seconds my temples start to throb.
“This is 60% seismograph gelatin.” the Superintendent explains.
The mix looks like canned cat food – thick and dense. This formulation was developed for maximum shattering power in oil exploration operations.
When the mix is complete, the men trot downstairs. The mixer slowly rolls over, and I hear loud thuds as the mix drops into waiting hods at the level below. Downstairs, the operators, scrape out the residue with wooden shovels. Obviously, the powder is much less sensitive than the liquid NG. When the bowl is empty, the operator rolls it back to the ‘ready’ position.
A train has arrived on the track outside, and operators wheel the full hods of dynamite onto a waiting flatcar. The train eases away, and everybody heads back upstairs to start another batch.
During the days that follow, I watch as numerous formulas are made. Appearance and texture varies widely – from something orange and rubbery to slightly damp sawdust. But it’s always called ‘powder.’
Dynamite was packaged in plastic tubes, cardboard tubes, paper shells or paper bags.
“This is a dying business,” the Superintendent tells me later. “It’s too bad, because dynamite is the perfect explosive. But it’s expensive, and hazardous, and miners don’t like the headaches.
He was right; Apache’s dynamite production ended in 1983, just a few years later.
When I got home, I took the aspirin; It may have helped a bit, but not a lot.
When I left Apache, I was given a wooden shovel as a memento. I still have it and, from time to time, I explain to friends that the shovel means I once worked in a dynamite factory. Not many people can say that any more.