At this point, the person's eyes will glaze over, or they respond along the lines of, "So, like, do you like rocks or something?"
Ummm. No. No great love affair with rocks. I do, however, dislike the idea of working every week, Monday to Friday, 9am to 5pm, for 50 weeks of the year, stuck in a grey or off-white coloured box.
Here's a typical day in the life of me working. Even some of my closest friends haven't got an inside look in this sort of detail...mostly because they'd find it boring as hell...
Sorry, but there's no sort of industry secrets or proprietary/confidential information. And the numbers are the 24-hour clock. Google it if you don't understand it.
 |
| Happy Gilmore as a geologist (from back in Ought-Six) |
1650 - Off to the bathroom. I brush my teeth & contemplate the bags under my eyes. I contemplate the two-week beard that has accumulated. It's itchy, but laziness outweighs the desire to be itch-free. This project hasn't been bad enough to warrant drastic measures such as shaving my face and/or head. I'm certain Britney Spears stole the head-shaving idea from a geologist pushed over the edge. I know several who've done it. Including myself.
1655 - Back to the room. Open my laptop to check email. Gmail first to see if anything fun or useful has come down the pipe. Perhaps something from Capital O to say the Aluminum Bastard was stolen from the yard, or to say my cheque from an invoice submitted on April 27th has arrived. No such luck. I browse through emails, deleting, responding or archiving as I go. I'm a believer in the OHIO Method: Only Handle It Once. It keeps my inbox empty, which I get an inordinate amount of pleasure from.
I check Facebook to see if my lovely girlfriend has written to say hi. Six notifications pop up, but I don't check them. Not high enough on the priority list just yet. I write a quick message to Becky to say I miss her. Hopefully she writes back before I have to head to the project site.
Next is the work account. This I click open with a feeling of impending doom: if there's no new messages, I'm either doing something right, or they haven't looked over the data yet. Either way is good. Perhaps there's a message about an upcoming project assignment. This would be good, as long as it isn't in July or early September. There aren't any messages. I close the browser tab, slightly relieved.
I finish up on the laptop with a quick look at the Facebook notifications and new mentions on Tweetdeck, responding as necessary. I see a picture of a nice redfish someone posted. I post the following on twitter:
I wish it was me holding that redfish, though.
I check the charge on my iPod & Kobo e-reader. Satisfied with both, I disconnect them and close the laptop.
1735 - I stroll over to the kitchen, enjoying the sun and apparent lack of mosquitoes. I pack my lunch: turkey on whole wheat for the thirteenth night in a row. It's the easiest and fastest to make. I grab some beef jerky, a fruit cup and two packages of Welch's Fruit Snacks. They're awesome: like ju-jubes but with more vitamin C. Brilliant, Welch family. Brilliant.
I check the charge on my iPod & Kobo e-reader. Satisfied with both, I disconnect them and close the laptop.
1735 - I stroll over to the kitchen, enjoying the sun and apparent lack of mosquitoes. I pack my lunch: turkey on whole wheat for the thirteenth night in a row. It's the easiest and fastest to make. I grab some beef jerky, a fruit cup and two packages of Welch's Fruit Snacks. They're awesome: like ju-jubes but with more vitamin C. Brilliant, Welch family. Brilliant.
Lunch is supplemented with two bottles of water and a can of Red Bull. Sometimes I take a can of sweet tea, but not tonight. Too much sugar in that shit.
I don't eat supper. The idea of meatloaf, chicken pot pie, hot roast beef, or whatever variation of salty gravy they're serving doesn't appeal to me for my first meal of the day. I'm sure the food is extremely good, but I'm not a regular eater of the hearty 'meat and potatoes' fare typically served on project sites. Nothing personal, it's just not my thing...especially for breakfast.
I pour myself warm cup of coffee-like liquid and wander back outside carrying my lunch bag. I'm enjoying the sun.
1750 - I use the bathroom. I'm blessed with amazing regularity, which is a good thing in this business. I'm not a huge fan of having mosquitoes bombing my ass & riggin' like Japanese Zeros at Pearl Harbour while I lean against a tree. I developed a wariness of doing number two outside twelve years ago, when, after a booze- and chicken wing-fueled night of debauchery led to an extremely close call with a wasp nest the next day while collecting groundwater samples near the local landfill. It's amazing how fast a person can shuffle and hop away with their pants around their ankles.
1800 - Quick check of Facebook again to see if Becky wrote me. She did. This makes me happy. I tell her I'm off to work and I love her with all my heart. I tell her to have a good sleep. I close the laptop.
1810 - Into the still-damp boots and the muddy coveralls that could stand on their own. This is for the fifteenth night in a row. I could (and should) wash the coveralls, but, like putting the razor to my face, laziness wins out.
1815 - I pop into the field office to say hi. Ask the summer student how the water levels are on the creek running behind the camp. Ask if he's caught anything. I grumble about fishing only 25 minutes since I arrived. He chuckles at my quip about my Alaskan fishing license costing me about $435 an hour. We say "see ya later" and I hop in to the truck. I wince when I glance at my fishing gear at the back seat. "Tomorrow," I say to myself.
1825 - Following the camp's posted 10mph speed limit, I slowly roll over to the staging area and load up a couple dozen empty core boxes, double-checking to make sure they don't fly out once I get moving on the highway.
1830 - I pull up to the security checkpoint at the entrance. A head pops out the door. After giving my name, company & destination, I drive off. The first two security guards were cheerful & talkative. This dude, while pleasant, seems like a good candidate for the TFSA: formal and to the point.
Once away from camp, I can tune into the radio station from Fairbanks, 104.7 The Edge. Alt-rock stuff. Lots of Pearl Jam and other early 90s Seattle stuff. No Nickelback. No Rush. I did hear a Tragically Hip tune once a few nights earlier. I am completely OK with this. The fact they played the Hip gives me hope for at least a small segment of Alaska. My mind wanders, though my eyes are alert for moose along the road. This is for both self-preservation and Instagram reasons.
I wonder what kind of day they had on the site. I wonder what kind of night I will have.
It's a Catch-22: a big night means we'll finish faster, and I'll get home to my girlfriend, dog, friends and the Aluminum Bastard sooner. A big night also means eating my turkey on whole wheat on the fly and barely having time to shake off after having a piss. There are a significant amount of data fields to measure and enter, and when the core is coming at a fast rate, it's hectic.
A slowish night means ample time to process the core before the next run is brought to you. It means being able to take time to make a double-shot with the Aeropress. It means sitting down to eat the turkey on whole wheat. It means being able to read (or, heaven forbid, write) for a few minutes at a time.
But a slow night also means more time to finish, and therefore more time until I get home to my girlfriend, dog, friends and the Aluminum Bastard.
By the time the radio station cuts out behind the hill, I settle on hoping for a medium night. I switch to four-wheel drive and start up the hill, enjoying the view along the way.
1850 - Onsite. I chat with the day shift geologist and ask how his shift went. We discuss our health & safety topic for the day ("Use proper lifting techniques.") My drill crew does the same with their day shift. The day shift shuffle off to their trucks for the drive back to camp. I ask the driller what's shaking. We both concur to some variation of "git 'er done" and the drill fires up.
1900 - For the next 12 hours I alternate between being busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest to being able to sit in solitude for 20 minutes to contemplate life. I bang out the 270-odd pages of The Cellist of Sarajevo, the majority one paragraph at a time while standing. I make a few rounds of double-shots with the Aeropress to help get me through the night. I have my turkey on whole wheat, eating the last two bites while measuring core.
I'm not diving into the technical aspects of my shift. For one, because I'm probably not allowed, but mostly because they will bore people to death (unless you're a structure dork). I'll say this: at the end of 95% of my shifts, I feel the client has received good value for the money ( the 5% I attribute to drill breakdowns & other downtime; these things are out of my control but I still gotta get paid).
The shift was medium-big. I'm ok with this.
0700 - Morning chat with the day shift completed and I'm in the truck heading down the hill. I'm bagged. It was chilly throughout the night with periodic rain. My coveralls are covered in a fresh layer of mud and grime. My feet are soaked and cold.
I think of the hot breakfast waiting for me and command myself to limit the bacon intake. I think about how much closer I am to getting home to my girlfriend, dog, friends...and the Aluminum Bastard. I think about what might be awaiting on the work email account. I curse the Alaskan time zone that gives people a couple hours to conceive emails prior to me finishing the shift. I look at the view while driving, but still my eyes stay alert for moose on the side of the road. For self-preservation and Instagram reasons.
"Shit. I'm tired," I mumble to myself.
It's past 0730 when I approach the driveway to the camp. Just down the road is access to the creek. I have my fishing gear in the truck. It's easy wading. There are grayling longing for my #16 Elk Hair Caddis to drift by on the current., I just know it.
The lure of hot food, dry socks and sleep is too much.
"Tomorrow," I say.
0930 - Breakfast is in my belly, messages are read and responded to, teeth are brushed, dry socks procured. I know I should sit down and write something, but the bed is calling my name. Laziness wins again. As I lay my head down on the pillow, I miss the comfortable bed at our apartment. I miss my girlfriend. I miss my dog. I mentally calculate the number of days it will take to finish this last hole. Satisfied with the number, I start drifting off to sleep.
1007 - I open my eyes. Heavy equipment is apparently playing twirling fartknockers. In reverse gear. The incessant beeps bore into my brain. I wish something painful but not too serious to befall the operators and their managers. Stubbed toes or hornet stings would suffice. Eventually they move to another part of camp. In reverse. I fall back asleep.
1041 - The sound of the helicopter wakes me up. It's the A-Star this time, I'm sure of it. By the sound of the rotors and the length of time it's been hovering, I'm guessing they're slinging something. It moves away after a few minutes
1118 - I wake up again. Some tool is clunking down the hallway in boots and whistling. Times like this I wish I was not a (polite) visiting consultant. My Canadian-ness doesn't prevent me from telling him to shut the fuck up, but my quasi-professional demeanour does. Fucker.
1312 - The helicopter again. I'm too drowsy to distinguish whether it's the 500 or the A-Star. I start hating my life.
1418 - Voices. One of them is loud; it's female and has an echo to it. Cleaning staff in the bathroom. I put the pillow over my head and mumble about something or someone "having mercy on me."
1648 - I wake up with a gasp. A feeling of panic. I grab my phone to check the time, thinking I overslept. Then I feel ripped off for having missed out on the seven minutes of sleep I could have had before the alarm went off.
Fifteen hours later, I'm standing knee-deep in the creek. The flow is up and the water is brown. I don't care. I'm fishing. The off-chance a fish might take my fly is what made me drive past the camp's driveway at 0730.
But that's not what keeps me staying well past my bedtime. It's the realization I'm going to be kept awake by the damn helicopters anyway, so I might as well fish.
I don't eat supper. The idea of meatloaf, chicken pot pie, hot roast beef, or whatever variation of salty gravy they're serving doesn't appeal to me for my first meal of the day. I'm sure the food is extremely good, but I'm not a regular eater of the hearty 'meat and potatoes' fare typically served on project sites. Nothing personal, it's just not my thing...especially for breakfast.
I pour myself warm cup of coffee-like liquid and wander back outside carrying my lunch bag. I'm enjoying the sun.
1750 - I use the bathroom. I'm blessed with amazing regularity, which is a good thing in this business. I'm not a huge fan of having mosquitoes bombing my ass & riggin' like Japanese Zeros at Pearl Harbour while I lean against a tree. I developed a wariness of doing number two outside twelve years ago, when, after a booze- and chicken wing-fueled night of debauchery led to an extremely close call with a wasp nest the next day while collecting groundwater samples near the local landfill. It's amazing how fast a person can shuffle and hop away with their pants around their ankles.
1800 - Quick check of Facebook again to see if Becky wrote me. She did. This makes me happy. I tell her I'm off to work and I love her with all my heart. I tell her to have a good sleep. I close the laptop.
1810 - Into the still-damp boots and the muddy coveralls that could stand on their own. This is for the fifteenth night in a row. I could (and should) wash the coveralls, but, like putting the razor to my face, laziness wins out.
1815 - I pop into the field office to say hi. Ask the summer student how the water levels are on the creek running behind the camp. Ask if he's caught anything. I grumble about fishing only 25 minutes since I arrived. He chuckles at my quip about my Alaskan fishing license costing me about $435 an hour. We say "see ya later" and I hop in to the truck. I wince when I glance at my fishing gear at the back seat. "Tomorrow," I say to myself.
1825 - Following the camp's posted 10mph speed limit, I slowly roll over to the staging area and load up a couple dozen empty core boxes, double-checking to make sure they don't fly out once I get moving on the highway.
1830 - I pull up to the security checkpoint at the entrance. A head pops out the door. After giving my name, company & destination, I drive off. The first two security guards were cheerful & talkative. This dude, while pleasant, seems like a good candidate for the TFSA: formal and to the point.
Once away from camp, I can tune into the radio station from Fairbanks, 104.7 The Edge. Alt-rock stuff. Lots of Pearl Jam and other early 90s Seattle stuff. No Nickelback. No Rush. I did hear a Tragically Hip tune once a few nights earlier. I am completely OK with this. The fact they played the Hip gives me hope for at least a small segment of Alaska. My mind wanders, though my eyes are alert for moose along the road. This is for both self-preservation and Instagram reasons.
I wonder what kind of day they had on the site. I wonder what kind of night I will have.
It's a Catch-22: a big night means we'll finish faster, and I'll get home to my girlfriend, dog, friends and the Aluminum Bastard sooner. A big night also means eating my turkey on whole wheat on the fly and barely having time to shake off after having a piss. There are a significant amount of data fields to measure and enter, and when the core is coming at a fast rate, it's hectic.
A slowish night means ample time to process the core before the next run is brought to you. It means being able to take time to make a double-shot with the Aeropress. It means sitting down to eat the turkey on whole wheat. It means being able to read (or, heaven forbid, write) for a few minutes at a time.
But a slow night also means more time to finish, and therefore more time until I get home to my girlfriend, dog, friends and the Aluminum Bastard.
By the time the radio station cuts out behind the hill, I settle on hoping for a medium night. I switch to four-wheel drive and start up the hill, enjoying the view along the way.
1850 - Onsite. I chat with the day shift geologist and ask how his shift went. We discuss our health & safety topic for the day ("Use proper lifting techniques.") My drill crew does the same with their day shift. The day shift shuffle off to their trucks for the drive back to camp. I ask the driller what's shaking. We both concur to some variation of "git 'er done" and the drill fires up.
1900 - For the next 12 hours I alternate between being busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest to being able to sit in solitude for 20 minutes to contemplate life. I bang out the 270-odd pages of The Cellist of Sarajevo, the majority one paragraph at a time while standing. I make a few rounds of double-shots with the Aeropress to help get me through the night. I have my turkey on whole wheat, eating the last two bites while measuring core.
I'm not diving into the technical aspects of my shift. For one, because I'm probably not allowed, but mostly because they will bore people to death (unless you're a structure dork). I'll say this: at the end of 95% of my shifts, I feel the client has received good value for the money ( the 5% I attribute to drill breakdowns & other downtime; these things are out of my control but I still gotta get paid).
The shift was medium-big. I'm ok with this.
0700 - Morning chat with the day shift completed and I'm in the truck heading down the hill. I'm bagged. It was chilly throughout the night with periodic rain. My coveralls are covered in a fresh layer of mud and grime. My feet are soaked and cold.
I think of the hot breakfast waiting for me and command myself to limit the bacon intake. I think about how much closer I am to getting home to my girlfriend, dog, friends...and the Aluminum Bastard. I think about what might be awaiting on the work email account. I curse the Alaskan time zone that gives people a couple hours to conceive emails prior to me finishing the shift. I look at the view while driving, but still my eyes stay alert for moose on the side of the road. For self-preservation and Instagram reasons.
"Shit. I'm tired," I mumble to myself.
It's past 0730 when I approach the driveway to the camp. Just down the road is access to the creek. I have my fishing gear in the truck. It's easy wading. There are grayling longing for my #16 Elk Hair Caddis to drift by on the current., I just know it.
The lure of hot food, dry socks and sleep is too much.
"Tomorrow," I say.
0930 - Breakfast is in my belly, messages are read and responded to, teeth are brushed, dry socks procured. I know I should sit down and write something, but the bed is calling my name. Laziness wins again. As I lay my head down on the pillow, I miss the comfortable bed at our apartment. I miss my girlfriend. I miss my dog. I mentally calculate the number of days it will take to finish this last hole. Satisfied with the number, I start drifting off to sleep.
1007 - I open my eyes. Heavy equipment is apparently playing twirling fartknockers. In reverse gear. The incessant beeps bore into my brain. I wish something painful but not too serious to befall the operators and their managers. Stubbed toes or hornet stings would suffice. Eventually they move to another part of camp. In reverse. I fall back asleep.
1041 - The sound of the helicopter wakes me up. It's the A-Star this time, I'm sure of it. By the sound of the rotors and the length of time it's been hovering, I'm guessing they're slinging something. It moves away after a few minutes
1118 - I wake up again. Some tool is clunking down the hallway in boots and whistling. Times like this I wish I was not a (polite) visiting consultant. My Canadian-ness doesn't prevent me from telling him to shut the fuck up, but my quasi-professional demeanour does. Fucker.
1312 - The helicopter again. I'm too drowsy to distinguish whether it's the 500 or the A-Star. I start hating my life.
1418 - Voices. One of them is loud; it's female and has an echo to it. Cleaning staff in the bathroom. I put the pillow over my head and mumble about something or someone "having mercy on me."
1648 - I wake up with a gasp. A feeling of panic. I grab my phone to check the time, thinking I overslept. Then I feel ripped off for having missed out on the seven minutes of sleep I could have had before the alarm went off.
Fifteen hours later, I'm standing knee-deep in the creek. The flow is up and the water is brown. I don't care. I'm fishing. The off-chance a fish might take my fly is what made me drive past the camp's driveway at 0730.
But that's not what keeps me staying well past my bedtime. It's the realization I'm going to be kept awake by the damn helicopters anyway, so I might as well fish.
