BY MIKE GORRELL
THE SALT LAKE TRIBUNE
Scofield: Mine Accident Of 1900 Revisited
Sunday, April 30, 2000
Despite the efforts of 50-plus volunteers, some graves were still not dug when victims were
brought to the rocky Scofield cemetery on May 5, 1900, following the mine disaster. The official
toll was 200 men killed in the coal mine explosion, many of them brothers and cousins. (Photo
courtesy of Utah Historical Society)
SCOFIELD -- A century later, it is impossible to fully comprehend the human wreckage of the
day Winter Quarters blew.
Of extended coal-mining families gutted by the loss of up to 12 members.
Of fathers dying with sons.
Of two, three -- even five -- brothers perishing in the same instant.
Of a community of recent Finnish immigrants coping not just with the deaths of 63 of its
own, but also the scorn and bitterness of English-speaking neighbors who made scapegoats of
these foreign "vultures" with their "weird" practices.
With an official toll of 200 deaths, Winter Quarters was the worst mining disaster to that
point in United States history, a distinction sadly surpassed three times in the next 15 years.
When May 1 dawned in 1900, residents of Winter Quarters and Scofield were looking
ahead to that night's dance to commemorate Admiral Dewey's naval victory over the Spanish in
Manila Harbor.
But about 10:25 a.m., a rapid-fire series of explosions ripped through the Pleasant Valley
Coal Co.'s Winter Quarters No. 4 mine, crushing and burning the life out of all but two of the 85
men and boys inside.
Within minutes, deadly gases generated by the blasts poured through an interconnecting
tunnel into the upper reaches of the Winter Quarters No. 1 mine. While far less violent, the fumes
were just as deadly: 117 miners perished.
The explosion shredded the social fabric of Carbon County's two biggest towns -- Winter
Quarters, population 696, and Scofield, 642 in that year's census. In its wake were 107 widows,
268 fatherless children and dozens of dependent parents.
Even after a century, the individual tales of woe are numbing.
A mine-rescue team found the bodies of Carbon County Commissioner John James and
his son, George, locked in an embrace, obviously anticipating the inescapable arrival of the
suffocating gases spawned by the explosion.
That same "afterdamp" also claimed the life of Walter Clark, who was outside the mine
when the explosion occurred but ran inside to search for his two ill-fated brothers.
At the Carbon County coroner's inquest into the death of John Hunter, his brother, Hugh,
was called to testify. "Tears silently fell from his eyes and his voice was low and husky, revealing
mental anguish and deep emotion . . . sufficient to make even a strong man like Hugh Hunter
bow his head in sorrow, humbled, broken-hearted," The Salt Lake Tribune reported.
Hugh was not just mourning John. He lost two brothers, two brothers-in-law, a
father-in-law and two of his sons, a cousin and his son, an uncle and his son, and a nephew.
And then there were Abe and Katie Luoma. They came to America four months earlier on
one-way tickets from Finland, urged to migrate by their sons who had good-paying jobs in the
mines. Five of those sons and two grandsons were among eight Luomas killed.
What triggered the cataclysm never was determined definitively. The prevailing theory is
that a miner loading a blasting cartridge used to dislodge coal accidentally lit the black powder
with the oil lamp on his miner's helmet.
Ten 25-pound kegs of black powder in the immediate vicinity detonated. The concussion
kicked up coal dust, which ignited and spread the explosive force at lightning speed through the
mine. Another 20 scattered powder kegs went off.
Miners in No. 4 probably never knew what hit them. In No. 1, men in the upper levels felt
the explosion. But apparently not knowing where it originated, they attempted to escape to the
surface through the most direct route they knew -- through No. 4.
It was the wrong choice. They ran right into the gassy air.
Some other unsuspecting victims in No. 1 "were warned of the explosion but they stopped
to put their tools away and lock their boxes, and some went so far as to finish load[ing] their cars
[with coal]. They did not seem to think there was much danger," state coal mine inspector Gomer
Thomas said in his disaster report.
Ephraim Rowe of Spanish Fork told The Tribune he never heard a sound. But aware of
approaching afterdamp, he and colleague Sam Wycherly crawled along a tunnel floor to safety -two of 103 miners in No. 1 to escape.
At the surface, repairman Harry Taylor was walking toward the No. 4 portal when "a black
cloud filled with rocks bore down on me like a streak of greased lightning. . . . Next thing I knew
I woke up with a man pouring some brandy down my throat, and I saw the boys lying all around
and moaning for help."
One of those boys was John Wilson, age 20. Despite long odds, he survived "a horrible
scalp wound" from having been blown 800 feet from the mine portal to the other side of a gulch.
Impromptu rescue teams formed almost immediately under mine superintendent T. J.
Parmley, whose brother was killed in No. 4, and others -- including Andrew Gilbert, a victim of
the 1924 Castle Gate Mine explosion that killed 175.
Lingering gases repelled initial forays into the mines. But rescue teams methodically
worked their way deeper underground in search of survivors. It soon became apparent there were
none.
Women clutching babies, family and friends gathered quickly outside the mines, then
waited all day to spot loved ones. "Here the scene beggared all descriptions," The Tribune
reported. "The lamentations were most heart-piercing."
Those killed by gas were loaded into coal cars, sometimes a dozen at a time, and hauled
out. Those mutilated by the explosion were placed in sacks. Bodies were stripped of blackened
clothing and sponged clean before being turned over to their families.
A harried telegraph operator at the company store dispatched news of the disaster. Over
the next few days, trains to Scofield brought company executives, doctors, undertakers,
ministers, friends, coffins from Salt Lake and Denver, and reporters whose competition for
scoops produced some sensational whoppers.
The entourage included Springville photographer George Edward Anderson, whose
pictures provide the main visual documentation of the disaster.
Coal-company attorneys made their presence known. Mine bosses clammed up after
speaking fairly freely early on.
The Tribune also noted the appearance of "secret-service men" of the company and its
owner, Denver & Rio Grande Western Railroad. "Their mission here is one that many a man has
asked, getting an unsatisfactory answer at every turn."
With victims hailing from a dozen communities, the news hit Utahns hard. They responded
generously.
Relief funds eventually raised $216,000. Charity baseball games and concerts were staged.
Catholic Bishop Lawrence Scanlan said Kearns St. Ann's Orphan Asylum would take in children
(its numbers increased from 69 in 1900 to 96 in 1901).
At ZCMI, 200 burial outfits were prepared -- black cloth suits, white gloves and shirts,
slippers and white ties. The company paid for the suits and burial expenses, gave each victim's
relatives $250 and a hand-delivered final paycheck, and forgave $8,000 in debts at its store.
Schoolchildren filled three train cars with flowers for victims' graves.
By May 4, a day "awful for its silence" as families paid their last private respects, trains
draped with black-and-white streamers left Scofield, carrying victims to final resting places in
seven Utah counties and four other states.
Railroad workers and 50 volunteers from Provo were still digging graves in Scofield's rocky
cemetery that afternoon when the first victims were buried.
Brothers James and Evan Thomas were lowered into one grave. One of Evan's daughters
fainted as her brothers, Joseph and Fred, were placed in another. Nearby, John Q. Davis was
buried with his stepson, Andrew Adamson, just 13.
May 5 was "burial day." The weather could hardly have been bleaker -- cold, windy, a
constant threat of rain. Mormon hymns filled the air as three apostles from The Church of Jesus
Christ of Latter-day Saints blessed grave after grave.
Finns laid their masses to rest with what The Tribune called "the music of a strange
language." And two fraternal organizations, the Knights of Pythias and the International Order of
Odd Fellows, performed rituals for two dozen members buried in trenches in the shape of a
Maltese cross.
"So the scene went on until the mourners and priests were driven away from the cemetery
by rain," The Tribune recounted.
Not all the graves could be filled in before the clouds let loose, however, so townsman John
Birch stood watch through the rainy night to safeguard the exposed coffins.
Mine-rescue teams continued to search for the last four bodies but were entering
increasingly dangerous areas.
LDS Apostle George Teasdale said "those were the men he wanted to shake hands with" at
a church service the day after 114 burials in Scofield cemetery.
The gutty diligence paid off. On succeeding days they found the bodies of Edwin Street,
Thomas Padfield, James C. Hunter and Nicholas Walkema. Thomas Pitman's remains would not
be located until Aug. 9, after crews spent nine days digging in a large cave-in.
Finding Walkema was a surprise. He supposedly had been interred on burial day. But that
was not the first case of mistaken identification.
When the real Walkema was buried, Gus Luoma read a religious passage at a small service
and then stopped by his brothers' graves. " 'All mine,' he said in broken English, as he took off his
crepe-covered hat and bowed low before the grave of each," The Tribune reporter wrote.
That correspondent's sensitive description of Luoma's personal grief was in contrast to his
earlier writings, when he joined the chorus of Finn bashers.
"The best to be said of the Finns is that they are at all times ghouls and vultures," he wrote
once, citing their refusal to participate in rescue efforts and wash the dead. He rejected an
explanation that superstitions about handling corpses played into their hesitancy.
Coal-company officials and even inspector Thomas contributed to the bigotry with off-hand
remarks that a "Finlander" caused the explosion. But neither Thomas's official disaster report
nor a Carbon County grand jury ended up blaming a Finn -- or anyone else.
The Winter Quarters disaster prompted a number of measures to make mining safer.
Since the explosion confirmed Thomas's suspicion that coal dust had explosive qualities
even without the presence of combustible gases -- a theory circulated in academic circles but
disputed within the industry -- he got mining companies to install watering systems to keep dust
down.
Miners finally accepted his long-standing recommendation not to take 25-pound powder
kegs underground, only 6.25-pound kegs. And the practice of setting off blasting charges during
a shift was ended.
But those improvements had minimal overall impact on an industry growing more
dangerous. Over the next decade, 3,912 miners would be killed in gas and dust explosions, more
than double the fatality total for 1891-1900.
Winter Quarters did play a role in the growth of the labor movement. The miners who
replaced those killed staged an unsuccessful strike in 1901 for higher wages and better working
conditions, and figured into a larger strike in 1903-04 that also fell short of its goals.
"The disaster was not the only cause but a stimulus to push for better labor conditions,
better pay," said historian Allan Kent Powell. But here, too, the advances were minimal.
Organized labor would not establish a solid foothold in the state until 1932.