Fifty-nine miners perish in Jokerville explosion
By Rob Carrigan, robcarrigan1@gmail.com
The Jokerville Mine outside of Crested Butte was full of methane gas and exploded on January 24, 1884, killing 59 miners. Others were injured, and it is still the third-deadliest mine disaster in Colorado history. The explosion demonstrated the dangers of coal mining, despite it being prevalent fuel source at the time. Jokerville and other similar disasters helped nudge Colorado miners toward embracing unions such as the Western Federation of Miners, which started organizing in the state in the 1890s.
"Black clouds still rolled out of the coal mine shaft and a man crawled out with them. He was burned black, far beyond immediate recognition, and for a time seemed the sole survivor. Yet some others did get out, 11, more dead than alive. One able to speak coherently said he was among the group entering the mine for the day's work. He was knocked down and lay unconscious for a while, then started crawling along the floor where the air seemed better," according to an account of the disaster by Lambert Florin, in Ghost Towns of the West.
"I know I crawled over several men that seemed very dead to me," the survivor reported.
"That blast on Jan. 24, 1884, shook Crested Butte to its very foundations," wrote Florin. "All the buildings around the mine were demolished, coal cars shot out of the tunnel, debris scattered more than 100 feet. The new ventilator fan was the first casualty, making it impossible for rescuers to enter the smokey, fume-filled entrance."
"As news of the January blast spread, miners from Baldwin and other camps quit work to come to Crested Butte on special trains to aid the rescue work. The first group was able to get in as far as the first level, 200 feet down, found a collection of 17 bodies. Although it was impossible to penetrate deeper more than a moment it was obvious many more dead lay at lower levels," wrote Florin.
"Huddled around the shattered entrance, families of the unfortunate men stood in shocked silence ..." wrote Gunnison historian Betty Wallace. "... there was no outcry, but muffled sobbing when, 38 hours after the explosion — the first body was brought to the surface — wrapped in canvas, a card of identification pinned to his breast."
The process continued until 59 bodies lay in the blacksmith shop, which had been pressed into service as makeshift morgue.
Several of the victims were teen-age boys on their first job. Most men were found lying on the ground with handkerchiefs over their mouths, indicating deaths by suffocation, rather than concussion by the blast.
According to Colorado Encyclopedia, " Crested Butte began in 1878 as a supply depot for the silver mines of Gunnison County. In 1880, though, high-quality coal beds were found nearby, the kind that could produce coke—a higher-carbon, hotter-burning fuel. Industrialist William Jackson Palmer had just formed Colorado Coal and Iron (CC&I), the predecessor to the goliath Colorado Fuel and Iron, and he saw Crested Butte’s coal as an integral part of his plan to open a steelworks in Pueblo. Palmer extended his Denver & Rio Grande Railroad to Crested Butte, and in 1881 the remote mountain outpost became a booming coal town."
"On November 24, 1881, CC&I opened the Crested Butte Mine about one mile west of town. By September, it was known as the Jokerville Mine and was among the most productive in the area. By 1883 it boasted fifty coke ovens, where the raw coal was superheated into coke. That coke was hauled off by rail to Pueblo, where it powered the creation of steel," says Colorado Encyclopedia.
Working in coal mines like the Jokerville was dirty and dangerous. Miners inhaled coal dust all day long, which led to the devastating respiratory disease known as black lung. Shafts could collapse or flood. Flammable methane gas released from coal beds often built up in the mines, and each morning an inspector had to check the air quality before work could begin.
Miners braved all these hazards for twelve to fourteen hours and two dollars a day. Even children worked the mine—the youngest employees at the Jokerville were two twelve-year-olds, William Neath and Tommy Lyle.
During a routine inspection in December 1883, state mine inspector John McNeil observed that the mine appeared to be “well ventilated” and “everything was in proper order”—though he still considered “the Crested Butte mine a very dangerous one.”
"On the frigid morning of January 24, 1884, fire boss Luke Richardson finished his daily inspection of the Jokerville Mine. He found the mine clear of gas except for one chamber—number eighteen, on the second level. Richardson told the miners it was safe to go to work even though the partition in the gassy chamber had to be repaired to prevent buildup in the rest of the mine. Workers had already begun their shifts as Richardson left to get materials for the repair," according to Colorado Encyclopedia.
"It was then, that Richardson heard the sickening sound of a blast that shredded the mine entrance. The explosion instantly killed the two boys who worked near the mine opening, as well as Neath’s older brother, seventeen-year-old Morgan Neath."
Thinking the explosion was much smaller than it was, Richardson ran into the mine with his lamp and immediately came across the body of another worker, John Rutherford. Then, ten more workers came struggling out of the deeper reaches of the mine; they survived the blast but were choking on the “after-damp”—gas that lingered after the explosion. All ten made it out safely, including worker John Angus, who had been injured in the blast. The other survivors set to work repairing the ventilation fan damaged by the explosion; nobody could enter the mine to recover bodies until the toxic air was cleared.
When Colorado mine inspector McNeil arrived the next day, he took control of the cleanup and recovery of the dead. On the mine’s first level, he encountered a grisly scene:
Some of the bodies on the main level . . . had been exposed to the full force of the blast, and in several cases arms and legs were found broken and bodies otherwise battered by being thrown against the jagged walls.
Moving past the “carcasses of nine mules,” McNeil followed the air-intake route deeper into the mine and found “18 of the missing bodies huddled and piled in little groups in indiscriminate confusion.” McNeil observed that the “men had evidently been making their escape before the deadly after-damp checked their attempt, when but a few hundred feet from air.” It took nearly a week to recover all 59 bodies.
"When he heard of the blast, Palmer, the mine’s owner, immediately sent a telegram with $1,000 to be divided among the families of the deceased miners. The company also paid for transportation and burial of the bodies," according to reports.
McNeil’s interviews with survivors suggested that the blast was the result of at least some negligence on the part of Richardson, the fire boss. Garvin Dickson, a twenty-four-year coal mining veteran, said that John Anderson, the miner working in the gas-filled chamber the morning of January 24, “did not know much about gas.” Still, Richardson allowed Anderson to attempt the repairs to the chamber partition, according to Dickson. This contradicted Richardson’s own story that he was just getting his tools to make the repairs when the explosion happened.
In his final inspection statement, McNeil wrote that he thought “there had been carelessness to cause such an accident, but could not locate it; it is difficult for the most expert miner to locate carelessness after an explosion.” He further noted that “if Anderson had allowed the fire-boss to have preceded him [into the mine], the fire-boss . . . would have done the self-same thing . . . thus the accident might have happened at the fire-boss’ hands.”
The explosion shuttered the Jokerville Mine for a year, until another entrance was dug out about a half-mile west of the blown-out one. The mine remained productive through 1891, when a labor strike disrupted activities. The mine closed in 1895 after a larger coal seam was found nearby.
The explosion captured national attention, with media coverage in the New York Times and Harper’s, but those accounts and McNeil’s reports spurred no reforms of the dangerous industry. Accidents like the Jokerville blast, generally chalked up to be part of the risk of mining at the time. The danger of such disasters did, however, play a role in making miners more open to unions that started organizing in Colorado mining towns at the end of the nineteenth century.
In the early 1990s, Crested Butte residents put up a plaque with an incomplete list of the names of the miners killed in the disaster. In September 2017, the town placed a new granite memorial in the Crested Butte cemetery with the full list of fallen miners.
"On November 24, 1881, CC&I opened the Crested Butte Mine about one mile west of town. By September, it was known as the Jokerville Mine and was among the most productive in the area. By 1883 it boasted fifty coke ovens, where the raw coal was superheated into coke. That coke was hauled off by rail to Pueblo, where it powered the creation of steel," says Colorado Encyclopedia.
Working in coal mines like the Jokerville was dirty and dangerous. Miners inhaled coal dust all day long, which led to the devastating respiratory disease known as black lung. Shafts could collapse or flood. Flammable methane gas released from coal beds often built up in the mines, and each morning an inspector had to check the air quality before work could begin.
Miners braved all these hazards for twelve to fourteen hours and two dollars a day. Even children worked the mine—the youngest employees at the Jokerville were two twelve-year-olds, William Neath and Tommy Lyle.
During a routine inspection in December 1883, state mine inspector John McNeil observed that the mine appeared to be “well ventilated” and “everything was in proper order”—though he still considered “the Crested Butte mine a very dangerous one.”
"On the frigid morning of January 24, 1884, fire boss Luke Richardson finished his daily inspection of the Jokerville Mine. He found the mine clear of gas except for one chamber—number eighteen, on the second level. Richardson told the miners it was safe to go to work even though the partition in the gassy chamber had to be repaired to prevent buildup in the rest of the mine. Workers had already begun their shifts as Richardson left to get materials for the repair," according to Colorado Encyclopedia.
"It was then, that Richardson heard the sickening sound of a blast that shredded the mine entrance. The explosion instantly killed the two boys who worked near the mine opening, as well as Neath’s older brother, seventeen-year-old Morgan Neath."
Thinking the explosion was much smaller than it was, Richardson ran into the mine with his lamp and immediately came across the body of another worker, John Rutherford. Then, ten more workers came struggling out of the deeper reaches of the mine; they survived the blast but were choking on the “after-damp”—gas that lingered after the explosion. All ten made it out safely, including worker John Angus, who had been injured in the blast. The other survivors set to work repairing the ventilation fan damaged by the explosion; nobody could enter the mine to recover bodies until the toxic air was cleared.
When Colorado mine inspector McNeil arrived the next day, he took control of the cleanup and recovery of the dead. On the mine’s first level, he encountered a grisly scene:
Some of the bodies on the main level . . . had been exposed to the full force of the blast, and in several cases arms and legs were found broken and bodies otherwise battered by being thrown against the jagged walls.
Moving past the “carcasses of nine mules,” McNeil followed the air-intake route deeper into the mine and found “18 of the missing bodies huddled and piled in little groups in indiscriminate confusion.” McNeil observed that the “men had evidently been making their escape before the deadly after-damp checked their attempt, when but a few hundred feet from air.” It took nearly a week to recover all 59 bodies.
"When he heard of the blast, Palmer, the mine’s owner, immediately sent a telegram with $1,000 to be divided among the families of the deceased miners. The company also paid for transportation and burial of the bodies," according to reports.
McNeil’s interviews with survivors suggested that the blast was the result of at least some negligence on the part of Richardson, the fire boss. Garvin Dickson, a twenty-four-year coal mining veteran, said that John Anderson, the miner working in the gas-filled chamber the morning of January 24, “did not know much about gas.” Still, Richardson allowed Anderson to attempt the repairs to the chamber partition, according to Dickson. This contradicted Richardson’s own story that he was just getting his tools to make the repairs when the explosion happened.
In his final inspection statement, McNeil wrote that he thought “there had been carelessness to cause such an accident, but could not locate it; it is difficult for the most expert miner to locate carelessness after an explosion.” He further noted that “if Anderson had allowed the fire-boss to have preceded him [into the mine], the fire-boss . . . would have done the self-same thing . . . thus the accident might have happened at the fire-boss’ hands.”
The explosion shuttered the Jokerville Mine for a year, until another entrance was dug out about a half-mile west of the blown-out one. The mine remained productive through 1891, when a labor strike disrupted activities. The mine closed in 1895 after a larger coal seam was found nearby.
The explosion captured national attention, with media coverage in the New York Times and Harper’s, but those accounts and McNeil’s reports spurred no reforms of the dangerous industry. Accidents like the Jokerville blast, generally chalked up to be part of the risk of mining at the time. The danger of such disasters did, however, play a role in making miners more open to unions that started organizing in Colorado mining towns at the end of the nineteenth century.
In the early 1990s, Crested Butte residents put up a plaque with an incomplete list of the names of the miners killed in the disaster. In September 2017, the town placed a new granite memorial in the Crested Butte cemetery with the full list of fallen miners.
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