The Hobart Chronicles VIII: Down To The Old Mine

"Whatever happened
To Tuesday and so slow
Going down to the old mine with a
Transistor radio."
- Van Morrison, Brown Eyed Girl (1967)

Before I proceed, some words from an email correspondent and colleague of BaldRoss, who evidently checked in with THC and found no new entry since VII:

"You stuck down a mineshaft, trapped in a tiny cage? No? Then what's your bloody excuse woman?!"

It's hard to believe this man actually goes by the surname of 'Saint'. His middle name ought to be 'Fallen'.*

Last weekend I had every intention of writing, once the Port Arthur 10th Anniversary Commemorative Service was finished; our outdoor broadcast from the service was an all-consuming exercise in diplomacy vs. blunt media needs, and I couldn't wait for it to be over. I had thought it might make an interesting tale for you, related after life was back to normal.

Normal! Idiot.

It was indeed a grim week last week. On top of the Port Arthur palaver, there was a triple drowning at the Tasman Peninsula (off Port Arthur) and then the gold mine collapse at the tiny town of Beaconsfield in Northern Tasmania on ANZAC Day, with three miners unaccounted for; the sort of week that makes this trade hateful. By the end of the week you just drag yourself home, tuck into a Lean Cuisine and a flagon of red, and take the phone off the hook.

The Beaconsfield mine story was sad stuff. After the body of one miner was brought out on Thursday, coverage dribbled off into what amounted to a de facto death watch.

At home on Sunday night, I decided it was time to stop being lazy and cook a real meal - vegies and everything. Luckily, I got started early and had gobbled most of it down before I saw the news flash during Auntie's 7pm news, announcing the two missing miners were ALIVE! After five days, who could have thought? It's shameful but not surprising that this news came as a shock to everyone.

I did a little dance of joy before I picked up the phone, which started ringing just as I started dialling. It was Sunday evening, but the media machine lurched to life.

In the space of half an hour, I got to work where I met the boss, we gave her car to the Mornings Producer, who loaded his packed suitcase into it, departed to pick up the Mornings Presenter, and they headed off in the dark and rain to the other end of the state where they met my North Tasmania counterpart to make preparations for the next morning's show. The boss organised the newsroom to do a 5-minute bulletin at 7.30, which we followed with a further 10 minutes of live crosses to Beaconsfield - she produced, I presented. Then after arranging accommodation for the Mornings boys, and an hour or two of planning with our Northern Tasmania colleagues, we went home, and I got my last decent night's sleep for the week.

All this week it's been long days, long long long. It's hard to describe, going at full tilt with the focus that the adrenaline rush of a breaking story triggers, but for the whole week rather than the customary few hours, as rescuers struggle to reach the trapped miners. I don't need to go into the details; imagine instead what it must be like for my colleagues on the ground at Beaconsfield. In addition to the Mornings presenter & producer, there's the Program Director who's the tech op for the OB, and two other staff who are on split shifts recording press conferences, making packages and doing live crosses, all for national distribution and covering about 18 out of 24 hours (to give you an idea, it means a live cross every 10 minutes to a different program somewhere in Australia through most of the daylight hours - heavy going)

Earlier this week we had an unseasonal cold snap, which brought sleet to the Beaconsfield streets where my workmates had set up the OB gear. I don't know just how bad it was there, but on that day in Hobart it was a filthy day, with snow on Mt Wellington down to 300m. Thankfully we had managed to secure a Winnebago from a hire company which our broadcasters and journos on duty could use for shelter.

This Winnebago quickly became part of an enormous but predictable turf cold-war in the town as the industry's big boys moved in. You may have seen some pictures in the papers or on TV (if not, check yesterday's Media section in The Australian). Our 'Bago is planted in the middle of the car park outside the mine with its window facing the mine entrance. The area is cordoned off, but as the mine managers and union officials generally emerge from there to give snap press conferences, it's a handy position. About midweek, one of the commercial TV newcomers tried to muscle in with their titanic semi-trailer (it was on hand from the Port Arthur 10th, but did not arrive fast enough at Beaconsfield to stake a good claim). An Auntie TV colleague came by to give our lot the heads up, reinforcing our moral rights: that occupation is nine tenths of the law. That man has a future in real estate. The little 'Bago has stood its ground.

Tonight, Friday night, we are putting the finishing touches on coverage plans for when rescuers finally get the miners out. So much is speculation - there is no reliable 'drilling rate' and so they could be out any time from Saturday morning through to Monday - who knows? The requirement is to go live with a 15-minute national breaking-news report, live from Beaconsfield through the Hobart studios. We have a 5-minute chronology package, but don't know who will be on the ground and willing to talk (though it's pretty clear the miners and their families have been bought up by commercial TV-magazine deals, and who can blame them?) We don't know when it will happen, or how much warning we will get. That's crap for someone with a control freak streak! The eczema is taking advantage of the stress and creeping up my neck. I can't even describe how we will navigate the programming spaghetti during national sport because it's different in every state and further affected by the three different time zones in Australia; like the Hare-Clarke voting system, I still don't really understand it.

What I do know is that at the bottom of every news story, there are real people with real lives. More than anything, after following the news so closely this week, I desperately hope they get Todd Russell and Brant Webb out alive.



* In a conversation with BaldRoss, 'Fallen' Saint once referred to me and his own long suffering girlfriend, a 6th generation Australian of Chinese heritage (we were both present) as "our mail-orders". I guess you had to be there. At some other time, I have a long story to tell you about a long road trip we once took; you'll be pleased to know that Mr Saint was NOT a winner in that one. Were you, Ash?