As soon as the trigger went, smoke from the firing explosives blew out of the holes in a right-to-left rhythm like some old phantom train, invisible but for its billowing shoots of white, erupting silent at first, then giving to staccato booms as the sound arrived. The concussion traveled the length of the escarpment, and Cheek Mountain seemed to shudder and swell as would a lumbering mastodon, surprised and indignant at the many spears of man. The mountain gathered itself for a moment, then collapsed at once in a great rumbling sigh as the hard rock shattered, the subsoil liquefied, and the orphan trees rode the rubble down to oblivion.
On the settle, a great gray cloud of dust pushed out and rolled across the lake toward Bubba, washing over him, washing through him as he stood spread legged and steadfast to the bulwark. As the dust cloud continued down mountain, he made no move to slough it from his sleeves, made no attempt to shake it from his pants, and indeed he wore the smithereens of Cheek Mountain proudly, a further stamp of his complete and total dominion.
As the explosion’s echo was fading, there began a low trembling from the bowels of the newly shorn earth, which many took for the settling of Cheek. It grew in pitch and violence, sending some men to the ground and causing the thick, black slurry to overslap its walls.
Bubba Boyd bent his knees and pushed his arms out to the side in an attempt to steady himself on the roiling crest. A particularly strong sway loosened the riprap, and the lot of it began to slide into the slurry with Bubba on the top, riding it down like a surfer. As he neared the lake, he began to backpedal, arms twirling in a vain play for balance and purchase. When the last of the riprap slid into the lake, Bubba pitched in with it, entering the slurry chin first, like a child taking a maiden poolside dive.
Silas would later testify that as Bubba flew through the air, the slurry lake opened up to receive him; he swore that the slurry parted prior to Bubba hitting the surface as if it was calling in one of its own. None of it can be verified, and it was likely just the action of the undulating water that Silas saw.
After a few seconds, Bubba’s head bobbed up, minstreled black, and he started backstroking to the shore, flailing both arms at once. The movement seemed only to draw Bubba deeper into the slurry. Silas rushed up the riprap, got down on his knees, reached out an arm.
“Grab my hand,” he implored.
Bubba moved a little closer.
“Grab my hand.”
But the slurry had other ideas. Bubba shimmied his body around so his right hand could grab McCherry’s. The movement pushed him well out of reach, and the pull of the slurry began to prevail. It was as if an ocean undertow had somehow found its way into the lake and was slowly drawing him down, drawing him under. The slurry was chin level now, then in his mouth. He spit out the black water, then bubbles as his mouth succumbed. He gave one final blow out when his nose went under, and he continued a slow sink until it was just his popping eye whites against the black of everything—surprised and indignant at the audacity of earth.
Seven hundred and fifty people packed into the Jensen farm for the rally. A banner strung between two poplars read:
Stop Mountaintop Removal Now!
Join the Mountain Heritage Action Network
The Osborne Brothers played first, then Ralph Stanley, then both bands together for a final rendition of “Paradise.” In between were speeches from Paitsel, Chester, and Jonathan Pendrick, and a moving tribute from Betty Dodger about Simp’s love for the wild places. Pops, only a week out of the hospital, watched from Jesper’s back porch with a satisfied grin.
The counterprotest in the parking lot off Main Street drew three hundred surface miners from across the county and their families, an impressive turnout considering there was only free barbecue and beer. Hand-painted signs sprinkled the crowd:
These Are Our Mountains!
Coal Is Good
A clown roamed the coal party making balloon animals for the kids. Someone else was painting faces.
Bubba’s death and the manner in which it befell him dominated the talk at the protest and counterprotest. At one they spoke of a celestial reckoning, an overdue comeuppance; at the other talk was of bad luck, unclear futures, and a family’s grief.
All their lives they had taken bearings on the certainty of his presence; some found freedom in abdicating authority; others hackled at his dominion over their lives. For them there was confederacy in a common enemy; others took ease in determined prospects. But all felt comfort of the familiar.
And now, with him gone and the draglines idled, uncertainty was their new incumbent, accountability a sudden, unwelcome companion. They took up their lives like the newly paroled, gingering these found freedoms and secretly dreading their ambiguity. He was a common adversary to rally opposition, a tangible benefactor with whom to unite. Whether set hard for or against, now their notion and understanding of things hung on abstraction. Now they had to fathom out an uncertain future. Had to disentangle the unknown.