Taken from The Metro Pulse
Written by Leslie Wylie

“Bring tissues and a camera,â€? an environmentalist friend advised when I mentioned I was tagging along on United Mountain Defense’s next coalmine flyover. “You can’t really understand it until you see it. It’ll break your heart.â€?Almost from the moment we take off from the Campbell County airport, I believe her.The pilot of our four-man plane is John Barker, a volunteer from the non-profit conservation organization SouthWings. From its headquarters in Asheville, SouthWings works to provide environmental and community groups in 11 states with skilled pilots for various ecological monitoring projects. One of the groups it aids is United Mountain Defense (UMD), which performs quarterly flyovers of coalmines in upper East Tennessee and Kentucky.“It’s critical to see the area from above to keep track of cumulative impacts,â€? explains Paloma Galindo, a UMD activist who’s in the backseat during today’s flight. Below us is the city of Lafollette, recognizable as a tidy network of miniature homes with square lawns and turquoise swimming pools. As the airport fades into the distance, the homes get farther apart, separated now by patchwork fields in hues of green, some dotted with livestock. I-75 is a thin ribbon of gray, snaking through the mountains of Campbell and Claiborne County.

The coalmines, once they appear, aren’t hard to pick out, despite the thick summer haze. They look like interconnected craters, massive bald spots zigzagging along the mountain ridges, laced together by pale dirt roads. Some of the older ones take the shape of wedding cakes, with cliff-edged tiers and layers iced with scrubby vegetation; others look like misshapen blobs, unnatural and asymmetrical, as though someone took them apart and carelessly shoveled them back together—which is the approximate gist of contour mining and cross-ridge mining respectively, explains Galindo. Their expanses are fringed by clear-cut areas, which indicate that they’ll be mined soon.

But it’s the sheer scope of it, the way the mines keep extending on and on for miles, that’s most striking. That’s what doesn’t come across in pictures or words alone.

Galindo grabs my hand. “See all that?� she asks in a startled tone that suggests that, even after all these flyovers, the mines’ shock factor has yet to fade. “They just keep expanding and expanding. They’re taking out whole mountain ranges. It should be called mountain-range mining.�

Local photographer Caleb Wilson is craning a small video camera out the front window (a link to his footage is available online at the Metro Pulse website). In one of the most arresting shots he gets today, he zooms in on the cloudy waters of a sludge pond, containing a slurry of toxins released in the blasting—arsenic, cyanide, chromium, zinc and sulfur. Not the kind of pond you’d want to swim in.

“It all gets back to the groundwater. Imagine if that dam broke,� Galindo says. “How can you look at that and say this is not destroying our watersheds?�

As the plane turns away from the mines and heads back toward the airport, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Unfortunately, the day has just begun.

An hour or so later, we’re standing in the middle of the scene we just beheld from above. It’s a mine in the Eagan area, just below Kentucky, but it might as well be the face of the moon. Piles of chalky, iridescent coal sit baking beneath the scorching July sun, and the only sound is the occasional clatter of rubble tumbling down the freshly blasted cliffs.

“Keep your voices down,� Galindo whispers. Loud sounds, she says, could set off an avalanche; even the slightest breeze shakes boulders loose and sends them crashing toward the mine floor. The mine we’re standing on must only be a few days old, and the mountain, with its side blasted off, is still settling. Newer mines, says Galindo, are worse. “You hear the mountain groaning, like a glacier,� she says. “You can feel it. The mountain is in shock.�

Massive piles of rubble and organic matter, or overburden, are pushed to the side of the mine. You can tell from the dirt-clotted branches hanging out that whole trees are buried in there, too. At the top of the cliff, about six stories up, a foot or so of topsoil sits above the bedrock. Other trees and shrubs are still rooted there, forming a shadowy silhouette against the bright blue sky. Galindo points at it. “That’s the bed of life for this entire ecosystem, and it’s turned into rubble. All those seedbeds are buried. All that life is crushed.�

Coal exists in seams, wedged between layers of rock. To figure out where those seams are, drills are run straight down into the earth, and when they rattle it’s a sign that they’ve hit coal. Explosives are used to fracture the mountain, at which point dozers, loaders and trucks are used to remove everything above the coal. Most of mountains have multiple coal seams, so the mines get deeper and deeper until all possible reserves have been harvested. Then the rubble is used to fill the pit that’s left and piled back together in the shape of the original mountain. Hydra-seed, or invasive grasses that will grow on pretty much anything, are planted on top.

Galindo points out a hillside covered in what looks like sea oats and explains that just one month ago when she visited, the hillside was a deep open pit. “It changes so fast,� she says. “You can come out here once a month, and it’s always radically different.�

The entrances to most of the bigger mines are blocked off, either by locked gates or piles of rock. At one mine we try to enter, a watchman sitting inside an old school bus shoos us away. Although it’s a Sunday, and there’s no mining going on, we’re probably not supposed to be here. If anyone asks, Galindo says, we’re going to visit the community cemetery, which actually exists somewhere amongst these mines.

It’s eerie, though, to imagine the atmosphere of this place on a day when mining is progress. Around every bend in the road, there are signs explaining the air-horn signals used to warn of a blast. On a working day, monstrous bulldozers, with tires twice as tall as our car, growl back and forth between sites in great clouds of dust. We roll past the motionless machines on our way out of the mine, picking up speed when we reach the entry office. It’s patrolled 24 hours a day.

Even though we’re sweating through our clothes, as the temperature is now hovering in the upper 90s, we still have one stop to make before heading back to Knoxville—actually, two stops.

Galindo suggests we take a break at a shady swimming hole she discovered during a recent visit. It’s spring-fed and cool, and it offers another reminder of what is at risk from the mining. Headwaters, high in the mountains, are oftentimes in the path of destruction, and groundwater tables may be fractured in the process of blasting. Mining results in a discharge of pollutants into the water system, ranging from heavy metals and carcinogens to sediment. Oftentimes, streams are literally buried, and while coal companies are now required to reroute damaged streams, there’s no way of exactly replicating nature.

At this swimming hole, a local mother and her son are already there, enjoying a late afternoon dip. The son busies himself with diving off a large boulder, while the mother chats with Galindo about the weather and the heat and the community she lives in, White Oak. Galindo asks friendly questions and listens patiently to the talkative woman, who has a lot to say. It’s a practice Galindo’s become quite adept at through UMD’s listening project, in which UMD members visit the homes of residents living in mining communities and interview them about how mining may or may not affect their way of life.

“Whatever they say, you’re learning,� Galindo explains. “With every new story, you’re getting a different perspective.�

Some residents they speak with are defensive of the practice, especially if that’s how they or someone in their family or neighborhood makes a living. Others have strong opinions otherwise.

Carol Judy, whose home we stop by next, is among the latter. When we arrive, she fetches a pitcher of sun tea from where it’s steeping on a stump in the yard and offers us a basket of blackberries and huckleberries. Judy describes herself as self-sufficient—she has no electricity, no running water, grows her own food, and makes a living gathering goldenseal from the woods and selling it for $30 a pound at the Jellico drugstore.

“Some folks think that the simple life is simple, but no, it’s really complex,� she explains. “To live rural, you’ve got to have access to what sustains you. In this case, that’s the mountain.�

Even Judy’s home bears evidence of the impact coal mining has had on the area. It rests atop an old deep mine, which was the original, but much more labor-intensive, method of mining, and parts of the yard are sinking. She doesn’t understand how coal corporations can just come into her community, strip it of its resources, and leave it with half-shod reparations.

Her speech is laced with concepts like “sustainability,� “global economy,� and “indoctrination.� She says people aren’t asking enough questions, and they’re turning their backs on issues that they think don’t involve them. “Why does success have to look like enough money to buy anything we want to?� she asks.

Today, the woods surrounding Judy’s home are mostly quiet, save the occasional birdsong or cicada or buzz of a passing bumblebee. Other days, the sound of dynamite ripping open a nearby mountainside frequently interrupt the peace.

It’s easy to forget about people like Judy, who build their homes off mountain backroads that most of us will never travel. It’s easy to forget about the mountains that we can’t see from the interstate, the ones that will never make it onto postcards because, frankly, they’re not much to look at anymore.

Thankfully, organizations like UMD and SouthWings are making it a point to remember.

Anna Santo, AV Staff

The people of Zeb Mountain, of predominantly Scottish and Irish descent, have looked to the mountain as a source of livelihood for centuries. The mountain nourished the nearby community of Elk Valley, providing jobs, food and a breathtaking view. The dense, lush forests of Zeb Mountain nurtured a diverse ecosystem of 11 endangered and threatened species for thousands of years.

The loss of Zeb Mountain represents more than the loss of land. The long struggle to preserve the integrity of Zeb Mountain has fostered solidarity among community members and discord among others. One nearby resident and member of Save Our Cumberland Forests, Charles Blankenship, said,

“I know a few people at mines who feel frustrated with me. They think I’m trying to stop the mining. No one can stop the mines. But they need to do what they’re supposed to do.” From The Return of King Coal by Lisa Robbins.

Coal mining has sustained Appalachian communities for centuries. Losing Zeb Mountain represents a tragic loss of irreplaceable habitat, mining jobs, and rich, priceless community history.

Zeb Mountain Protest

Zeb Mountain, home to the largest “cross-ridge mining” operation in Tennessee, was the first site to be taken over in a non-violent struggle to protect and preserve the integrity of the Appalachian Mountains from the threat of coal mining. In “cross ridge mining,” miners drill into mountains until the drill vibrates at a specific frequency. After identifying the coal seam, the hole is packed with explosives to remove the surrounding mountain.

On the 7th of August at 5:15 AM Zeb Mountain miners were halted by a human blockade. Several members of the Rocky Top Trio Affinity Group had locked themselves to a car blocking the mine’s entrance, others were locked to drilling equipment, and one activist hung from a tripod preventing access to the mine. Rocky Top members poured rocks and cement into barrels that had been rolled into place to block the mine’s entrance.

Shortly after, two banners proclaiming, “Stop Mountaintop Removal,” hung majestically from a billboard along I-75. The Banner Buster Affinity Group had hoisted the banners 150’ to where they said the “fog covered the valley and only the mountain tops were left poking out.“

Both actions were done in an effort to create a “no blast” zone across Zeb Mountain. As long as they were in the presence of people unauthorized by the company, miners from the Robert Clear Coal Corporation could not legally use explosives.

Through creative, non-violent efforts, activists expressed their concerns about the environmental, economic and social devastation caused by mountaintop removal. Eleven federally endangered and threatened species, including the Gray bat, the Red Cockaded woodpecker, and the blackside dace had suffered devastation from sedimentation and silting in the runoff caused by mining. Over 100 homes are located within half a mile from the mine, and the elementary school is situated less than a mile from mining areas.

“We’ve lived around strip mining all our lives and we know that it will crack your foundations, sink your wells and that coal trucks can turn over on public roads,” said Boddy Ellard a member of Save our Cumberland Mountains from Elk Valley. “There are too many homes near Zeb Mountain to mine without affecting the people living nearby.”

The Blackside Dace

A small fish, usually less than 3 inches long, may be among the creatures most affected by mountaintop mining at Zeb Mountain. According to the US Fish and Wildlife Service,

“The most significant factor in the decline of the blackside dace has apparently been habitat degradation from siltation… particularly in relation to surface mining.”

The 30 remaining populations of blackside dace are found predominantly in Kentucky and Tennessee where they inhabit small, cool streams in forested area. Unfortunately, mountaintop removal at Zeb Mountain has resulted in the clear cutting of forests integral to the survival of the blackside dace.

Zeb Mountain was home to one of the remaining populations of blackside dace. Sedimentation has increased due to mining, which has destroyed almost all suitable habitat for the species. With only nine healthy populations of the blackside dace left in the world, the loss of Zeb Mountain is a tragic loss for this species.

Brief video clip of Anne League, a member of the non-profit organization Save Our Cumberland Mountains (www.socm.org), telling how she learned that she would soon be living next to a 2100 acre (and growing) mountaintop removal site in Tennessee–Zeb Mountain.

by Tiffany Hartung; originally printed in the Appalachian Voice, November 2003.

Ask any Tennessean to sing the chorus of “Rocky Top”, an official state song and the fight song of the University of Tennessee, and you’re sure to hear a rousing refrain of “Rocky Top, you’ll always be home sweet home to me.” But in some parts of east Tennessee, residents and visitors who wish that they were on ol’ Rocky Top may soon find it means something very different now. Less than an hour’s drive from Knoxville, a coal company is blasting the tops off mountain peaks to get at coal, claiming their new mining technique can put the peaks back together again from the rocky rubble. This is causing many local residents to fear for their homes, families, and the mountains themselves, leaving the fate of their “home sweet home” very much in question.

In early July, the Knoxville Office of Surface Mining (OSM) and the Water Pollution Control office of the Tennessee Department of Environment and Conservation (TDEC) issued permits for a 2100-acre surface mine in the community of Elk Valley in Campbell County, Tennessee. This permit allows the Robert Clear Coal Company to remove the three peaks of Zeb Mountain using a new type of mining called cross ridge mining.

Cross ridge mining is a variation of mountaintop removal, in which all or most of a mountain is removed in order to reach thin seams of coal. Unlike mountaintop removal, which leaves behind flattened mountains, cross ridge mining involves temporarily moving rock onto a neighboring strip mine. After the mining is complete, the operator purports to bring the rock back and pile it back up on the original site in order to put the mountain back to its approximate original contour. The word approximate is key, given that the peaks will not necessarily be restored to their original elevation and OSM’s guidelines call for 20 foot wide terraces every 50 feet. According to critics of this type of mining, even if an operator is successful in rebuilding a mountain after it has been blasted apart and the coal has been removed, it will not look or function like the mountain that was there before.

“As far as I’m concerned, if they are taking the top off the mountain, that’s mountaintop removal no matter what they call it,” said Cathie Bird, Elk Valley resident and member of Save Our Cumberland Mountains (SOCM), a 30-year-old grassroots organization that works for social, environmental and economic justice in rural Tennessee.

Since local SOCM members first learned of the Zeb Mountain mine permit application in the spring of 2002, they have been busy organizing in Campbell County. They were successful in getting the Campbell County School Board to pass a resolution asking OSM to request that Robert Clear do a pre-blast survey of Elk Valley Elementary School, which is just … (more…)

This article originally printed in the Appalachian Voice, February 2004.

In the last issue of the Appalachian Voice, we brought you a story about the struggle of people in the Elk Valley region of eastern Tennessee to protect their streams, mountains and communities from a new type of mountaintop removal mining that is on the rise in Tennessee. Unfortunately, a lawsuit filed in Tennessee by environmental and community groups (including Appalachian Voices) to stop the destruction of Zeb Mountain and its associated streams has so far been unsuccessful. A judge in Knoxville refused to allow an injunction to stop the mining while the considerable legal questions surrounding this operation are resolved. Worse, delaying tactics by the mining company ensure that the next round of legal battles will not happen until summer, while the blasting and destruction of Zeb Mountain continue unabated.

Already, the worst fears of residents about the intentions and practices of the Robert Cleer Coal Company have been realized. According to Doug Murray of Tennessee Forest Watch, in the first six months of mining there have already been five notices of violation issued against the company for everything from their failure to control sediment running into Dan Branch, a nearby stream, to their building of a containment pond that was not only outside of the approved plan (and the knowledge of agencies who enforce the permit), but is entirely outside of the geographic area of the permit itself. According to Murray, … (more…)

Courtesy of Save Our Cumberland Mountains