This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2012, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.
Drive up the road to the Crandall Canyon Mine and you'll see abandoned buildings, silent conveyors and the gaping, dark portal that leads to the tomb of six good men.
Then walk up the winding path to nine black stone monuments — six markers for the men who died first, and three benches for those killed while trying to find them.
Monday is the fifth anniversary of the Aug. 6, 2007, implosion, which was caused by shearing away at the huge coal columns that supported about 1,700 feet of mountain above. The next collapse would come 10 days later.
Many of the families who lost their husbands, fathers and sons have left Utah's coal country, but some remain. For those, the country's social fabric, and the all people who live and work there, remain a comfort.
"We put our arms around the families and help them grow as much as they can," says Price Mayor Joe Piccolo. "The one thing about coal miners and their families is that they're self-reliant, resilient people."
For the six families, the paychecks stopped on Aug. 7 and their insurance payments didn't come quickly.
So Price held a fundraiser, and Piccolo's wife walked through the crowd asking for donations.
After about 45 minutes, she had $7,000 in cash "from people I know who had to empty their pockets," he said. Meanwhile, Zions Bank chipped in $2,500 for each family.
Those were just a few of the events that arose in the area, where virtually everyone has been affected by a death in a coal mine.
Now the people of Price, Huntington and myriad other towns have moved on, at least in the ordinary workings of day-to-day life. But as anyone who's lost a loved one knows, the pain can never be entirely erased.
Hilary Gordon, then and now mayor of Huntington, remembers the disaster vividly. But the recent loss of a beloved daughter-in-law solidified her understanding of how her friends and neighbors felt in 2007.
"I can honestly say, at least at this time, that I have a feeling of love and compassion for the families," Gordon says. "Do I understand what these people are going through? Yes, I do."
What we who watched from afar also know is that the shock of loss, however distant in time, remains in our memories and in our hearts.
We also know that grief, while never completely erased, can give way to life-sustaining memories.
"These anniversaries are just milestones that remind me that life is fragile and life is temporary, so you'd better enjoy and look for tomorrow," says Piccolo, who was 6 when he lost his father to a coal mine.
"Our community knows the feeling of the rain," he says. "And you know when you're wet, you can dry off. If you gather together, then the strength of others can help resolve those emotional barriers."
Last week, I stopped at another monument to the miners near the Huntington Cemetery. It's a curving wall with a panel of bas-reliefs of their faces, sculpted by Karen Templeton and cast in now-patinated bronze.
I'd seen it before, but this time I felt a shock — they seemed to be looking right into my eyes. For an instant, I caught a glimpse of the good men who will always live in memory in coal country and far beyond.
Peg McEntee is a news columnist. Reach her at pegmcentee@sltrib.com, facebook.com/pegmcentee and Twitter, @pegmcentee.