The river and streams of upper Swaledale can be soothing and relaxing particularly in summer. Heavy rain in the higher regions however can lead to flash floods and in a short period of time once gentle streams may turn to raging torrents. The lead miners of the region were by repute a superstitious breed and some have said that in those raging waters they heard the cries and anguish of colleagues lost long ago. Lost to the world and from record or almost.

Swaledale has many secrets, some of them dark. Of some only trace memories remain for the burden of sadness has proven too heavy to carry. The following reconstruction is an account of one such:

The weak rays of the first spring sun heralded the end of a long harsh winter. The receding layer of thick snow on the uplands burdened the streams with ice cold melt water making journeys difficult. But that would pass. The weather however was not the problem, after all the villagers had endured conditions significantly more severe. The problem was the Mine. The once rich vein of ore that had provided for many generations had come last autumn to a sudden end.

There had been no warning just an end. Some cruel act of ancient geology had fractured the vein, slicing it as if with a giant's knife, leaving in its place a hard and barren rock. The miners of course were well acquainted with the vagaries of their hard trade. It is in the nature of their tribulations that veins would be found and lost; many are the stories of rich deposits rendered unreachable through sudden faults, flooding or other hazards. Prospecting is by necessity part and parcel of the miner's lot and the old hands knew that oft times it could be a long, arduous process and sometimes unrewarding process. They preferred to remember though the elation of finding again a lost vein. Once detected they would never cut into it with their picks but rather work around the sides to gradually reveal the ore believing that this somehow prolonged the continuity of the vein.

The times now were different. The price of lead had fallen drastically as a result of adverse fluctuations on the world market. The miners did not understand the underlying economics just the reality that lead was now more than £15 a ton lower than at any time for two generations. Their wages never high but reasonably reliable were cut by half to a meagre eight shillings per week. Worse still, the prospect of closure loomed large. At such low prices it was not in the owner's interest to fund prospecting for much longer.

The old hands recounted faded stories of nearby ribbon deposits and the Steward (overseer) desperate to show a good account to the owner urged the miners to redouble their efforts and press forward in a new direction. Thirty men toiled as never before, deep underground in the black and damp conditions. Yet two months of grinding effort produced nothing. The level drove forward deeper into the heart of the hills. Safety at that time was not much considered, the work was known to be dangerous and the onus of protection and prevention lay with the worker rather than the company. Long experience born of hard lessons had nonetheless given rise to a certain rudimentary "code of practice". A face could progress quickly but certain checks were necessary to understand what traps might be sprung by wilful ignorance of this unforgiving subterranean world.

Discovery of a thin and fragile ribbon of galena promised hope as often these were the offspring of stronger veins but time was running out. The Steward knew that the mine must be closed in just a few days. If they could just drive the level faster they might reach the sought after vein. Increasing the blasting powder was the answer. But deep within the hill lay a black heartless monster. For aeons it had rested untroubled by the travails of man.

It was the final day. The jumper (a long chisel of one inch square wrought iron with a piece of shear steel welded on to form the cutting edge) was hammered into the face to bore a deep blast hole in the rock face. The dust was continually cleaned from the bore hole with a scraper (a thin rod of iron). The bore hole bled with water, not an unusual occurrence, the miners were used to "bulling the hole" to make it water tight in order not to impair the blasting powder. The wick was removed from a tallow candle and a ramrod was used to press the tallow around the sides of the bore. Blasting powder was then used to stem (fill) the large bore hole. The large grained powder was forced into the hole using a beater (an iron chisel with a blunt semi circular end) to compress the explosive. A needle (a long shaped piece of copper about one third of an inch in diameter) was carefully inserted into the powder to form an opening for the squib (fuse made from a twisted tube of paper containing gun powder). When the squib was ready the needle was withdrawn and the squib was inserted to make contact with the packed powder. Finally a piece of rolled paper soaked in candle tallow was thrust into a piece of clay attached to the face so that the paper lay in contact with the squib. Seldom was so much powder used but the Blaster compensated by preparing a fuse of five inches rather than the normal three giving more time to retreat from the face.

A large underground explosion is a terrifying event. The very earth protests at its ill treatment and waves of painful sound assault the ears in their reverberations. The silence arrives suddenly as if it were deafness (as sometimes it was). When the air cleared the miners returned to the face to clear the debris. But now the monster was awake. Behind the face lay a deep subterranean lake. Formerly trapped in its impermeable cocoon of rock icy waters under thousands of tons of pressure found unexpected release. The miners at the disintegrating face had no time to pray, they had no time even for awareness as they were consumed by tons of rock propelled at screaming speed by the overwhelming pressure of the hidden lake. Those further back along the level had time to be afraid, some thought to flee others to pray. In vain for the icy waters made solid by pressure and impetus knew no mercy. A small community was destroyed as its men were cruelly taken from them.

The company was "embarrassed" and accordingly news of the tragedy was suppressed. It is likely that the community was bought off with some small payment of compensation. Tragedies after all are not good for the mining industry and few of the other owners were keen to have any adverse effect. The cover up was almost complete and little hard evidence now remains. Rather there are folklore accounts of the tragedy although it is little talked about as even now there seems to be a certain hurt in the community. One piece of compelling evidence does however remain the "name". For this is the account of "Water-blast Vein" and if the cries and anguish of long dead miners can be heard in the torrent waters of upper Swaledale few who know this tale would say that it is not so.