Editor’s note: This is the third article in a periodic series discussing one of the single most significant excavation projects in the Park City area.

The Daly-Judge Mine was incorporated in 1901 and the quality and quantity of its ore reserves proved spectacular.

By 1910 their financial war chest exceeded $750,000 — $25 million in 2024 dollars. For the Board of Directors and the company’s general manager, G.W. Lambourne, their ambitious expansion plans could now become a reality. These included building their own hydroelectric power plant, creating Park City’s first large-scale electrolytic zinc smelter, and constructing a reservoir.

They just needed to access and control their vast subterranean water reserves. To solve this conundrum, in 1910 the board formed a new company: The Snake Creek Mining and Tunnel Company. Mr. Langbourne would serve as GM of both the new entity and the Daly-Judge.

The engineering documents specified a 2.75-mile (14,500 feet) double-track bore at 8 feet-6 inches wide and 6 feet-6 inches in height above the rail line. Below the tracks, a 4 feet by 4 feet concrete lined flume would channel the water. A boardwalk would be built between the tracks for the tunnel’s entire length.

This bi-directional underground transportation artery would set the scale by which all other endeavors of this type would be judged. The project began in May 1910 and would take six years to complete.

Mr. O.N. Friendly, the project’s lead engineer, welcomed the challenge before him. He exuded confidence. The project was fully funded, so money was not a concern (yet). He could afford premium talent, the best available technology, and dreams of future endeavors including the extension of his tunnel another two miles to access The Big and Little Cottonwood Canyon mining districts. He basked in the fleeting comfort of not knowing the realities that awaited him. 

The first year of excavation proceeded smoothly enough. By December 1910, the bore reached 2,068 feet. No significant water flows were yet encountered.

All things considered, 1911 delivered similar progress, but with a couple of notable exceptions. In May the tunnel depth reached 3,472 feet. Mr. Friendly indicated that the water zone had been penetrated. In September, at a depth of 4,066 feet, he recorded a “large” quantity of water. Thereafter, the mountain became increasingly vengeful.

For Mr. Friendly and his intrepid tunnel builders, 1912 would deliver a series of engineering and financial challenges.

In February 1912 at a tunnel depth of 4,150 feet, the first significant cave occurred. It would not be the last. The crews installed the heaviest timbers available — 10 x 10 Oregon pine. They failed in less than 24 hours. A second attempt delivered the same results.

To ameliorate the “heavy” ground, Mr. Friendly designed an egg-shaped, steel-reinforced concrete lining. Notable engineering publications lauded his innovative design, saying “this splendid piece of work” would stand the test of time. The prognosticators neglected to define the timeline.

Financial, labor, and engineering issues would bedevil Mr. Friendly for the remainder of 1912. Our next installment details those calamities.

Acknowledgements: The author thanks Steve Leatham and Clark Martinez for their generous contributions to this series.

Tonight, the Park City Museum is hosting a lecture titled “Zula Nelson: The Life of A Miner’s Wife in Park City, 1937-1952,” by mining consultant and former mining professor Mike Nelson from 5 to 6 p.m. at their Education and Collections Center at 2079 Sidewinder Drive.

David Nicholas is a Park City Museum researcher.

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The term “off the rails” barely needs an explanation. The phrase makes it clear that a calamity has occurred – the only question remaining is how bad the situation may be. Today we will investigate an “off the rails” incident in Park City that happened on March 9, 1964.

Fay Dearden, Union Pacific Railroad station agent for Park City, waved goodbye as the “local” began its 70-mile return to Ogden. Fay exemplified the professionalism associated with the Union Pacific. He knew well the challenges of running a railroad, especially during winter in the Wasatch Mountains.

As the two GP-9 engines and one caboose rumbled away, Fay glanced at his watch – it was 3:00 p.m. – and returned to the warmth of the station. The winter of 1963-64 had been brutally cold with temperatures averaging 20 degrees below normal along the Wasatch. In February, only one day exceeded 32 degrees, with 12 nights below zero. March continued the frigid trend with evening temperatures below zero and daytime highs below freezing. Sunday, March 8 delivered heavy snow that persisted into Monday, creating havoc for drivers and disrupting rail operations.

Fay was concerned about the braking systems on the engines. Deep snow and extreme cold was known to induce brake line malfunction. Despite speed restrictions in town, without brakes, the GP-9 engines – weighing 130 tons each – could experience trouble quickly, especially considering the ruling grade leaving town. He would not be able to relax until he received the routine phone call confirming the crew’s return to Ogden, expected in about two hours.

Putting worries aside Fay sat down at his desk to complete the day’s paperwork. He looked forward to the return of his three children from school and his wife Donna from job as branch manager at the First Security Bank.

Deep in thought, Fay was surprised when his office phone rang. He was further startled when he heard the engineer’s voice say, “The train is off the rails, nobody’s hurt.” In the ensuing conversation Fay learned that the brakes had indeed failed as the train was turning around in the wye at the northern edge of town. The train was upright but stranded. It would need to be re-railed. Fay said he would make the required phone calls and be right there.

First he called the Road Master’s office in Ogden. The Road Master was responsible for marshalling men, equipment and materials to re-rail trains and repair damaged track. Subsequent calls were made to section crews from Echo, Coalville and Park City.

Next Fay called Donna explaining that there’d been a wreck, the crew was safe, he was heading over to crash site and that it would be a long night. Dressed in his warmest gear, Fay drove the short distance to the switchyard just across from the City Cemetery, near today’s Blind Dog and Boneyard restaurants.

Come back next week to learn about men and machines battling the weather to re-rail the Park City local.

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