According to West Virginia Archives & History, workers broke ground March 30, 1930, at Gauley Junction to start construction of the Hawks Nest Tunnel and dam. The tunnel and dam are still in use today, but before the construction was completed, many workers died from breathing the silica dust as they bored through the mountain.

A Fayette County native, Patricia Spangler was always aware of The Hawks Nest Tunnel construction, but when she and her husband moved to Cotton Hill, her interest in the construction grew. After 10 years of work, she published her book, "The Hawks Nest Tunnel, an Unabridged History." She explained how she got interested in her topic in the foreword she wrote for her book. Spangler gave The Gazette permission to reprint that introduction here.

Reflecting upon the process of writing The Hawks Nest Tunnel: An Unabridged History, I realize the journey began on the morning of May 15, 1997 as my husband and I stood in stunned silence on top of Cotton Hill Mountain near the rim of the New River Gorge. It was the first day of our long journey to reclaim an abandoned mountain farm. Voluntarily homesteading a la Willa Cather sans house, running water, electricity or telephone _ with our worldly possessions piled at our feet in an unimpressive heap of garbage bags and cardboard boxes.

Leftover wet from the previous night's thunderstorm promised a typical West Virginia day replete with sauna-like humidity and ever-present gnats. I was struggling with the question of "What in God's name have we done?" when the stillness of the morning gave way to a baritone wail mushrooming forth from the belly of the New River Gorge, blanketing the earth with its drone.

Did I ask what it was? I don't remember. But I do remember the brief explanation offered by my husband: "Hawks Nest," and implicit within that abbreviated explanation the message that within minutes a huge volume of water would burst forth from the Hawks Nest dam; released to course once more over through and around the riverbed of the ancient New River. The siren's message warned all within hearing range to immediately seek higher ground; yet sitting as we were, high above the reach of the river's torrent, the dam's release posed no threat.

For a brief moment, I indulged in reverie, reliving family picnics shared at the Hawks Nest State Park, replete with the aroma of hot dogs carefully roasted over stone cook-pits built by young Citizen Conservation Corps youth in the 1930s _ their stonework still lovely today. Hawks Nest, the spectacular overlook where many years ago, during my Wisconsin grandparents' first and only visit to West Virginia, we spent an afternoon overlooking the dam. As I shoved quarters into a gizmo that looked more like an ancient deep-sea diver's outfit than a telescope, John and Albina Palmer, parents to my mother, stood breathless in the face of such magnificent natural beauty.

Sweet memories blipped across the radar screen of my consciousness, then vanished as quickly as they appeared, for when home refers to a chigger-infested briar patch, survival instincts supersede daydreaming. Thinking back on that siren moment I realize it was simply one thread woven into the fabric of that summer, albeit one that became a focal point in my life for several years.

During that first summer and fall, our days were occupied harvesting trees to dry in preparation for the lumber our home would require, setting fence posts and creating pastureland for llamas and goats, and cultivating flowers in an effort to infuse a semblance of civilization into this raw, extraordinary experience. Yet through it all, when least expected, the siren would often cry out from the valley below, gradually encouraging me to delve beneath the surface of its plaintive wail until I was forced to admit that, aside from the pleasantries I've mentioned, the depth of my actual knowledge of Hawks Nest, its dam and tunnel, could be summarized quickly: water from the New River flows through the tunnel to exit at the hydro plant on Gauley Mountain, and during the tunnel's construction, countless men were exposed to silica dust and died as a result.

Truly my ignorance was impressive and, perhaps because nature abhors a vacuum, information gradually filtered into this void. Unsought-out articles related to the tunnel's history appeared. During casual conversations friends and relatives offered up tantalizing tunnel lore. With each bit of information, my curiosity increased until I was locked in the throes of a focused, passionate quest to uncover everything I could find related to the tunnel's history.

Did I intend to write a book? Not initially, although in retrospect a journal entry from Oct. 7, 1999 reveals how completely my perceptions were colored by the tunnel's history:

Stripped bare overnight, the earth. Shorn of her garments, her leaves of many colors. Now, simply pure form. Spine, vertebrae, bones threatening to pierce her fragile skin. Ridges, angular and sharp. Ancient streambeds etching space between anorexic ribs.

According to West Virginia Archives & History, workers broke ground March 30, 1930, at Gauley Junction to start construction of the Hawks Nest Tunnel and dam. The tunnel and dam are still in use today, but before the construction was completed, many workers died from breathing the silica dust as they bored through the mountain.

A Fayette County native, Patricia Spangler was always aware of The Hawks Nest Tunnel construction, but when she and her husband moved to Cotton Hill, her interest in the construction grew. After 10 years of work, she published her book, "The Hawks Nest Tunnel, an Unabridged History." She explained how she got interested in her topic in the foreword she wrote for her book. Spangler gave The Gazette permission to reprint that introduction here.

Reflecting upon the process of writing The Hawks Nest Tunnel: An Unabridged History, I realize the journey began on the morning of May 15, 1997 as my husband and I stood in stunned silence on top of Cotton Hill Mountain near the rim of the New River Gorge. It was the first day of our long journey to reclaim an abandoned mountain farm. Voluntarily homesteading a la Willa Cather sans house, running water, electricity or telephone _ with our worldly possessions piled at our feet in an unimpressive heap of garbage bags and cardboard boxes.

Leftover wet from the previous night's thunderstorm promised a typical West Virginia day replete with sauna-like humidity and ever-present gnats. I was struggling with the question of "What in God's name have we done?" when the stillness of the morning gave way to a baritone wail mushrooming forth from the belly of the New River Gorge, blanketing the earth with its drone.

Did I ask what it was? I don't remember. But I do remember the brief explanation offered by my husband: "Hawks Nest," and implicit within that abbreviated explanation the message that within minutes a huge volume of water would burst forth from the Hawks Nest dam; released to course once more over through and around the riverbed of the ancient New River. The siren's message warned all within hearing range to immediately seek higher ground; yet sitting as we were, high above the reach of the river's torrent, the dam's release posed no threat.

For a brief moment, I indulged in reverie, reliving family picnics shared at the Hawks Nest State Park, replete with the aroma of hot dogs carefully roasted over stone cook-pits built by young Citizen Conservation Corps youth in the 1930s _ their stonework still lovely today. Hawks Nest, the spectacular overlook where many years ago, during my Wisconsin grandparents' first and only visit to West Virginia, we spent an afternoon overlooking the dam. As I shoved quarters into a gizmo that looked more like an ancient deep-sea diver's outfit than a telescope, John and Albina Palmer, parents to my mother, stood breathless in the face of such magnificent natural beauty.

Sweet memories blipped across the radar screen of my consciousness, then vanished as quickly as they appeared, for when home refers to a chigger-infested briar patch, survival instincts supersede daydreaming. Thinking back on that siren moment I realize it was simply one thread woven into the fabric of that summer, albeit one that became a focal point in my life for several years.

During that first summer and fall, our days were occupied harvesting trees to dry in preparation for the lumber our home would require, setting fence posts and creating pastureland for llamas and goats, and cultivating flowers in an effort to infuse a semblance of civilization into this raw, extraordinary experience. Yet through it all, when least expected, the siren would often cry out from the valley below, gradually encouraging me to delve beneath the surface of its plaintive wail until I was forced to admit that, aside from the pleasantries I've mentioned, the depth of my actual knowledge of Hawks Nest, its dam and tunnel, could be summarized quickly: water from the New River flows through the tunnel to exit at the hydro plant on Gauley Mountain, and during the tunnel's construction, countless men were exposed to silica dust and died as a result.

Truly my ignorance was impressive and, perhaps because nature abhors a vacuum, information gradually filtered into this void. Unsought-out articles related to the tunnel's history appeared. During casual conversations friends and relatives offered up tantalizing tunnel lore. With each bit of information, my curiosity increased until I was locked in the throes of a focused, passionate quest to uncover everything I could find related to the tunnel's history.

Did I intend to write a book? Not initially, although in retrospect a journal entry from Oct. 7, 1999 reveals how completely my perceptions were colored by the tunnel's history:

Stripped bare overnight, the earth. Shorn of her garments, her leaves of many colors. Now, simply pure form. Spine, vertebrae, bones threatening to pierce her fragile skin. Ridges, angular and sharp. Ancient streambeds etching space between anorexic ribs.

I turn away, shocked at this vulnerability. Thinking of my own mother, I yearn to share this image with her. She would understand my reaction to such essential rawness.

I shiver. From the cold, damp wind? Or the memory of last evening's read, too graphic to forget?

(From a February 4, 1936 Congressional report) "...And typically the workers presented a falling off of weight, a considerable amount, in a very short time. The men got down so they had no flesh left on them at all. As they express it down there, the men got so they were all hide, bone and leaders, which means he is just skin and tendons and looks like a living skeleton."

There is no disputing the fact that construction of the Hawks Nest Tunnel was truly a marvel of engineering expertise, and that aspect of its history is undeniably interesting. Yet the tunnel's hook for me has little to do with the mechanics of its construction and everything to do with the depth and breadth of human suffering that resulted from its construction.

In pursuit of the tunnel's lore, I spent month upon month gathering documents and data, scrutinizing microfilm, and studying the political and social environment of the 1930s in hopes of understanding both the milieu as well as the motivation and mindset that enabled the tragedy to occur.

At one point, overwhelmed and deeply saddened by my conclusions, I packed up the research and set it aside. But time and again, my efforts to ignore the ever-present voice of the siren failed and the unfinished project continued to scratch _ sometimes claw _ its way into my thoughts. Finally, thanks to a friend who shamed me into finishing this project, I revisited it only to realize immediately that the brief hiatus from research had helped facilitate a shift in my perspective.

Initially, I was struck by the variety of materials collected during the initial phase of my tunnel research. Clearly, my own tunnel quest would have benefited from access to this compilation of material. Likewise it was apparent that this volume of material might also assist others. Finally, I realized that my initial motivation _ a desire to cast blame, to judge, to vilify _ no longer drove this project. Consequently, I have consciously refrained from interpreting these events, attempting instead to present this history as objectively as possible, with the conviction that the history of Hawks Nest _ a smorgasbord replete with ethical, philosophical, social and cultural offerings of the 1930s _ is an epic saga quite capable of telling itself.

From the Cotton Hill Bridge to Chimney Corner, W.Va. 16 parallels the New River. Today this section of water -- referred to in the summer as the New River "dries" -- is swollen from recent rains, a kayaker's delight. Red and white signs plaster the trees along this stretch of highway and from a distance look more like misplaced Tibetan prayer flags than warning signs for boaters and fishermen. "Danger, Dam Upstream" the signs announce. Closer examination explains that the siren's blast warns fishermen, boaters, and swimmers alike to head for higher ground. Preemptive words of caution made all the more ironic considering the utter absence of health advisories extended to the men who perished during the tunnel's construction.

This spring marks the beginning of our 10th year on Cotton Hill Mountain. Dozens of seasons and a hundred full moons. Seasons of change and growth. Seasons of sadness and loss. No two ever the same. Yet the siren remains ever constant, its melancholy reminder but one thread in the tapestry of sounds that embrace us. Intimate as the wind, seductive as the train's haunting valley-floor whistle, and often as disturbing as the roar of Laurel Creek, when swollen and uncomfortable from heavy rain.

I smile now, remembering. For in fact what I knew about Hawks Nest then was little more than a quizzical "Isn't that where some men died?" What I knew then may have filled a page. What I didn't know fills this book.

Spangler's book is available at Taylor Books in Charleston and also through Amazon.