William Rowell

How did you get your start in the mineral industry?

In 1977 I graduated with a social science degree from the University of Western Ontario. After figuring out that there were no real jobs for social scientists, I took a cue from Gordon Lightfoot and was Alberta bound. I ended up in Calgary working for a temporary manpower agency doing whatever manual labor needed to be done in the bitter late autumn cold. Most jobs involved unloading trucks and box cars, but occasionally I was assigned to deliver packages for a company called Riley’s Reprints. Frequently the packages were map tubes destined for an oil exploration company located in one of Calgary’s relatively new office towers. During each delivery I took advantage of the opportunity to get warm and chat with sympathetic secretaries. In the background there were always guys not much older than me casually slumped in office chairs and sipping coffee while discussing weekend vacation plans. It took only a few deliveries before I decided that geology was the career for me. I enrolled in Western’s geology program and six years later finished with a master’s degree. Somewhere along the way I developed an affinity for Precambrian rocks and mineral deposits. I’ve spent most of my career crashing the bush and living in tent camps and cheap motels - not the cushy office job that I had initially envisioned. Although my decision to become a geologist was somewhat serendipitous, I can’t imagine having taken any other career path.

What has been the most memorable experience of your career?

In 1995 I was unexpectedly recruited to join a gold exploration program in Argentina. Two days after landing I was part of a team of geologists and baqueanos that was about to mount up and ride into the Cordillera Frontal. That morning might have been a fond recollection if I had any previous experience on the back of a horse. I tried to nonchalantly get into the saddle but, rather than the typical U-shaped metal stirrups that I expected, these were more like the front end of a wooden shoe carved for a small foot. I tried to put my boot into the opening several times but only succeeded in kicking the stirrup into a swinging motion that made the task increasingly difficult. The horse became agitated, and it was only with an aggressive push from a baqueano that I managed to unceremoniously get up and into the sheepskin-covered saddle. Realizing that there was a novice fool on his back, the horse refused to move until one of the baqueanos slapped a leather lead onto his backside. The horse jolted forward and then made great sport out of trying to scrape me off on every passing boulder and bush. I spent a lot of time riding over the next three years. I can’t say that I learned to ride well, but take some satisfaction in mentioning that, despite their best efforts, none of the mischievous horses and mules that I rode managed to get me out of the saddle.