I came to the mountains from my metropolitan upbringing knowing next to nothing about mining. My first brush was through the kind of Old West nostalgia you find in souvenir shops and themed bars — fake pickaxes, sepia-toned photos and ironic saloon signs.

Now, a year into living in Park City, the mines have grown familiar, almost comfortable. I’ve stepped inside the Thaynes and Silver King Coalition mine buildings on guided tours — limited only by my mortality, asbestos and questionable flooring — and begun to understand how deeply these structures are tied to the people who have built and protected them.

I’ll admit, during my first few tours I smiled and nodded often while people swapped local lore. But somewhere between the creepy ore cart tracks to nowhere and the rusted headframes, t

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