Come to think of it …
The Wichita lineman is still on the line
Photo by Patti M. Walsh
You know them when they step into the hotel lobby. Their neat attire signifies rugged and outdoorsy hobbies, like hunting, fishing, and car racing. Their demeanor suggests self-assurance. And their camaraderie bespeaks quiet individualism. With neither swagger nor strut, the linemen waiting for orders are men on a mission.
Typical of first responders, these men race toward disasters when normal folk run away. Bob and I were normal folk running from Hurricane Milton when we encountered about a hundred of the 50,000 linemen running to Florida. Hailing from Louisiana and Texas, they were awaiting orders in a modest Alabama hotel whose guests were roughly split between those running toward and those running away.
“Where are you headed?” Bob asked a guy in the elevator.
“Somewhere between Tampa and Orlando,” the lineman said.
“That’s a large swath.”
“That’s all they told us,” he laughed. “We’ll learn more when our orders come through.”
“Oh, like a secret mission?” Bob joked.
“Yeah,” the lineman laughed. “Sort of.”
Regardless of stature or prowess, linemen by nature are physically and mentally strong. Working the line means climbing utility poles, hauling gear, pulling thick cable and wire, and working long hours day or night. They live on the edge. According to Lineman Central, 42 of every 100,000 lineman are killed on the job each year, due to the deadly combination of voltage, heights, and nature.
I asked a few of the guys hanging around the pool one evening why they chose linework.
Mason, a 30-something, said he didn’t care for academics while in high school. When he went on a field trip to a lineman training school, he instantly knew he was cut out for the formidable work.
Colton, who appeared to be the same age, shrugged off the question and said it was a generational thing. His father and grandfather were linemen. He grew up knowing that’s what he would do.
Ronnie, a seasoned lineman, laughed.
“I’ve been doing it so long I don’t remember why I started.” He explained that the work ranges from installing new residential lines to repairing existing electrical distribution and transmission systems. The profession is as old as the electric grid itself. A lineman opens switches, attaches grounding devices, and removes electrical hazards from fallen lines. They are the first responders to power outages. “Storm work is optional,” he added.
“Then why do you all do it?” I asked. “It’s dangerous and depressing. It means leaving your family behind for long stretches of time.”
A few other guys I had previously asked said the nice things, like how good it is to empower people who have lost everything. But Mason was practical. While a typical lineman earns $30 to $50 an hour, he can earn double pay for storm duty.
“You can pay off a lot of bills,” he said, “and buy things for your family that you wouldn’t otherwise be able to afford.”
Whatever the rationale, I recalled Glen Campbell’s ballad, “The Wichita Lineman.”
Thank God, I thought, he’s still on the line.
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