“Tunnels”

Just north of San Luis Obispo, both the 101 and the railroad are forced to climb over the Santa Lucia Mountain Range via the Cuesta Pass, which, at 1522 feet, isn’t high, but is a short, steep climb up from San Luis Obispo.   Trains unable to go up the sharp grade that an automobile can, the tracks take a long and circuitous route up the hill, first heading west out of town to pass a men’s prison before beginning a series of long looping turns.  Our progress was slow, but fascinating, and a marked contrast between the speedy flight up the coast.  This trip only seemed to be getting better and better.

Then we came to our first tunnel…

While not gushing the black smoke of the old coal-powered steam engines that famously pulled trains across the plains, diesel engines emit a huge amount of exhaust, especially while laboring to pull a mile-long train up a steep grade.  When a diesel engine goes through a tunnel, most of that exhaust is trapped in it, lingering as the cars follow.   This we discovered when our train went through the first tunnel and we found ourselves plunged not just into blackness, but into a cauldron of toxic fumes that stung our eyes and had us coughing and gagging.  With this suffocation came the realization that our “observation car” had a serious drawback – it left us totally exposed to the exhaust fumes.  We would have been far better off in a box car, the enclosure of which would have kept the air relatively clean.

This first tunnel was mercifully short — it wasn’t too long before we burst back out into the light and fresh air.   But it scared the hell out of us.  Having driven over the pass in a car and seen trains winding their way up,  I knew there were several more tunnels, and longer ones at that.  Having survived the first, we could probably survive the rest.  But there was a possible scenario that was absolutely terrifying.  What if, for some reason, the train came to a stop with our piggyback inside a tunnel?  Like someone attempting suicide inside a garage with a running car, we’d pass out and die.

In the span of thirty minutes, our freight train adventure had gone from blissful to nightmarish.  As we plunged into the second tunnel, we pulled out our jackets and wrapped them around our heads in an attempt to keep the fumes out.  This worked… to a degree.  It kept the worse of the poisonous air at bay, but the longer the tunnel the shorter the protection.  I kept waiting for the squeal of brakes that would indicate that the engineer was bringing the train to a halt.  When we emerged from each tunnel, we’d whip the jackets off our head and breathe in the cleaner air, grateful that we had made it through another tunnel, girding ourselves for the next one. 

There were six tunnels in total.  The last was the longest and most agonizing.  When we got through it – and the tracks turned downhill indicting we had made it over the pass – we began to relax.  We had survived the harrowing experience.  And it was hard to imagine anything that could be worse. 

From the pass, the railroad tracks descend into the Salinas Valley, paralleling its eponymous river and never venturing far from the 101.  We flew through towns like Atascadero and Paso Robles, barely slowing down.  But just past San Miguel, the train decelerated, pulled onto a siding and came to a grinding halt.  Having no idea why we stopped or how long we’d be there, we climbed down off our piggyback, grateful to get off the vehicle we had been riding for six hours, and on which we could have died.  The first thing we did was relieve ourselves onto the rocks by the tracks. 

Still boys at heart, we entertained ourselves with rock throwing competitions.  We were intrigued with the army base (Camp Roberts) that was visible across the 101, which ran only a hundred or so feet away.   The train having stopped on a curve, the engines were clearly visible ten or so cars ahead.   As we could see it, so could anyone on them see us.   For a while I worried that the engineers would be descending to come detain us or order us to leave the train.  Only they never appeared.  It was becoming increasingly obvious that rail workers simply didn’t care if anyone was illegally riding the freights.   

By now it was around seven or eight in the evening.  The summer-brown agricultural landscape was ablaze with magic hour light and the air was still warm from what had been a hot day.   (We were inland now and no longer cooled by ocean breeze.)  There was something idyllic about the respite from our journey, I found myself feeling unusually happy and content.  Having no control over the train or when it would begin moving again, we had to give into the moment and enjoy it. 

The reason for our stop became apparent when a southbound passenger train came roaring by on the adjacent track.  Our train clearly had been ordered to pull over to allow the passenger to pass, perhaps because, somewhere ahead, there was only one track that had to be shared.  Sensing we’d soon be moving on, we climbed back onto our piggyback.  And, sure enough, with a lurch, our train resumed its journey. 

The sun soon went down.  Unable to see much of the country in the dark — and exhausted after a long and eventful day — we laid out our sleeping bags, crawled into them and quickly fell asleep.  I remember waking up when the train made a brief stop in a station.  Sitting up to see where we were, I spotted a station sign for “Watsonville.”  Having a college friend who lived in that town, I wondered what he was up to as we rolled through his home. 

I fell back asleep and, while occasionally roused by the flashing red lights of crossings, or ever-shifting train noise, didn’t fully wake up again until the train was making its slow way through the rail yards that run from downtown San Jose to the adjacent city of Santa Clara.   As this area was my second home, I recognized landmarks and was able to tell my companions where we were and where I thought we were going.  By now it was around one AM.  We were all eager to get off the train as soon as we could and find something to eat.  None of us having eaten since breakfast, we were starving.  As if the engineer had read our minds, the train came to a stop not just near the end of the yards in Santa Clara, but a few hundred feet away from the Santa Clara train station, from which I had often caught the Caltrain to San Francisco.  I knew exactly where we were… and exactly where we going to eat.

Bidding goodbye to our piggyback, we climbed off it.  I led the group up to nearby Santa Clara University and “Big Bic’s,” a Denny’s-like diner just off campus that, a late-night hangout for students, stayed open until two AM.  Late as it was, there was still a fair number of customers in the place, from whom we drew stares as we burst in and crowded into a booth.  After we ordered from a leery waitress, we made our way to the restroom.  Peering in the mirror, we realized why we had commanded such looks from the clientele.  Our faces were almost black from the dust of the road and the soot from the tunnels.  Our hands were also shockingly dirty.  With lots of water and soap from the dispenser, we scrubbed ourselves as best we could, leaving a grimy ring of scum on the sink.  Refreshed and somewhat respectable, we returned to our tables to devour burgers, fries and large cokes. 

Once we were sated, talk turned to what to do next.  Given the day’s highs and lows, I felt I had my full of freight riding for the day.  Without confessing this feeling, I revealed that I was good friends with a Santa Clara student couple (John and Sandy) who had just got married (I had been an usher at their wedding) and that they’d surely let us crash on their living room floor.  The others, however, weren’t interested in this.  Everyone, especially Mike, wanted to get back on a train and continue on.  And so, after we paid the bill, I led the way back to the station and the yards.   Coming upon a rail worker – and no longer fearing them – we asked which freight was headed north.  He pointed to one that, after a stop in Oakland, would continue on to Marysville and up the Sacramento Valley towards Oregon.  Walking along this train, we found ourselves an open. empty box car, climbed in, roll out our bags and settled down for the night.  I briefly awoke when the train pulled out.   Falling back asleep, I didn’t wake up until it was daylight and the train was rolling slowly through the Oakland rail yards.  As the worker had said, the train came to a stop in the yard on one of seven or eight tracks packed with freight cars of all types.  Mike had heard that one should be wary of bulls in Oakland, so we stayed in our boxcar and out of sight, hoping the train would soon resume its journey.  We waited… and waited… and waited… only for the train to remain stationary and quiet.  Increasingly impatient, we began to wonder if it was ever going to move on.  After some debate, we decided we should walk up to the front and see what we could glean.  Taking our belongings, the five of us climbed out of the car and made our way up the track only to discover that, at the head of the train, there was no engine at all…