“Separated”

Here’s the thing about boxcars:  Their wheels are huge – three feet in diameter.  As it sits about eighteen inches above these wheels, the floor of a boxcar is about four and half feet above the rails.  That means that, if you are six feet tall and standing at the door of an open box car, the floor is about even with your chest.  The shorter you are, the higher up it is.    It is one thing to push up yourself from the ground into the car when it is standing still.  It’s another to do it when it’s moving at 10 mph and you’re running to keep up. 

Proving himself to be the quite the athlete, Phil quickly passed Mike and took the lead in the race to get on the train.  Mike was next, and then there was me.  I had no idea where Steve and Jay were behind me.  Running all out to keep up, I looked at the height of the box cars and was convinced I’d never be able to get into one.  I’d never had much upper body strength… and that’s what was required.  

The train was moving just enough slower that the three of us were able to pull even with an open box car.   Phil threw his pack into it, then deftly hoisted himself in.  Mike quickly and fearlessly followed suit.  Now it was my turn.  The moment of truth had come.  Convinced I wouldn’t be able to do it — and that I’d fall and be crushed beneath the wheels – I began to talk myself out of it.   Looking down at me, Mike sensed this.  

“Come on, Chris, you can do it,” he yelled.  “Throw me your bag.”  

I am not, by nature, a courageous sort, especially when it comes to acts of physical derring-do.  But I somehow managed to suppress my terror.  I threw Mike the bag.  He grabbed it, threw it deeper into the car, and once again urged me on.  I moved up to the open door, placed my hands firmly on the box car floor… and jumped, pushing myself up with every ounce of strength I could muster. 

Mike grabbed me by the shoulders and hauled me up and in.  I tell you right now, if he hadn’t done so, I think I would have failed to come all the way up and would have dropped back down to the side of track. 

But that hadn’t happened.  I was in the box car.  I was safe.  I was alive.   I had succeeded at the ultimate freight train riding challenge!

While I sat on the box car floor counting my blessings, Mike and Phil were peering out the box car door, looking down the train to see what had become of Steve and Jay.   Only the tracks had begun to curve such that the view down the train was cut off.  We had no idea whether they had gotten on or not.

Clear of the Redding station, the train appreciably picked up speed.  Passing through a long tunnel, it emerged to fly along a trestle that crossed Lake Shasta.  A spectacular sight.  Moving as fast as it did, it wasn’t long before the train approached Dunsmuir, a small town about fifty miles north of Redding which, Mike somehow knew, was a significant freight stop.  We were hoping the train would stop there and that we could reunite with Steve and Jay.  To our delight, the train slowed, slowed, slowed… and came to a screeching halt.   

Mike announced that, while Phil and I remained in the box car, he would go back and find Jay and Steve, bringing them up to join us.   Phil and I agreed and Mike, slipping off the car, disappeared into the darkness. 

In hindsight, this was the absolutely wrong thing to do.  We never should have separated.  The three of us should have gone together to search for the other two.  Alas, we were young and didn’t have much sense.  The correct course of action never occurred. 

Phil and I anxiously waited for five, maybe ten minutes.  Then, with a loud bang, the train jerked forward, signaling the resumption of its journey.  In the same instant, we thought we heard someone shout “Chris.”  We might have heard a second shout, but if there was one, it was drowned out by the escalating groans and clangs of the train as it strove to move forward.   If that was Mike calling, what was he trying to say?  That he had found Steve and Jay and the three of them were together in another car?  Or that he hadn’t and we needed to get off ?  After debating the options, Phil and I felt it was best to stay put.  If we got off the train now as it picked up speed, we might not be able to get back on.  But we didn’t feel good about the decision.  We had no idea whether we were traveling with our friends… or being taken away from them. 

Figuring we could be traveling for a while, we rolled out our bags and went to sleep.  I awakened at one point to look out the door and see that it was framing Mt. Shasta as it glowed in the light of a full moon. A stunning sight I’ll never forget.  When I next awoke, it was a bright, sunny and warm morning.  The train was slowing as it pulled into Klamath Falls, a small Oregon city just over the California border.  The train stopped in a wide-open rail yard packed with all sorts of freight cars. There was a small passenger terminal and a short row of commercial buildings. 

We got out, looking down the row of cars hoping to see Mike, Steve and Jay emerging from one.  A joyful reunion, however, was not to be.  It quickly became apparent that they were not on the train and that we were on their own. 

What were we to do?   Continue on?  Or catch a train back to Dunsmuir?  Phil was adamant that we journey on to Portland.  That’s where he and Jay were originally headed, and they both had the address of their friend there.   He believed that, given the separation, Jay would somehow get to that Portland address, bringing Mike and Steve along with him.  We should do the same.  I agreed.  It was our only real option.

One of the businesses in the row of commercial buildings was a small cafe.  Hoping the train wouldn’t leave, we went to it and bought what we could get to go, then returned to our box car.  As had been the case in every railyard so far, nobody paid us any attention.  With the punctuality of a passenger train, the freight soon pulled out.

From Klamath Falls, the railroad goes north through the Klamath basin before cutting west to climb into the Cascades, passing over them at Cascade Summit (4885’) to descend into the Willamette River Valley.  Our journey over this route was an exercise in tedium.  Not only did the train move at a snail’s pace as it lumbered up grades and snaked around endless curves, it constantly stopped for no apparent good reason.   Add the 100+ degree heat and it was thoroughly unpleasant.    Phil and I were bored out of our minds, especially given that the wild and desolate mountains weren’t particularly attractive or interesting. 

When the train was moving — and the tracks curved a certain way — we could see that, about ten cars down, a small group of men were riding in an open box car.  They were too far away to be identified, either as hobos or freight train “tourists” like ourselves.  The sight of them filled me with a vague apprehension.  Mike having shared tales of freight riders being attacked or robbed, I was well aware that this was a danger.  These unidentified men were an uncomfortable reminder of the potential for it.  On all of previous rides, we sensed that we were the only people on the train.  Now it was disconcerting to know we weren’t.  

When the train stopped, Phil and I would get off to urinate, throw rocks or gorge on the blackberries that grew everywhere along the track.   I was always anxious for the train to start moving again, not just because I was desperate to get out of these hot, dusty mountains, but because I didn’t want the men from that other box car coming down to introduce themselves. 

Our agony was ended once the train made it over the pass and headed down towards the Willamette at a decent clip.  By the time we pulled into the city of Eugene, it was around seven in the evening.  It had taken us ten to eleven hours to cover a route you could do in three hours by car. 

The rail yard in Eugene was vast.  I can’t remember who we asked, but we were pointed towards a track with a train that would soon be departing to Portland.  As we headed towards it, we came upon a young man in his twenties who had long blonde hair tied in a ponytail.  We’ll call him “Greg.”  He too was headed to Portland, and glad to learn which train was going there, joined us.  As we walked, we learned he had not only been on the same train as us over the Cascades, but in the box car we spotted down the line from ours.  And he had a horror story to tell.  One of the hobos with him in the car had attempted to rob him while he slept.  Awakening, Greg fought off the man, in the process breaking a tooth.  (He showed us the now jagged canine.)  While thankful the altercation with the hobo hadn’t been worse, Greg was bummed by his tooth and fretting over how he would find a dentist to repair it.  I silently thanked God that we hadn’t ended up in the car with those hoboes. 

The three of us found an empty box car on the Portland-bound train, which set off fifteen minutes later.  Paralleling the Willamette River and Interstate 5, from Eugene the tracks make a flat, straight run to Portland.   On them this freight was a veritable bullet train.  It immediately accelerated to 60-70 mph and never slowed down. 

What would prove to be the last leg of my freight riding, this was hands down the best one.   The sun was setting and it was gorgeous out.  Legs dangling, we sat in the box car door, watching Oregon go by.  We zipped by farms, schools, parks, backyards, and playgrounds.  At endless road crossings, cars lined up behind flashing gates, waiting for us to pass.  Children would spot us in our box car and, enthralled, excitedly wave.  We’d wave back.  We were the movie stars of the railroad on parade before our fans.  I can’t describe just how joyful I felt on this ride.  I was acutely aware of being part of an amazing world, and was so grateful for this unique way to experience it. 

It took us only two hours to get to Portland.  It was dark by now.  As the train slowly entered the rail yard, we remembered Mike’s warning about the bulls and jumped off, making our way across numerous tracks, up a slope, through a fence and out onto a street.  As Greg needed a place to stay, Phil invited him to come along with us to his friend’s place, for which he had the address but no idea where it might actually be.    As he also had a phone number, we searched for and found a phone booth.  (In the days before cell phones, these were numerous.)   As Greg and I waited outside, Phil entered the booth and called.  He emerged a few minutes later to reveal that the friend was coming in his car to pick us up.  

He also revealed that Jay had made it to the friend’s house.  Only he was alone.  Mike and Steve weren’t with him. 

My heart sunk.  Where were they?  What was I going to do without them?

The friend picked us up and brought us to his home, where Jay was waiting. He told us what happened back in Redding.  On his own as the last in our line of runners, he failed to get onto the train.   After watching Steve climb onto a car, he didn’t think he could get onto one by himself and gave up. 

Jay was clearly resentful about the fact that the four of us had abandoned him.   And we had.  In the mad sprint to get onto the train, it was every man for himself, a survival of the fittest in which the smaller and weaker lost out.  I could understand his anger and could relate.   If I had been last in line and facing jumping on by myself, I’m sure I wouldn’t have had the courage.    

Like Phil, Jay knew their ultimate destination in Portland. So at that moment he figured he’d hitchhike there to rendezvous with us.  Walking to Interstate 5, he got picked up by a guy in a Porsche who took him all way the way!  He’d been at the Portland house since early morning! 

I could only deduce that, in Dunsmuir, Mike had found Steve, The two of them must have determined that Jay wasn’t on the train… and made the decision to stay off.   But where were they now…?