“Dump Truck”
We stared at the engine-less front of the train for a minutes or so, not quite comprehending what it meant. But soon we came out of daze and addressed our predicament. If this train was going north, it might not do so for hours… or days. And there was a good chance that the rail worker in Santa Clara hadn’t know what he was talking about, and that the cars on this train had come to Oakland to be divided up and sent in all different directions.
Wary of hanging around this yard too long and inviting detection by the bulls, we decided to get out of it, make our way to a freeway and hitch a ride out of town, getting back onto a freight in some smaller town. (Mike had heard Marysville might be good for this.) Setting out, we got out of the yard without incident and, rather miraculously, came upon an onramp for the westbound Interstate 80 within a few minutes.
As there were five of us hitching, we knew it was unlikely that anyone would stop to pick up all of us, and we debated the likelihood that we’d have to split up back into our original pair and trio. But, again miraculously, within a hour two men in a small dump truck spotted us, pulled over, revealed they were going to Redding and offered to take us the whole way if we didn’t mind riding in the empty bed. Located on Interstate 5 at the top of the Sacramento Valley where it gave way to Mt. Shasta and the Cascades, Redding was on the rail line and a perfect stop for us. We eagerly said yes and climbed up into the dump bed, which was essentially a large metal bathtub. The truck pulled back onto the onramp and we were on our way.
As with the piggyback, this was a unique ride with which we were initially thrilled. At sixty miles an hour, there was a pretty intense air flow, but you could avoid most of it by hunkering down at the front of the bed behind the cab. The views were amazing. We couldn’t help but feel as if we experiencing something unique.
This luster began to wear off once we got thirty or forty miles inland away from the coast and into the Valley. The weather was hot – easily over 100 degrees. Add the air flow and it like being in a convection oven. The bigger problem was that, in the open bed, we were completely exposed to the blazing sun. We were also sitting on metal that, also exposed, was heating up. I couldn’t help but wonder just how hot it would get in the time it took for us to get to Redding. Had we accepted a ride in a frying pan?
By two hours into the journey, our ride had become tedious… and a little concerning. Our benefactors had passed us a bottle of water through the rear cab window, but it didn’t go far and we were dehydrating. With every mile it seemed to get hotter. We huddled down behind the cab, trying to find what shelter we could from wind and sun. At last, the truck pulled off the freeway onto the business route through Redding. One of those digital thermometers on a bank sign – popular at the time – read 113°. Knowing that we’d be thirsty and hungry, the drivers pulled over in front of a supermarket. We scrambled out of the bed and down onto the ground. A bit wobbly and faint, we beelined to the market. I can’t remember what food we bought. All I remember is buying a half gallon of cold orange juice and, the second we were outside, drinking it down in practically one gulp.
I don’t know who suggested we get to Lake Shasta and go for a swim, but hot and dirty as we were, that sounded like a fantastic idea. So once again we stuck out our thumbs. I can’t tell you who picked us up, but we got to a swimming beach on the lake with a parking lot and picnic tables. We stripped down to our underwear and plunged in, washing off the soot of the Cuesta grade tunnels and the grime of box car and dump truck. It was heaven. It was now about seven or eight o’clock at night. The sun was going down and the lake glowed. It was still 100° out, but we didn’t care as we floated in the cool waters. Mike, Steve and Phil swam to a nearby island. Jay and I just chilled.
Drying out in the hot air after our swim, we struck up a conversation with a man who had driven down to the beach and was sitting on a picnic table enjoying a cigarette. I don’t remember his name, but I’ll call him “Pete.” He was in his mid-20s. A resident of Redding, he had gotten off work and felt like coming down to the lake. He was intrigued by our adventure and asked questions about freight riding. Quite hungry now, we asked where we might get a bite. He responded by offering to drive us – in his V-8 muscle car — into town to a place he knew. This proved to be a car hop drive-in that, straight out of “American Graffiti,” was packed with every teenager in Redding. Car radios blared, engines revved and girls and boys flirted. A regular, Pete greeted — and was greeted by — virtually everyone there. We were granted a special status by the fact that we were with him. A female carhop brought us burgers and fries, which we devoured while sitting on the hood of Pete’s car soaking up the scene.
By now our new best friend, Pete seemed anxious to not let us leave and tried to convince us to spend the night at his place, but we were eager to resume our journey. And so, meal consumed, Pete drove us to the Redding train station and bid us goodbye. By now it was around 11 PM. The station wasn’t much: two main tracks, three or four sidings and a small passenger terminal. It was empty and quiet. While there was some cars on sidings, there was no sign of any train that might be leaving. Not far from the terminal was a government building with a small lawn. Exhausted, we rolled out our sleeping bags on the grass and flopped down, laying on top because it was still incredibly hot. Figuring we’d be awakened by the noise if a train came in, we drifted off.
It was around one in the morning when we were awakened by the clanging of the crossing signal at the road that passed through the yard. As this was a sure sign, we jumped up, rolled up our bags as fast as we could and moved into position near the main track, ready to take advantage of the arriving train. Sure enough, a northbound freight came rumbling into the station yard. And it had a number of open box cars. Great! Only it was moving at a good clip. Not super-fast, maybe 10-15 mph, but not a speed that suggested it was coming to a halt. As we watched it clank by, it quickly became obvious that it was not going to stop, but just pass on through.
As we exchanged nervous looks, Mike expressed what we were all thinking.
“It’s not going to stop. We have to run for it.” The idea of this terrified me, but I said nothing. Nor did anyone else. For a few seconds, we stood frozen, knowing what we had to do but afraid to commit to doing it. Then Mike shouted “Come on” and took off running alongside the train. Having no other choice, the rest of us took off after him…