Rolling Blackouts
Well-known member
Confessions of a Former Oogle:
Or rather, How I learned to Ride Freight, and Fail.
After two and a half years, we finally parted ways. She was beautiful, we loved each other and had endured so much together, but it had become blatantly obvious that the end of that road had been long since reached. For the first time in years, I was free. I awoke the next morning to the startling reality that I had nowhere to be, and everywhere to go. What the Fuck Now? Hmm….That was a question which was, for the first time in my life, easily answered for me. Skipping town is easier than skipping rocks.
It was a sweltering Cascadian summer, and the idea of putting as many miles between me and her appeared to be the only solution. But where? Another question easily solved as “Ben”, a close friend at the time, offered me a ride up to Everett, Washington. Having seen so very little beyond my isolated bubble of suburban white-kid academia, this seemed a grand idea. Loading the car with little more than a daypack, map, compass, a few pairs of socks, case of clif bars, a quarter of decent herb, and two dozen cans of spray paint, we mobbed into the night and up the I-5.
The ensuing week was a hazy blur involving such paraphernalia while exploring various abandoned warehouses around the Puget Sound. Aside from that jazz, there really wasn’t much to do in Washington except smoke copious amounts of pot, wander around the woods, and fuck shit up to the best of our abilities. Fourth of July came and we found ourselves getting stoned along the banks of a popular creek, talking shit, and bumming beers off the wasted rednecks that continuously came rafting down. All in all, it was fairly dull, aside from our bizarre encounter with a woman sporting a Harley Davidson vest, who by all appearances, was tripping ballz on acid. This became apparent, and hilarious, as she proceeded to inflate a full size river raft inside of her luxury Cadillac escalade, and then drive off laughing.
Another week drifted casually by and returning to Portland became an impending obligation. The logistical issue of how I was going to accomplish that distance hadn’t really crossed my mind. I really despised the idea of hitchhiking (still do), and had never even attempted the task at the time. Paying extortionist rates for buses wasn’t an idea I was particularly thrilled about either. Nor is paying for anything, for that matter. Then, I recalled the faint notion of hopping freight trains, a virulent idea initially planted in my skull by my good friend, Elzy. One night over drinks, he spoke of a brutal winter solo ride across something called the “highline” and that grainers often had small holes on the platforms in which a skilled contortionist could conceal themselves. With this being the sum lot of my knowledge regarding the fine art of train hopping, Ben and I parted ways as I set off towards the nearest rail line.
A mile of ballast hiking and I found myself staring bewildered into the southern chokepoint of Everett’s BNSF yard. Concealed in the dense riparian brush of the adjacent river, peering through a janky pair of borrow binoculars, I watched workers lazily switch lines building a string of loaded lumber racks. Assuming that wood, the primary capital export of the region, would be port-bound I judged that my train must be headed South to Seattle, or perhaps even Portland. Sure enough, after six long hours of impatient chain-smoking, power was attached and the iron beast roared to life. Crouching amid the brush, vibrations were forced through the earth and into my bones, as the orange head of the diesel monster roared past me. Game Time. Emerging with great trepidation, grabbing my pack and water jug, I began my desperate search for a suitable chariot. The rusted frame of a weathered CN grainer finally grumbled past, its ladder an invitation to destination unknown. Flying aboard with a surge of adrenaline, I scrambled into the grainer hole and kept my head down as the train slowly crept into an industrial district. The distinct chime of railroad crossing signals was hardly audible above the tremendous cacophony. In that moment, I would have readily traded my soul for a pair of ear plugs. The beast lurched. It lurched again. Steel collided in violence as tension became slack. It slowed…it stopped. The forewarning chime of the crossing signs in the distance became crystal clear. The crunch of heavy boots smashing granite ballast arose from behind me. Any notions I held regarding my anonymous existence on this machine were instantly invalidated. The crunch stopped as it reached my car. A radio squabbled without coherence. The crunch retreated. Slack became tension again and life returned to the machine. Peering out inconspicuously, I saw a worker retreating to his vehicle, having merely switched a track, and in doing so, unknowingly plunged a dagger of paranoia into my heart.
My compass pointed south as the train powered down the line at increasing pace. Lighting a celebratory cigarette, I triumphantly emerged from my grainer hole and gazed across the sun soaked grasslands. Feeling diverging tracks crossed, I double checked my compass. Southeast. Okay……..Five minutes pass. The bearing read East. Another five minutes – East, and still accelerating. My triumphant pride rapidly turned to deep concern. Perched on the porch, cigarette firmly clenched in teeth, the tracks came to parallel a highway. Another half hour of riding Eastbound and the reality that this train was certainly not taking me to Seattle had overwhelmed
Comfortably ignorant that I was somehow concealed from the vision of traffic, I continued to smoke furiously, survey my surroundings and debate my situation. The Cascade Range loomed ominously in the distance as a Highway Patrol officer cruised down the adjacent highway. He casually glanced in my direction – Once, then twice. With only ten yards between us – our eyes met. Red and Blue flashed. Life comes at you fast, much like the transition between bad and worse. Minutes fly by and the patrol car maintained heated pursuit. The question of whether or not to bail off my ride answered itself. It was of great fortune that the asphalt road diverged from that of iron, and I suddenly found myself engulfed in darkness. Ten drags later and the tunnel receded into the past. The swine was gone, but logic foretold that authority would certainly await wherever this machine finally came to rest. Winding into the mountains, the scream of the rails suggested a decrease in speed. The blur of black, grey, and white rock rushing past was broken only by stretches of blackberry bush. The potent combination of broken bones, concussion, and the being stranded in the middle of fucking nowhere still sounded better than a fresh pair of handcuffs. Cautiously peering ahead, a small town manifested itself in the approaching distance. The iron beast slowed.
Mentally and physically preparing myself for the absolute worst, I climbed to the outside of ladder, and took a final schwill from the water jug. The pack went first, and I followed suit. My left boot hit ballast hard, my right struggled in vain to catch up. Head below heels I rolled twice, coming to a violent halt on my back. Opening my eyes, I caught a shining glimpse of my own mortality as the wheels rolled perhaps a foot from my head. Pain made its presence known in my palms and knees. The blood ran black with train grease. In a mildly concussed daze, it took about thirty seconds to locate my pack – a full thirty yards behind me. I can only approximate my speed at impact was something near 35mph. Surveying my condition, I stood in sheer amazement that I hadn’t been more severely injured. Wearily stumbling towards down the line, picking the bloody shards of rock from my palms, the familiar chime of a railroad crossing could be heard once again.
“You’re in Skykomish, Washington.” The heavy set woman managing the gas station seemed unsure how to answer my simple query of “Excuse me Ma’am, but where am I?” This is a question I’ve come to realize will catch anyone off guard, as if they have to second guess themselves. I must’ve been quite the scene, covered in industrial filth and blood. “Are you okay? How did you get here? Her concern didn’t seem particularly genuine, but the question was relevant nonetheless. Gesturing towards the rail line with a thumb over my shoulder, I weakly replied, “Freight Train.” “But those trains don’t stop here nowadays.” She exclaimed. The irritation in my voice must have been apparent. “Yep. You’re right – they sure don’t. Now, may I use your phone?” Two hours later, Ben’s car pulled into the parking lot.
Thus is the tale of how I hopped my first freight, for only a mere 60 miles, and damn near lost my head in the process. Hindsight is 20 -20, and when looking into the rearview mirror of my youth, I was a foolish fucking moron. I’ve put several years and thousands of rail miles under my belt since that summer, but it was a monumental failure never to be forgotten. However, despite the ignorant sketchiness of the whole scenario, I can't imagine learning to ride by any other means.
