briancray
Well-known member
"Just some travel writing of my recent experiences riding trains and going nowhere wandering around. It's a pretty long read, covers up to Colton, CA."
After working and bumming around Hawaii for the past few months my world changed as I entered Seattle as if leaving a dream. Going from a tropical, beach, paradise walking around in shorts and maybe a t-shirt while the cool ocean breeze tickled my chest, well that was long gone. Now my pack strapped to my shoulders felt ten pounds lighter because I wore every damn article of clothing in it.
My buddy picked me up from the airport and for the first time in months I slept peacefully in a comfy bed. We kicked it for a few days, but I already felt antsy to move freely again and hit the road. His truck route took him near Portland, OR so on my last night I hitched a ride with him to Kalama, WA where he dropped me off at the side of I-5.
The brisk night air taunted my exposed skin turning my cheeks and nose a rosey red. I started sniffling. “Ahhhh, it felt good to be back on the road again.” I looked out at the railroad tracks near a siding, waiting for a train to halt. Slowly my feet numbed from the cold, snow swallowed my worn boots ponding water in the open holes of my soles. Fuck I thought…this was gonna be a long journey south. Standing there like a jitterbug I wiggled around to maintain my circulation, but shortly capitulated. So I trampled nowhere fast, sloshing through the moist snow down the tracks and along a steep, snowy, slant of ballast near the highway. I walked and walked some more until I reached a road where I laid it down under a patch of pine. My feet felt cold as stone as if a chilling spectre encroached my body slowly gnawing away at my comfort, darkness followed and I dozed off.
Next I knew the morning sky surfaced through a dense layer of fog. I trudged to a convenience store for warmth stomping the sledgehammers where my feet once were.
With a warm coffee in hand and my socks plastered to the tiled floor, my toes started to come back to life in a warm, tingly sensation. I looked out the window and pondered, “Guess it’s time to start hitchhiking…” I dreaded leaving, going back out into that ravage beast, feeling the brutality of her breath drown my skin to a chilling, miserable state. But fuck the cold I was going south! I threw a thumb out by the on-ramp decked out in all black like a ninja and to my surprise a shuttle bus stopped and gave me a lift after only 5 minutes, dropping me in Vancouver, OR.
De-icer or sand does not exist in Oregon as I quickly found out. The hipster environmentalists boycotted its usage making tramping even more difficult for me, but I managed. I slipped and slid, fell on my ass on more than one occasion and my feet fell into a deep hibernation. At points it felt like I hovered along the sidewalk as I lost all feeling and just when I thought the weather could not get any worse…it did. Dark clouds fizzled above with frozen tears bouncing off the ground, ricocheting like pellets in every direction. I scrambled for a bridge, but I was so far out in the middle of fuck meandering through back roads following the I-5 that by the time I reached one I stood there shivering, and drenched in a downtrodden state of self-destruction. I changed out of my wet clothes into dry gear as I lingered under a siding beneath a bridge. With tweekers and home bums infested nearby I decided to hit the road once it calmed and I ended up getting clobbered again for round two.
My hitchhiking efforts remained futile with shoulders covered in mounds of ice and the sky erupting its fury like an active volcano. So I walked. I couldn’t get any more wet or could I? With some money saved up from a few days of work packing parachutes I decided to give in to a Motel 6.
Just a few miles over the bridge it sat off the highway calling my name. The pedestrian walkway over the bridge covered in a thick crust of black ice. I slid. I fell. I reached and grabbed onto the railings and slipped some more. It sucked. My shoes squished with each step as freezing water stalked my toes to a mesmerized state of numbness. I felt sick and feverish, but a bed was within reach, a look of relief crossed my brow. Halfway across the bridge the sky dumped more chilling cries and I about lost it. I cursed, moaned, and pleaded, but it did nothing. It amplified to a torrential rainfall, but I reached the motel by this point. My face beamed with joy. The rain halted as I stood in freezing puddles of water. I looked up at the sign and in big bold red letters it said, “No Vacancy…” Wait…what in the flying fuck…no vacancy…
Infuriated I grabbed fast food just to get indoors, to warm up for the long, dreadful night ahead of me. I sought refuge under a bush shaking and wiggling in my sleeping bag with my tarp shadowed above me. It did no use. I lay there cold, my teeth chattering like firecrackers and my body just aching from the neglect I put it through. The freezing rain intermittently showered throughout the night and as soon as 5 AM rolled around I hit the McDonalds for a place to warm my body.
It took hours to regain feeling in my extremities and even still, though warm, they felt numb and distant like an out-of-body experience. The ice storm continued with a fierce vengeance. I barely kept my eyes opened as my head bobbed, nodding in and out in the restaurant. I noticed a bus across the way and took the opportunity to free myself of Portland’s flooded roadways. With useless attempts of hitching I freed myself from the outdoors, getting some Zzzzzz’s on the same bus route multiple times before getting off at the Greyhound.
I grabbed a cheap ticket for Eugene and figured I’d catch out once I was there, spending the next 12 hours indoors while I dried my gear, stayed warm and caught up on sleep. But you know that sly Dog that’s never late, always has WiFi, outlets and the classiest people, well it did not go as planned…it never does. They cancelled my bus. So I spent the night on the floor at the Greyhound station with a free food voucher, and cable TV dozing off for some much needed sleep.
I awoke early morning to the bitchiest, most racist front desk clerk. “Cuse me sirrr, ur bus left las night at 12 forty five. Why u still here?”
I was told my bus was cancelled for 11:30 PM and I could go to sleep.
“But I seen u all day yestaday. All day. Why were u here all day.”
Because my bus didn’t leave until 11:30 PM and I’m travelin’…and you guys cancelled my bus…can I get a new ticket?
“But why u didn’t get on an earlier bus?”
Why do I feel like I’m being interrogated? My ride couldn’t pick me up until then, ok?
“Damn that’s all u had to say boy…”
After what felt like a police interrogation of 30 minutes I left on a bus to Eugene arriving in the early morning. With nothing but time on my hands I walked to Skinner Butte and followed a trail that ran along the river. Home bum paddies scattered along the banks of the river with trash and human waste near the walking path. It reminded me of Portland, a place where public bathrooms did not exist, and locked dumpsters became more and more common. I wandered through the adjacent neighborhood that ran parallel to NW Expressway where I could hear the deafening sound of train horns and the thunderous jolts of freight cars getting humped together in the distance. A free little food pantry stood at one of the street corners and I grabbed a loaf of rye bread while I watched the trains arrive, depart and change crews right by the highway, all headed northbound. But with daylight shining through the scattered clouds I did not want to expose myself to any workers or the bull so I just waited and the hours slowly drifted away into a dark oblivion. The once busy roadway steadily shifted to a faint purring of noise as cars seldom drove by giving me the opportunity to roam about.
But my sluggish state succumbed to sleep in the very bush I staked out the yard from. The rain whimpered in the night sky and the pitter patter of its drops against my tarp lulled me to sleep. I slept in that morning, too late perhaps and found myself just watching the yard operations and reminiscing on my last hop out which happened almost 4 months prior as a 40-miler in WNY, catching the same line a few times while I visited the trestle bridge in Letchworth State Park. The benevolent freedom associated with the wind swaying my hair, and my face erupting in a deep smile as tons of freight clanked against mere inches of steel made me look past the harsh prior days on the road. I smirked in anticipation of my future ride waiting for the perfect moment to catch a lift to nowhere in particular.
I decided to find a new spot though. Roaming around I bumped into a home bum under one of the grossest overpasses I ever set foot under. Human feces lay frozen and scattered between empty soup cans, cardboard and plastic among other festering debris and a plethora of needles showered the ground like a new sequel for a Saw movie. Yet this bum lingered here for two years as he told me. We chit chatted while I waited for my train to cc on the main line. But eventually I found myself scurrying to a locked dugout by a corner church. I finagled my way through a small gap in the doorway for a few hours of secure sleep.
Nightfall loomed above and for the first time in days I cast my eyes up at a few twinkling stars. Just as I decided to hit a local mart I heard a faint sound, a sound that came back to me almost instantly. Slowly inching forward as each bolt became visible in the moonlight an IM loaded with piggies, 48’s and 53’s screeched to a stop. I ran back to a bush near the road and waited for the right moment to cross and jump on a freight car. My heart thumped with blood pumping faster from the adrenaline. Where was the bull? Did someone notice me? It’s still kinda light out…all these thoughts raced through my mind. But fuck it, I made a run for it. My dark silhouette camouflaged in the night sky behind a blanket of massive freight headed southbound. I picked a 53’ to ride fearing I might get caught in a piggy. The first one I scrambled to had no porch, second one, no porch, third one, wasn’t a T-Well, fuck…fuck…fuck…I’m wasting time. Cars are passing in both directions now. I need to find something fast. So I gunned it for the next car, a piggy. I used every last bit of energy, every last bit of breath as my lungs gasped for air, wheezing like smoker’s cough as I squeezed myself into the wheel well of a semi truck.
I sat there soaked in a myriad of sweat, catching my breath, keeping my eyes peeled for the bull. But I guess he just didn’t give a shit, after all, it was 30 degrees outside, who’s gonna be hoppin’ trains in this shit, me I guess. Minutes passed, my stomach settled and body cooled down, I began to relax then the sound of air hissed near the couplers and I became wrenched in multiple emotions.
Slowly we rolled along picking up speed quite quickly. I sat there still as a scarecrow scrunched on my backpack as we left Eugene, OR headed southbound. Holy shit…that feeling of adventure came back suddenly and my droopy tired eyes became mesmerized through the blurry street lights of the city. Railroad crossing after railroad crossing dinged as everyone stopped to let the train pass and I felt like a king in my castle waiting to lay down on my throne once outside of the city.
I nestled into my sleeping bag on the floor underneath the semi and drifted to sleep while the wind whispered into my ears. We cruised. We cruised fast and when we stopped I awoke to a film of snowflakes cuddling up against my bag. We made it into the mountain range near Klamath Falls and she dumped inches of fresh powder, decorating the evergreen trees in a blanket of white beauty surrounding me. Wow. Just wow what a beautiful sight. The train did not sideout for long, maybe a few minutes, but once she picked back up speed, I fled back to my sleeping bag and threw my tarp over me to stay warm. The temperature dropped. It dropped well below freezing and with the wind shield I thought how crazy I was to leave a tropical paradise for this. But I loved every minute of it, even if my toes disowned me.
Cruising along I awoke early morning just past sunrise, upset that I overslept, and I missed seeing the peak of Mount Shasta. But honestly, I focused more on staying warm than the scenery, which meant staying bundled. I shifted back to the small space between the wheel wells as the cold made my fingers and toes squeal like little piggies while I rode towards Roseville on a piggy.
Dunsmuir veered right in the distance and the train meandered through the forest green mountainside along a turquoise flowing river. Mini waterfalls sprung along the sides of cliffs rushing water into the river and the train began to dart through a series of small, dark, tunnels as I covered my face from the carbon monoxide fumes. The snow ceased and as we declined in elevation it turned to freezing rain. I chuckled as I thought about riding on the porch of a 53’. The train swiftly approached Roseville as the brakes screeched around a sharp bend by a home bum infested golf course. Tents, tarps and filthy camps scattered near the fencing as the train rolled into town. I took this opportunity to jump off, seeking refuge under a bridge for that night, hoping the days ahead of me would not involve any conversations with Sergeant Flood.
The inclement weather followed me as it always does on the road. Getting wet is apart of travel, but the key is staying dry. Roseville did not change that and although I never encountered Sergeant Flood, I certainly dealt with my fair share of rain.
I felt too lazy to walk, too lazy to find a cozy spot in the woods to setup camp and honestly too damn sick to step another inch. I plopped my ass and laid it down under a bridge by the railroad tracks. Railcops, UP service trucks and police all drove past sporadically throughout the night. They saw me most definitely, but the fierce howling moans and torrential splattering sweltering throughout the night, worked to my advantage in that sense. They did not fuck with me. To them I looked like an ordinary home bum shootin’ up under a bridge.
I felt safe and more comfortable traveling despite exposing myself to the open world. With my knife in my pocket, clenched between my sweaty, aching palm and fingers I dozed in and out of sleep almost like a hallucinogenic trance. My body ached from a cold and my bones squirmed at the touch of the roaring winds. I shivered and curled up into the fetal position, nestled into my bag and my feverish state eventually subsided after much rest.
I woke up late. Much later than normal as the sky still sprinkled, laughing at my vulnerable state, as I packed up my gear. The soles of my boots squeaked with each damp, squishy step and I only sustained feeling in my arches and heels. I lingered around town for a bit and felt like a bum with nothing but time to kill. Somewhere between all the chaos a window of sun shined through illuminating my reflection in the ripples of each puddle I unsuccessfully avoided.
Walking south I tramped past the yard and Roseville Market towards a vacant industrial field, the usual catch out spot for train riders. Tags scrawled across a lone tree with graffiti lining the stone walls near a drainage culvert, a sign of other riders. I explored the area carefully with an incognito sway about my step. Sergeant Flood did not fuck around when it came to riders and I heard quite many stories about citations for trespassing in this adjacent field. So I maintained a low-profile and set up a lean-to near the back of the stone retaining wall. My fever lashed back at me with an unrelenting force so instead of fighting it I felt safe enough to rest during the daytime.
As my eyes fluttered I heard drops sprinkle from above, gently thumping against nylon, quickly progressing to an abomination. Layered in all my clothes I lay there dry and warm free from the demon above as Hell pounded its sins down upon me. The blocks of ice attached to my ankles no longer felt like anything, but a numb existence, detached and barren. I awoke hours later to nothing but a dark misty sky, the only light peering out from the security vehicles patrolling the yard beyond the mesh ffencing
I scrutinized the yard for hours looking for an opportunity to hop out, but nothing looked promising other than getting caught from this location. Dancing with the Devil I took a prowl three miles further south in pitch darkness down desolate back-country roads to find another spot to watch the yard operations. I took “Rob Nothing's” suggestion and hid by the overpass in the shadows of what seemed like perpetual gloom.
Encumbered by sickness I instantly fell asleep shielding myself from Mother Nature's spontaneous, unpredictable outbursts, resting peacefully under yet another bridge. That night she mellowed out to a calm, cloudless sky, breezeless and stunning through her twinkles. I awoke on separate occasions to silhouettes scampering down the trashed, adjacent road. Garbage cans, pallets, trash bags and a speedboat scattered across the ground like a wasteland portraying greed.
I eavesdropped on two normies talking about their materialistic lives and a mirage of problems. But in the distance I saw a lone man. He looked like a blurring shadow of darkness as he stealthily tiptoed through the east side of the yard, hopping the fence as he disappeared into a boxcar on an arriving train. Perplexed, I wondered what he was doing? He moseyed across two stopped trains and vanished like a cloud of smoke. A train rolling through on the main line looked hoppable as it crawled slowly along two bands of steel at a turtles pace. Maybe he caught on the fly. It would have been much easier to do so on the west...I never found out as I drifted off to sleep.
The following morning I awoke to radiant rays of sunshine seeping through my sleeping bag scorching my eyes. Finally it looked promising out, a great day to catch out if the opportunity presented itself. One train sat on the arrival tracks while another lingered in the classification area. I quickly packed up my gear and moved to a less obvious location, west of the tracks, hidden in tall brush by a lone shrub.
Beneath the hill lay the tracks and a tent propped up out in the open, completely blowing up my chance to catch out. Out hobbled a black man, reaching for his zipper to take a morning piss. He aimed straight towards the tracks as I shook my head, “what the fuck was he doin…”
In this moment I studied the train on the main line really quickly to figure out if it was headed southbound. All the tracks pointed geographical southbound, but I knew trains from here headed either east, north or south so with a 66.6% chance of going the direction I wanted to, why not, right? Then I studied the train more closely. Loaded lumber mixed with boxcars meant a lower priority train compared to an IM, but I remembered riding a similar train south from Eugene. So my deductive reasoning told me if that train headed southbound through Roseville with a similar load then maybe this train went south too.
I looked back over at the home bum and he waved at me after putting his unit away.
“Can't stay there dawg, workers gon report you if they see you, they ain't here tho. Where you goin’...”
“South dude...tryin’ to kick the cold.”
“Well hop on...think it's goin’ Fresno.”
With that confirmation I made up my mind and ran from under the bridge to the first open boxcar. Ssssssssiiisssssisss...the sound of the air released from the brakes. I flung my pack in first and hopped in as stealthily and quickly as possible. Just as I drug my leg in she started rolling along the steel picking up speed fast like a jaguar. I rushed, squabbling in the car to push the door further open to keep from getting locked inside. “Shit I never grabbed a loose railroad spike,” I thought…
I held the door tightly clenching the cold metal in a death grip between my fingers and sweaty palms. Fuck...I needed something to jam it, but what? I thought quickly and reached for my spoon jamming it in the groove under the door tract, but it shimmied loose still. I looked around the rusty boxcar floor, scanning it for anything. At first glance it appeared empty, but ahah, a few stray pieces of lumber. I sprinted over to two pieces grabbing them like batons and ran back to the door prying them in the loose space near the spoon. I gave it some extra oomff whilst kicking it with the bud end of my boot. The door wiggled back and forth, but she stayed jammed, completely open to the scenery as I rode that one-eyed bandit towards Bakersfield.
She bellowed from the inside, yelling, squeaking, screeching, and moaning at every turn along every wye and change of track. It sounded worse than chalk scrawling against a blackboard, but I just lay there on the cold metal floor, shaking back and forth, watching the scenery fly by around me. The freight car jiggled and gyrated ferociously to the point of nauseousness, and sure enough I threw up yet again. She wiggled, bounced and threw my body around that empty box like a rag doll. It looked like a boxing match in there or a scene from Fight Club. I could not tell.
My eyes just glued to the scenery of open green pastures with cattle grazing, and orchards popping up in each adjacent plot of land. Almonds, Pistachios and a great deal of other natural resources reflected the huge industry of farming along the railroad tracks following the I-5, a multi-billion dollar industry. Though sparse with residential development, the land boomed with ranches over the 200 mile stint to an unfathomable degree.
We blazed through Stockton and shortly after came Fresno, I only knew because of the GPS on my phone. With only the one door open, I never saw the yards, but the bright orange and yellow vests gave away the workers from miles away. I stood close to the corner walls of the boxcar to avoid getting pulled off the train. As she cruised along, the smooth steel guided her along the tracks like a ‘pas de deux.’ The night sky quickly approached as the sun crept away through the fluffy clouds and in the distance I saw the silhouettes of palm trees. I used the big green highway sign propped on the side of I-5 to determine my location, Bakersfield 24 miles.
“Ahhh,” I sat back and waited unsure of what to do next...Get off in Bakersfield or head to LA? She slowly screeched into the yard. I hopped off with my feet running, tripping over a large piece of ballast as I smashed into the ground rolling head first towards the fence. Damn that hurt, but now where would I sleep?
Bakersfield made me feel like a home bum after five full days of holding off on train hopping. I still cannot feel my toes in either of my feet, but hey, as I sit here in the sun, peering out at the yard, I feel relieved to head further into the warmth.
That last bone-chilling night in Bakersfield, with a film of frost on my bag, waking up to a text message on the roof of a church, made me smile. My breath froze in front of me like plumes of white smoke as I walked to the train tracks along the dark streets to finally meet my road dog, Rooster. With three points of attachment I crossed over the knuckle of two boxcars holding onto the brisk metal ladder. Hopping onto the ballast I turned around looking for Rooster and noticed an open boxcar so I climbed in hoping he might see me. Shortly after the air hissed like a vicious snake I hopped off, afraid of leaving him behind.
Rooster stood inches taller than me with a lanky frame and two backpacks next to him. His long black hair and scruffy beard hid his face along with a baseball cap. He gradually added new studs, pins and patches to it as he found them on the road. Aside from that, we looked pretty similar, not really fitting into the whole “Dirty Kids” appearance at all unlike other travelers we bumped into.
That day rekindled my spirits having a buddy to kick it with by the tracks while waiting for our next ride out of town. Much of train hopping is patience, using that time waiting to keep yourself occupied. With small talk it made it lighter on my mind to pass the time. My thoughts did not wander as much. I took a break from reading and writing for the first time since I hit the road in late November.
We plopped our gear and asses on the sidewalk treating the overpass like a stoop. We waited patiently kicking the time with words until the faint squealing of steel raised our brows. A large train slowly rolled into Bakersfield headed southbound. Our heads moved from boxcar to lumber to oil tanker to gondola, scanning the train for a rideable freight car. Inch by inch the locomotive slowed to a screeching halt as we sprinted towards the gondolas on the train.
I climbed up ladder after ladder, my fingers turned a rusty brown as old paint flaked off the car. Poking my head over the side my efforts remained futile as every car loaded to the brim with wood. Adrenaline pumped as we galloped along the ballast our hopes slowly dwindling with each loaded car we passed. I followed behind Rooster as he stealthily climbed into the bright yellow unit at the backend of the train. To my surprise he jiggled the handle and we both scurried in quickly placing our gear in the bathroom then laying out on the floor.
We never called in the train, but we knew it headed south or east. Bright sunshine lit up the cab as we lay flat on the floor ready to hide in the bathroom if an engineer inspected the unit. The locomotive continued rolling through Bakersfield steadily picking up speed as we rode Cadillac in the luxurious unit. The small area filled with comfy leather seating, a toilet, outlet to charge our electronics and most importantly computerized train controls that if touched would surely get us pulled off the train if not arrested.
The unit purred as loud exhaust bellowed from the engine. It pushed the cars faster and faster until we plowed through the yard whistling smoothly across the steel beams for the mountains. I looked down at the speedometer and just 13 miles out of Bakersfield the locomotive gradually came to a halt. I panicked. My heart raced fearing the worst. Maybe someone called us in from a crossing? Minutes turned to what felt like hours as our train waited patiently hoping to chug along the single track through the Tehachapi Mountain Pass. My anxiety faded and once I heard the air release a spark of joy illuminated a white smile across my face.
We plopped our asses in the chairs as she squealed around the steep curves, clanking through the greenest of mountains. Cows grazed yonder, sipping from the dry riverbed, a motionless puddle of water. Dry trails of tributaries faded out of view between the barren trees as we chugged along getting closer to the desert.
The door opened and the sound of diesel exhaust roared from the pusher. Rooster walked out onto the plank. The cool breeze tickled my nose as I followed behind him, grabbing onto the railing tightly with each step forward. My hands clasped the cold metal, ch...ch...ch...ch rung in my ear drums, rattling out every sound, but the sound of the locomotive hauling tons of freight. The sun began to vanish behind the dark silhouettes of mountain and our journey on the plank ended quickly as we scurried back in the cab for warmth.
Colton, California lay just past the Tehachapi Loop and with the night sky fully immersed in bright, twinkling stars, we pulled out a bottle of Whiskey. I did not drink too much, especially when traveling alone. Drugs and alcohol left my life years ago, but with new company on the open road I made an exception, taking a few schwills to new experiences.
I felt schwilly after passing the bottle back and forth with the last drop of whiskey burning the back of my throat. The train chugged along at 15 mph through the mountains until gaining speed over the pass. We now entered the desert and kept our eyes peeled for entering the yard to steer clear of the bull.
The train pummeled along the tracks putting us straight in the yard and kept rolling and rolling. “Fuck” we needed to get off as it started heading westbound. It slowed down to a few miles per hour and we grabbed our gear, darting out the back of the unit. Headlights shined in my eyes as the bull sat there in his vehicle playing on his phone. I made a run for it, sprinting towards the highway, breathing heavily as I scrambled over the flimsy, chain-linked fence. I looked back at Rooster. “Come on dude...GO...GO...the bull is right there…” He hobbled faster throwing his two bags over the fence as he climbed his way to freedom. Once over, we casually walked down the shoulder of the highway to find a spot to sleep. The bull never noticed us or he did not care, either way we managed to stay out of jail, and citation-free. A Wal-Mart towered above the other industry near the yard and we set up camp in the adjacent field, sleeping on a nice grassy patch under a hill by the open road.
After working and bumming around Hawaii for the past few months my world changed as I entered Seattle as if leaving a dream. Going from a tropical, beach, paradise walking around in shorts and maybe a t-shirt while the cool ocean breeze tickled my chest, well that was long gone. Now my pack strapped to my shoulders felt ten pounds lighter because I wore every damn article of clothing in it.
My buddy picked me up from the airport and for the first time in months I slept peacefully in a comfy bed. We kicked it for a few days, but I already felt antsy to move freely again and hit the road. His truck route took him near Portland, OR so on my last night I hitched a ride with him to Kalama, WA where he dropped me off at the side of I-5.
The brisk night air taunted my exposed skin turning my cheeks and nose a rosey red. I started sniffling. “Ahhhh, it felt good to be back on the road again.” I looked out at the railroad tracks near a siding, waiting for a train to halt. Slowly my feet numbed from the cold, snow swallowed my worn boots ponding water in the open holes of my soles. Fuck I thought…this was gonna be a long journey south. Standing there like a jitterbug I wiggled around to maintain my circulation, but shortly capitulated. So I trampled nowhere fast, sloshing through the moist snow down the tracks and along a steep, snowy, slant of ballast near the highway. I walked and walked some more until I reached a road where I laid it down under a patch of pine. My feet felt cold as stone as if a chilling spectre encroached my body slowly gnawing away at my comfort, darkness followed and I dozed off.
Next I knew the morning sky surfaced through a dense layer of fog. I trudged to a convenience store for warmth stomping the sledgehammers where my feet once were.
With a warm coffee in hand and my socks plastered to the tiled floor, my toes started to come back to life in a warm, tingly sensation. I looked out the window and pondered, “Guess it’s time to start hitchhiking…” I dreaded leaving, going back out into that ravage beast, feeling the brutality of her breath drown my skin to a chilling, miserable state. But fuck the cold I was going south! I threw a thumb out by the on-ramp decked out in all black like a ninja and to my surprise a shuttle bus stopped and gave me a lift after only 5 minutes, dropping me in Vancouver, OR.
De-icer or sand does not exist in Oregon as I quickly found out. The hipster environmentalists boycotted its usage making tramping even more difficult for me, but I managed. I slipped and slid, fell on my ass on more than one occasion and my feet fell into a deep hibernation. At points it felt like I hovered along the sidewalk as I lost all feeling and just when I thought the weather could not get any worse…it did. Dark clouds fizzled above with frozen tears bouncing off the ground, ricocheting like pellets in every direction. I scrambled for a bridge, but I was so far out in the middle of fuck meandering through back roads following the I-5 that by the time I reached one I stood there shivering, and drenched in a downtrodden state of self-destruction. I changed out of my wet clothes into dry gear as I lingered under a siding beneath a bridge. With tweekers and home bums infested nearby I decided to hit the road once it calmed and I ended up getting clobbered again for round two.
My hitchhiking efforts remained futile with shoulders covered in mounds of ice and the sky erupting its fury like an active volcano. So I walked. I couldn’t get any more wet or could I? With some money saved up from a few days of work packing parachutes I decided to give in to a Motel 6.
Just a few miles over the bridge it sat off the highway calling my name. The pedestrian walkway over the bridge covered in a thick crust of black ice. I slid. I fell. I reached and grabbed onto the railings and slipped some more. It sucked. My shoes squished with each step as freezing water stalked my toes to a mesmerized state of numbness. I felt sick and feverish, but a bed was within reach, a look of relief crossed my brow. Halfway across the bridge the sky dumped more chilling cries and I about lost it. I cursed, moaned, and pleaded, but it did nothing. It amplified to a torrential rainfall, but I reached the motel by this point. My face beamed with joy. The rain halted as I stood in freezing puddles of water. I looked up at the sign and in big bold red letters it said, “No Vacancy…” Wait…what in the flying fuck…no vacancy…
Infuriated I grabbed fast food just to get indoors, to warm up for the long, dreadful night ahead of me. I sought refuge under a bush shaking and wiggling in my sleeping bag with my tarp shadowed above me. It did no use. I lay there cold, my teeth chattering like firecrackers and my body just aching from the neglect I put it through. The freezing rain intermittently showered throughout the night and as soon as 5 AM rolled around I hit the McDonalds for a place to warm my body.
It took hours to regain feeling in my extremities and even still, though warm, they felt numb and distant like an out-of-body experience. The ice storm continued with a fierce vengeance. I barely kept my eyes opened as my head bobbed, nodding in and out in the restaurant. I noticed a bus across the way and took the opportunity to free myself of Portland’s flooded roadways. With useless attempts of hitching I freed myself from the outdoors, getting some Zzzzzz’s on the same bus route multiple times before getting off at the Greyhound.
I grabbed a cheap ticket for Eugene and figured I’d catch out once I was there, spending the next 12 hours indoors while I dried my gear, stayed warm and caught up on sleep. But you know that sly Dog that’s never late, always has WiFi, outlets and the classiest people, well it did not go as planned…it never does. They cancelled my bus. So I spent the night on the floor at the Greyhound station with a free food voucher, and cable TV dozing off for some much needed sleep.
I awoke early morning to the bitchiest, most racist front desk clerk. “Cuse me sirrr, ur bus left las night at 12 forty five. Why u still here?”
I was told my bus was cancelled for 11:30 PM and I could go to sleep.
“But I seen u all day yestaday. All day. Why were u here all day.”
Because my bus didn’t leave until 11:30 PM and I’m travelin’…and you guys cancelled my bus…can I get a new ticket?
“But why u didn’t get on an earlier bus?”
Why do I feel like I’m being interrogated? My ride couldn’t pick me up until then, ok?
“Damn that’s all u had to say boy…”
After what felt like a police interrogation of 30 minutes I left on a bus to Eugene arriving in the early morning. With nothing but time on my hands I walked to Skinner Butte and followed a trail that ran along the river. Home bum paddies scattered along the banks of the river with trash and human waste near the walking path. It reminded me of Portland, a place where public bathrooms did not exist, and locked dumpsters became more and more common. I wandered through the adjacent neighborhood that ran parallel to NW Expressway where I could hear the deafening sound of train horns and the thunderous jolts of freight cars getting humped together in the distance. A free little food pantry stood at one of the street corners and I grabbed a loaf of rye bread while I watched the trains arrive, depart and change crews right by the highway, all headed northbound. But with daylight shining through the scattered clouds I did not want to expose myself to any workers or the bull so I just waited and the hours slowly drifted away into a dark oblivion. The once busy roadway steadily shifted to a faint purring of noise as cars seldom drove by giving me the opportunity to roam about.
But my sluggish state succumbed to sleep in the very bush I staked out the yard from. The rain whimpered in the night sky and the pitter patter of its drops against my tarp lulled me to sleep. I slept in that morning, too late perhaps and found myself just watching the yard operations and reminiscing on my last hop out which happened almost 4 months prior as a 40-miler in WNY, catching the same line a few times while I visited the trestle bridge in Letchworth State Park. The benevolent freedom associated with the wind swaying my hair, and my face erupting in a deep smile as tons of freight clanked against mere inches of steel made me look past the harsh prior days on the road. I smirked in anticipation of my future ride waiting for the perfect moment to catch a lift to nowhere in particular.
I decided to find a new spot though. Roaming around I bumped into a home bum under one of the grossest overpasses I ever set foot under. Human feces lay frozen and scattered between empty soup cans, cardboard and plastic among other festering debris and a plethora of needles showered the ground like a new sequel for a Saw movie. Yet this bum lingered here for two years as he told me. We chit chatted while I waited for my train to cc on the main line. But eventually I found myself scurrying to a locked dugout by a corner church. I finagled my way through a small gap in the doorway for a few hours of secure sleep.
Nightfall loomed above and for the first time in days I cast my eyes up at a few twinkling stars. Just as I decided to hit a local mart I heard a faint sound, a sound that came back to me almost instantly. Slowly inching forward as each bolt became visible in the moonlight an IM loaded with piggies, 48’s and 53’s screeched to a stop. I ran back to a bush near the road and waited for the right moment to cross and jump on a freight car. My heart thumped with blood pumping faster from the adrenaline. Where was the bull? Did someone notice me? It’s still kinda light out…all these thoughts raced through my mind. But fuck it, I made a run for it. My dark silhouette camouflaged in the night sky behind a blanket of massive freight headed southbound. I picked a 53’ to ride fearing I might get caught in a piggy. The first one I scrambled to had no porch, second one, no porch, third one, wasn’t a T-Well, fuck…fuck…fuck…I’m wasting time. Cars are passing in both directions now. I need to find something fast. So I gunned it for the next car, a piggy. I used every last bit of energy, every last bit of breath as my lungs gasped for air, wheezing like smoker’s cough as I squeezed myself into the wheel well of a semi truck.
I sat there soaked in a myriad of sweat, catching my breath, keeping my eyes peeled for the bull. But I guess he just didn’t give a shit, after all, it was 30 degrees outside, who’s gonna be hoppin’ trains in this shit, me I guess. Minutes passed, my stomach settled and body cooled down, I began to relax then the sound of air hissed near the couplers and I became wrenched in multiple emotions.
Slowly we rolled along picking up speed quite quickly. I sat there still as a scarecrow scrunched on my backpack as we left Eugene, OR headed southbound. Holy shit…that feeling of adventure came back suddenly and my droopy tired eyes became mesmerized through the blurry street lights of the city. Railroad crossing after railroad crossing dinged as everyone stopped to let the train pass and I felt like a king in my castle waiting to lay down on my throne once outside of the city.
I nestled into my sleeping bag on the floor underneath the semi and drifted to sleep while the wind whispered into my ears. We cruised. We cruised fast and when we stopped I awoke to a film of snowflakes cuddling up against my bag. We made it into the mountain range near Klamath Falls and she dumped inches of fresh powder, decorating the evergreen trees in a blanket of white beauty surrounding me. Wow. Just wow what a beautiful sight. The train did not sideout for long, maybe a few minutes, but once she picked back up speed, I fled back to my sleeping bag and threw my tarp over me to stay warm. The temperature dropped. It dropped well below freezing and with the wind shield I thought how crazy I was to leave a tropical paradise for this. But I loved every minute of it, even if my toes disowned me.
Cruising along I awoke early morning just past sunrise, upset that I overslept, and I missed seeing the peak of Mount Shasta. But honestly, I focused more on staying warm than the scenery, which meant staying bundled. I shifted back to the small space between the wheel wells as the cold made my fingers and toes squeal like little piggies while I rode towards Roseville on a piggy.
Dunsmuir veered right in the distance and the train meandered through the forest green mountainside along a turquoise flowing river. Mini waterfalls sprung along the sides of cliffs rushing water into the river and the train began to dart through a series of small, dark, tunnels as I covered my face from the carbon monoxide fumes. The snow ceased and as we declined in elevation it turned to freezing rain. I chuckled as I thought about riding on the porch of a 53’. The train swiftly approached Roseville as the brakes screeched around a sharp bend by a home bum infested golf course. Tents, tarps and filthy camps scattered near the fencing as the train rolled into town. I took this opportunity to jump off, seeking refuge under a bridge for that night, hoping the days ahead of me would not involve any conversations with Sergeant Flood.
The inclement weather followed me as it always does on the road. Getting wet is apart of travel, but the key is staying dry. Roseville did not change that and although I never encountered Sergeant Flood, I certainly dealt with my fair share of rain.
I felt too lazy to walk, too lazy to find a cozy spot in the woods to setup camp and honestly too damn sick to step another inch. I plopped my ass and laid it down under a bridge by the railroad tracks. Railcops, UP service trucks and police all drove past sporadically throughout the night. They saw me most definitely, but the fierce howling moans and torrential splattering sweltering throughout the night, worked to my advantage in that sense. They did not fuck with me. To them I looked like an ordinary home bum shootin’ up under a bridge.
I felt safe and more comfortable traveling despite exposing myself to the open world. With my knife in my pocket, clenched between my sweaty, aching palm and fingers I dozed in and out of sleep almost like a hallucinogenic trance. My body ached from a cold and my bones squirmed at the touch of the roaring winds. I shivered and curled up into the fetal position, nestled into my bag and my feverish state eventually subsided after much rest.
I woke up late. Much later than normal as the sky still sprinkled, laughing at my vulnerable state, as I packed up my gear. The soles of my boots squeaked with each damp, squishy step and I only sustained feeling in my arches and heels. I lingered around town for a bit and felt like a bum with nothing but time to kill. Somewhere between all the chaos a window of sun shined through illuminating my reflection in the ripples of each puddle I unsuccessfully avoided.
Walking south I tramped past the yard and Roseville Market towards a vacant industrial field, the usual catch out spot for train riders. Tags scrawled across a lone tree with graffiti lining the stone walls near a drainage culvert, a sign of other riders. I explored the area carefully with an incognito sway about my step. Sergeant Flood did not fuck around when it came to riders and I heard quite many stories about citations for trespassing in this adjacent field. So I maintained a low-profile and set up a lean-to near the back of the stone retaining wall. My fever lashed back at me with an unrelenting force so instead of fighting it I felt safe enough to rest during the daytime.
As my eyes fluttered I heard drops sprinkle from above, gently thumping against nylon, quickly progressing to an abomination. Layered in all my clothes I lay there dry and warm free from the demon above as Hell pounded its sins down upon me. The blocks of ice attached to my ankles no longer felt like anything, but a numb existence, detached and barren. I awoke hours later to nothing but a dark misty sky, the only light peering out from the security vehicles patrolling the yard beyond the mesh ffencing
I scrutinized the yard for hours looking for an opportunity to hop out, but nothing looked promising other than getting caught from this location. Dancing with the Devil I took a prowl three miles further south in pitch darkness down desolate back-country roads to find another spot to watch the yard operations. I took “Rob Nothing's” suggestion and hid by the overpass in the shadows of what seemed like perpetual gloom.
Encumbered by sickness I instantly fell asleep shielding myself from Mother Nature's spontaneous, unpredictable outbursts, resting peacefully under yet another bridge. That night she mellowed out to a calm, cloudless sky, breezeless and stunning through her twinkles. I awoke on separate occasions to silhouettes scampering down the trashed, adjacent road. Garbage cans, pallets, trash bags and a speedboat scattered across the ground like a wasteland portraying greed.
I eavesdropped on two normies talking about their materialistic lives and a mirage of problems. But in the distance I saw a lone man. He looked like a blurring shadow of darkness as he stealthily tiptoed through the east side of the yard, hopping the fence as he disappeared into a boxcar on an arriving train. Perplexed, I wondered what he was doing? He moseyed across two stopped trains and vanished like a cloud of smoke. A train rolling through on the main line looked hoppable as it crawled slowly along two bands of steel at a turtles pace. Maybe he caught on the fly. It would have been much easier to do so on the west...I never found out as I drifted off to sleep.
The following morning I awoke to radiant rays of sunshine seeping through my sleeping bag scorching my eyes. Finally it looked promising out, a great day to catch out if the opportunity presented itself. One train sat on the arrival tracks while another lingered in the classification area. I quickly packed up my gear and moved to a less obvious location, west of the tracks, hidden in tall brush by a lone shrub.
Beneath the hill lay the tracks and a tent propped up out in the open, completely blowing up my chance to catch out. Out hobbled a black man, reaching for his zipper to take a morning piss. He aimed straight towards the tracks as I shook my head, “what the fuck was he doin…”
In this moment I studied the train on the main line really quickly to figure out if it was headed southbound. All the tracks pointed geographical southbound, but I knew trains from here headed either east, north or south so with a 66.6% chance of going the direction I wanted to, why not, right? Then I studied the train more closely. Loaded lumber mixed with boxcars meant a lower priority train compared to an IM, but I remembered riding a similar train south from Eugene. So my deductive reasoning told me if that train headed southbound through Roseville with a similar load then maybe this train went south too.
I looked back over at the home bum and he waved at me after putting his unit away.
“Can't stay there dawg, workers gon report you if they see you, they ain't here tho. Where you goin’...”
“South dude...tryin’ to kick the cold.”
“Well hop on...think it's goin’ Fresno.”
With that confirmation I made up my mind and ran from under the bridge to the first open boxcar. Ssssssssiiisssssisss...the sound of the air released from the brakes. I flung my pack in first and hopped in as stealthily and quickly as possible. Just as I drug my leg in she started rolling along the steel picking up speed fast like a jaguar. I rushed, squabbling in the car to push the door further open to keep from getting locked inside. “Shit I never grabbed a loose railroad spike,” I thought…
I held the door tightly clenching the cold metal in a death grip between my fingers and sweaty palms. Fuck...I needed something to jam it, but what? I thought quickly and reached for my spoon jamming it in the groove under the door tract, but it shimmied loose still. I looked around the rusty boxcar floor, scanning it for anything. At first glance it appeared empty, but ahah, a few stray pieces of lumber. I sprinted over to two pieces grabbing them like batons and ran back to the door prying them in the loose space near the spoon. I gave it some extra oomff whilst kicking it with the bud end of my boot. The door wiggled back and forth, but she stayed jammed, completely open to the scenery as I rode that one-eyed bandit towards Bakersfield.
She bellowed from the inside, yelling, squeaking, screeching, and moaning at every turn along every wye and change of track. It sounded worse than chalk scrawling against a blackboard, but I just lay there on the cold metal floor, shaking back and forth, watching the scenery fly by around me. The freight car jiggled and gyrated ferociously to the point of nauseousness, and sure enough I threw up yet again. She wiggled, bounced and threw my body around that empty box like a rag doll. It looked like a boxing match in there or a scene from Fight Club. I could not tell.
My eyes just glued to the scenery of open green pastures with cattle grazing, and orchards popping up in each adjacent plot of land. Almonds, Pistachios and a great deal of other natural resources reflected the huge industry of farming along the railroad tracks following the I-5, a multi-billion dollar industry. Though sparse with residential development, the land boomed with ranches over the 200 mile stint to an unfathomable degree.
We blazed through Stockton and shortly after came Fresno, I only knew because of the GPS on my phone. With only the one door open, I never saw the yards, but the bright orange and yellow vests gave away the workers from miles away. I stood close to the corner walls of the boxcar to avoid getting pulled off the train. As she cruised along, the smooth steel guided her along the tracks like a ‘pas de deux.’ The night sky quickly approached as the sun crept away through the fluffy clouds and in the distance I saw the silhouettes of palm trees. I used the big green highway sign propped on the side of I-5 to determine my location, Bakersfield 24 miles.
“Ahhh,” I sat back and waited unsure of what to do next...Get off in Bakersfield or head to LA? She slowly screeched into the yard. I hopped off with my feet running, tripping over a large piece of ballast as I smashed into the ground rolling head first towards the fence. Damn that hurt, but now where would I sleep?
Bakersfield made me feel like a home bum after five full days of holding off on train hopping. I still cannot feel my toes in either of my feet, but hey, as I sit here in the sun, peering out at the yard, I feel relieved to head further into the warmth.
That last bone-chilling night in Bakersfield, with a film of frost on my bag, waking up to a text message on the roof of a church, made me smile. My breath froze in front of me like plumes of white smoke as I walked to the train tracks along the dark streets to finally meet my road dog, Rooster. With three points of attachment I crossed over the knuckle of two boxcars holding onto the brisk metal ladder. Hopping onto the ballast I turned around looking for Rooster and noticed an open boxcar so I climbed in hoping he might see me. Shortly after the air hissed like a vicious snake I hopped off, afraid of leaving him behind.
Rooster stood inches taller than me with a lanky frame and two backpacks next to him. His long black hair and scruffy beard hid his face along with a baseball cap. He gradually added new studs, pins and patches to it as he found them on the road. Aside from that, we looked pretty similar, not really fitting into the whole “Dirty Kids” appearance at all unlike other travelers we bumped into.
That day rekindled my spirits having a buddy to kick it with by the tracks while waiting for our next ride out of town. Much of train hopping is patience, using that time waiting to keep yourself occupied. With small talk it made it lighter on my mind to pass the time. My thoughts did not wander as much. I took a break from reading and writing for the first time since I hit the road in late November.
We plopped our gear and asses on the sidewalk treating the overpass like a stoop. We waited patiently kicking the time with words until the faint squealing of steel raised our brows. A large train slowly rolled into Bakersfield headed southbound. Our heads moved from boxcar to lumber to oil tanker to gondola, scanning the train for a rideable freight car. Inch by inch the locomotive slowed to a screeching halt as we sprinted towards the gondolas on the train.
I climbed up ladder after ladder, my fingers turned a rusty brown as old paint flaked off the car. Poking my head over the side my efforts remained futile as every car loaded to the brim with wood. Adrenaline pumped as we galloped along the ballast our hopes slowly dwindling with each loaded car we passed. I followed behind Rooster as he stealthily climbed into the bright yellow unit at the backend of the train. To my surprise he jiggled the handle and we both scurried in quickly placing our gear in the bathroom then laying out on the floor.
We never called in the train, but we knew it headed south or east. Bright sunshine lit up the cab as we lay flat on the floor ready to hide in the bathroom if an engineer inspected the unit. The locomotive continued rolling through Bakersfield steadily picking up speed as we rode Cadillac in the luxurious unit. The small area filled with comfy leather seating, a toilet, outlet to charge our electronics and most importantly computerized train controls that if touched would surely get us pulled off the train if not arrested.
The unit purred as loud exhaust bellowed from the engine. It pushed the cars faster and faster until we plowed through the yard whistling smoothly across the steel beams for the mountains. I looked down at the speedometer and just 13 miles out of Bakersfield the locomotive gradually came to a halt. I panicked. My heart raced fearing the worst. Maybe someone called us in from a crossing? Minutes turned to what felt like hours as our train waited patiently hoping to chug along the single track through the Tehachapi Mountain Pass. My anxiety faded and once I heard the air release a spark of joy illuminated a white smile across my face.
We plopped our asses in the chairs as she squealed around the steep curves, clanking through the greenest of mountains. Cows grazed yonder, sipping from the dry riverbed, a motionless puddle of water. Dry trails of tributaries faded out of view between the barren trees as we chugged along getting closer to the desert.
The door opened and the sound of diesel exhaust roared from the pusher. Rooster walked out onto the plank. The cool breeze tickled my nose as I followed behind him, grabbing onto the railing tightly with each step forward. My hands clasped the cold metal, ch...ch...ch...ch rung in my ear drums, rattling out every sound, but the sound of the locomotive hauling tons of freight. The sun began to vanish behind the dark silhouettes of mountain and our journey on the plank ended quickly as we scurried back in the cab for warmth.
Colton, California lay just past the Tehachapi Loop and with the night sky fully immersed in bright, twinkling stars, we pulled out a bottle of Whiskey. I did not drink too much, especially when traveling alone. Drugs and alcohol left my life years ago, but with new company on the open road I made an exception, taking a few schwills to new experiences.
I felt schwilly after passing the bottle back and forth with the last drop of whiskey burning the back of my throat. The train chugged along at 15 mph through the mountains until gaining speed over the pass. We now entered the desert and kept our eyes peeled for entering the yard to steer clear of the bull.
The train pummeled along the tracks putting us straight in the yard and kept rolling and rolling. “Fuck” we needed to get off as it started heading westbound. It slowed down to a few miles per hour and we grabbed our gear, darting out the back of the unit. Headlights shined in my eyes as the bull sat there in his vehicle playing on his phone. I made a run for it, sprinting towards the highway, breathing heavily as I scrambled over the flimsy, chain-linked fence. I looked back at Rooster. “Come on dude...GO...GO...the bull is right there…” He hobbled faster throwing his two bags over the fence as he climbed his way to freedom. Once over, we casually walked down the shoulder of the highway to find a spot to sleep. The bull never noticed us or he did not care, either way we managed to stay out of jail, and citation-free. A Wal-Mart towered above the other industry near the yard and we set up camp in the adjacent field, sleeping on a nice grassy patch under a hill by the open road.
