Here lies the tale of my return trip from PDX to Oakland. As always, not enough pictures. ALso, feedback always appreciated. ^_^ enjoy!
With baited breath, I watched a diminutive QPDRV pass by with naught a single rideable car. Closed boxes, lumber racks so full someone had to use trucking-style ratchet straps to hold down the load, some tanks full of unknown and likely unspeakable combinations of atoms. Irritated, I climb back into my hiding spot and debate what to do next, besides messaging my Portland friends and letting them know that it looks like I’ll be in town another day.
This day had started off terrible and was not getting any better. Deciding to take a wander around the hood to distract myself from thinking too much, one foot in front of the other over the familiar ground of East Portland. I meandered my way vaguely toward a favorite outdoor goods store, hoping that I’d be able to find the piece of my boot that fell off in the Oakland Yard at the start of this trip. I’d failed to catch a train that day as well, a fact which brings no amusement just then.
(A favorite spot in Portland stays dark all the time and has a giant seal of Cthulu on the cieiing.)
Not only did the store have the part I needed free of charge, but by some miracle I spied a couple of pairs of gently-used Carhartt bibs tucked in a corner in the literal bargain basement. Lo and behold, a black pair close enough to my size that I’m perfectly happy with them, $20. Done and fucking done.
I change into them in the store, and happily wear them out the door, looking for a thrift store or a skinny homebum who I can give my ill-fitting, uncomfortable, free-pile pants to. Next stop, food. Barely anything in my belly all day and the place with $2 vegan tacos is close enough by. Savoring every bite, I hide from the quintessential Portland drizzle for as long I dare in the small restaurant.
Only one of my friends had returned my message, solely to tell me that she was busy and sadly, meeting up wasn’t in the cards. Offering my couch in Oakland, she says she’ll try to make it down, since it turns out she doesn’t have a house either. Snuggles are even mentioned, which would prove a wonderful, elusive treat for this three legged dog on the roam.
With the skies getting darker and nothing the fuck else to do, I head back to the catch out spot. At least it offers shelter from the rain and a faint glimmer of getting back home. A few cheap snacks are procured, and I antsily wander around under the highway overpasses and watch the city lights slowly brighten the clouds. Fuck it, I think, I wonder how much out of my budget the Amtrak is. After a not too excruciating wait on hold, I beg and plead the very kind woman on the other side to do anything she can to get me the cheapest ticket home possible. A few dollars are knocked off here and there, and just as she is telling me a still-too-expensive number, what should catch my eye!
4 UP units are slowly, so slowly, taking the new leg of the Portland Wye southbound! As quickly as I can, while running toward the train, I tell the Amtrak agent thank you but no can do, and duck through one of the numerous holes in the fence. The train keeps going, and keeps going slowly. Useless car after useless car pass. Suicide grainers, lumber racks, more tanks. Finally I spot what looks like a familiar pattern comin round the bend… An open box! No, 4 open boxes! Jogging alongside, up goes my cardboard, my pack, and then, easily with the help of adrenaline and excitement, myself. Success at last! I’m not even that irritated that the box I chose only has one open door. I know that we’ll stop soon, and I can find a better ride then.
I don’t have to wait long, as the train comes to a stop in a spot on the south side of town, as it always seems to. Taking the opportunity to find a better ride, I look as far up and down the train as I dare, not wanting to be left behind or spotted by prying eyes. Alas, all 5 open boxes I find all have just one door open. I find one with the door *all* the way open, make sure the latch to hold it there is engaged, and hop in. Soon enough we are highballing southbound, and with nothing to distract me, I fall asleep sometime before Eugene.
Pitch blackness and silence. I assume this is what wakes me, who knows where. That or the need to pee. I root around for my flashlight, and am greeted at the door by a wall of concrete maybe 3 feet away. What the fuck? Shining my light up and down the train lends no clues, except that I’m parked on a curve, and it sounds like rain is falling. Shit. I got set out alongside some papermill or something in some godforsaken place. Well, time to pull on my boots and jacket and try to figure out where the fuck I am. Stupid closedass door. I give it a kick for good measure. Out of the car, wary of the creek that is running along the ballast. At the end of the car, I discover the same concrete is on the other side of the train, and almost start laughing. I look up, and yep. I’m just stopped in a tunnel. Calm the fuck down, lizard-brain.
Pitch black in the tunnel, still, and I definitely feel awake. It’s probably day. I read for awhile, snack some, wonder why the fuck we are stopped on the mains for this long, wonder what the chances of being stopped in a tunnel are. Finally I hear the train air up, we exit the tunnel into a snowstorm, and yes, daylight as fuck. Hours pass as I watch the winter wonderland glide by with a grin on my face, standing in the middle of the car to soak it all in. A guy in a UP truck passes by, and unable to do anything else, I offer a friendly wave, hoping he wouldn’t call me in. The snow lets up as the familiar environs of K falls come into view, and I tuck myself and my pack as far into the corner of the box as I am able. Not 10 minutes after stopping in the yard, we are off again. I thank the kindness of that UP worker, and the efficiency of the K falls yard.
Soon after, too dark too see much, I’m snuggled into my down sleeping bag, into a fitful sleep, punctuated by rude awakenings as the lowly junk train stops and starts, sides for hours, and makes strange ghostly noises.
I was hoping to awake before Binney Junction, so I could see if the train was going directly to Roseville, or, more preferable, take the long way ‘round through Sacramento. I awake in low foothills, watch small towns pass in the darkness, the train seemingly cutting these tiny towns in half like a machine gun through paper. I’d forgotten how tall that section of California is, how long it takes after one gets off the mountains until you drop into the central valley. Finally, slowly, we continue forward through Binney, and I resign myself to the fate of having to get out of Roseville quickly.
I nap until too late, and have to bail off the train, half asleep and half packed, unceremoniously face planting under the rainbow bridge. A few hundred feet later I see the train stop. Hah. I pack my shit reasonably and head to the Amtrak station, the easiest way I know of getting out of town. Waiting around for who knows how long to catch a 3 hour ride to Oakland just seems silly to me. A clock reads 4:15 AM. The streets are dead, thankfully, save for an Amtrak bus idling in the lot of the station. No way, I think. I run up to the bus.
“Excuse me, is this the bus to Sacramento?”
The driver looks at me, surprised. But not that surprised. “Yep.”
“I don’t have a ticket, is there a way I could buy one from you?”
“Well, I don’t have tickets, but I’ll get you to the train station. Come on.”
“Oh wow, okay, thank you!”
On the bus with my pack, surrounded by guys in suits and ties. “Comfy and in style!” I say to myself, grinning. A few of the passengers eye me curiously, as if they are trying to figure out of they are still dreaming. They probably should be. I smile and sit near the back of the bus, knowing no one could accuse me of smelling fresh.
Not 30 minutes after my feet and face hit the ballast in Roseville, I’m gone. Fuck yes. I celebrate by snoozing the way to Sacramento, buying a people train ticket to Richmond and falling back asleep almost before the train leaves the station. It’s good to be back home. Weird to have a home. Good to be home.
With baited breath, I watched a diminutive QPDRV pass by with naught a single rideable car. Closed boxes, lumber racks so full someone had to use trucking-style ratchet straps to hold down the load, some tanks full of unknown and likely unspeakable combinations of atoms. Irritated, I climb back into my hiding spot and debate what to do next, besides messaging my Portland friends and letting them know that it looks like I’ll be in town another day.
This day had started off terrible and was not getting any better. Deciding to take a wander around the hood to distract myself from thinking too much, one foot in front of the other over the familiar ground of East Portland. I meandered my way vaguely toward a favorite outdoor goods store, hoping that I’d be able to find the piece of my boot that fell off in the Oakland Yard at the start of this trip. I’d failed to catch a train that day as well, a fact which brings no amusement just then.
(A favorite spot in Portland stays dark all the time and has a giant seal of Cthulu on the cieiing.)
Not only did the store have the part I needed free of charge, but by some miracle I spied a couple of pairs of gently-used Carhartt bibs tucked in a corner in the literal bargain basement. Lo and behold, a black pair close enough to my size that I’m perfectly happy with them, $20. Done and fucking done.
I change into them in the store, and happily wear them out the door, looking for a thrift store or a skinny homebum who I can give my ill-fitting, uncomfortable, free-pile pants to. Next stop, food. Barely anything in my belly all day and the place with $2 vegan tacos is close enough by. Savoring every bite, I hide from the quintessential Portland drizzle for as long I dare in the small restaurant.
Only one of my friends had returned my message, solely to tell me that she was busy and sadly, meeting up wasn’t in the cards. Offering my couch in Oakland, she says she’ll try to make it down, since it turns out she doesn’t have a house either. Snuggles are even mentioned, which would prove a wonderful, elusive treat for this three legged dog on the roam.
With the skies getting darker and nothing the fuck else to do, I head back to the catch out spot. At least it offers shelter from the rain and a faint glimmer of getting back home. A few cheap snacks are procured, and I antsily wander around under the highway overpasses and watch the city lights slowly brighten the clouds. Fuck it, I think, I wonder how much out of my budget the Amtrak is. After a not too excruciating wait on hold, I beg and plead the very kind woman on the other side to do anything she can to get me the cheapest ticket home possible. A few dollars are knocked off here and there, and just as she is telling me a still-too-expensive number, what should catch my eye!
4 UP units are slowly, so slowly, taking the new leg of the Portland Wye southbound! As quickly as I can, while running toward the train, I tell the Amtrak agent thank you but no can do, and duck through one of the numerous holes in the fence. The train keeps going, and keeps going slowly. Useless car after useless car pass. Suicide grainers, lumber racks, more tanks. Finally I spot what looks like a familiar pattern comin round the bend… An open box! No, 4 open boxes! Jogging alongside, up goes my cardboard, my pack, and then, easily with the help of adrenaline and excitement, myself. Success at last! I’m not even that irritated that the box I chose only has one open door. I know that we’ll stop soon, and I can find a better ride then.
I don’t have to wait long, as the train comes to a stop in a spot on the south side of town, as it always seems to. Taking the opportunity to find a better ride, I look as far up and down the train as I dare, not wanting to be left behind or spotted by prying eyes. Alas, all 5 open boxes I find all have just one door open. I find one with the door *all* the way open, make sure the latch to hold it there is engaged, and hop in. Soon enough we are highballing southbound, and with nothing to distract me, I fall asleep sometime before Eugene.
Pitch blackness and silence. I assume this is what wakes me, who knows where. That or the need to pee. I root around for my flashlight, and am greeted at the door by a wall of concrete maybe 3 feet away. What the fuck? Shining my light up and down the train lends no clues, except that I’m parked on a curve, and it sounds like rain is falling. Shit. I got set out alongside some papermill or something in some godforsaken place. Well, time to pull on my boots and jacket and try to figure out where the fuck I am. Stupid closedass door. I give it a kick for good measure. Out of the car, wary of the creek that is running along the ballast. At the end of the car, I discover the same concrete is on the other side of the train, and almost start laughing. I look up, and yep. I’m just stopped in a tunnel. Calm the fuck down, lizard-brain.
Pitch black in the tunnel, still, and I definitely feel awake. It’s probably day. I read for awhile, snack some, wonder why the fuck we are stopped on the mains for this long, wonder what the chances of being stopped in a tunnel are. Finally I hear the train air up, we exit the tunnel into a snowstorm, and yes, daylight as fuck. Hours pass as I watch the winter wonderland glide by with a grin on my face, standing in the middle of the car to soak it all in. A guy in a UP truck passes by, and unable to do anything else, I offer a friendly wave, hoping he wouldn’t call me in. The snow lets up as the familiar environs of K falls come into view, and I tuck myself and my pack as far into the corner of the box as I am able. Not 10 minutes after stopping in the yard, we are off again. I thank the kindness of that UP worker, and the efficiency of the K falls yard.
Soon after, too dark too see much, I’m snuggled into my down sleeping bag, into a fitful sleep, punctuated by rude awakenings as the lowly junk train stops and starts, sides for hours, and makes strange ghostly noises.
I was hoping to awake before Binney Junction, so I could see if the train was going directly to Roseville, or, more preferable, take the long way ‘round through Sacramento. I awake in low foothills, watch small towns pass in the darkness, the train seemingly cutting these tiny towns in half like a machine gun through paper. I’d forgotten how tall that section of California is, how long it takes after one gets off the mountains until you drop into the central valley. Finally, slowly, we continue forward through Binney, and I resign myself to the fate of having to get out of Roseville quickly.
I nap until too late, and have to bail off the train, half asleep and half packed, unceremoniously face planting under the rainbow bridge. A few hundred feet later I see the train stop. Hah. I pack my shit reasonably and head to the Amtrak station, the easiest way I know of getting out of town. Waiting around for who knows how long to catch a 3 hour ride to Oakland just seems silly to me. A clock reads 4:15 AM. The streets are dead, thankfully, save for an Amtrak bus idling in the lot of the station. No way, I think. I run up to the bus.
“Excuse me, is this the bus to Sacramento?”
The driver looks at me, surprised. But not that surprised. “Yep.”
“I don’t have a ticket, is there a way I could buy one from you?”
“Well, I don’t have tickets, but I’ll get you to the train station. Come on.”
“Oh wow, okay, thank you!”
On the bus with my pack, surrounded by guys in suits and ties. “Comfy and in style!” I say to myself, grinning. A few of the passengers eye me curiously, as if they are trying to figure out of they are still dreaming. They probably should be. I smile and sit near the back of the bus, knowing no one could accuse me of smelling fresh.
Not 30 minutes after my feet and face hit the ballast in Roseville, I’m gone. Fuck yes. I celebrate by snoozing the way to Sacramento, buying a people train ticket to Richmond and falling back asleep almost before the train leaves the station. It’s good to be back home. Weird to have a home. Good to be home.
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