Rolling Blackouts
Well-known member
Munching down on trash tacos and shooting the shit with various Mexican workers from the Port, we learned a Dept Homeland Security background check was required just to walk into the main office. We also learned it was a mere two mile walk back to the departure yard. Reeling from the ridiculousness of the situation, we joyously tramped backed to the yard via the route less traveled, arriving just in time to explore an abandoned shack under the interstate freeway and still catch our evening reefer train to Roseville. We ended up spending half that night passed out comfortably under the reefer’s heaters on a siding somewhere outside Richmond. Awoke at dawn to a flashlight in my face, a muffled grunt, and the familiar sound of boots on ballast. A worker spotted me and Rags passed the fuck out, and thankfully chose to ignore us. Coughing up lung-butter tar and ditching our empty wine bottles, our crew reassembled and marched into the rising dawn along the highway. Recognizing the Eastern end of the Roseville yard, we began the horrendously dull walk towards the Roseville Market and adjacent hop out spot. Now, the Roseville hop-out spot used to be pretty chill, but thanks to the wonderful plethora of wingnut homebums and belligerent oogles who plague the shithole suburb, it’s the only thing Officer J Flood has to patrol.
And sure enough, the pig was on us before we’d even set our packs down. With biceps like tree trunks and hardened veins popping out of his neck, you can recognize his steroid habit from a mile off. At least we got to watch the sunrise over the yard as he confiscated our knives and ran our IDs. After a lengthy lecture/blatant threat about how he was going to literally beat the crap out of us and steal our gear, he returned our knives and told us to get the fuck out of his jurisdiction. He also pointed out that his jurisdiction happens to end just before the South chokepoint of the yard, right behind the wal-mart.
Donning our gear, we prepared for yet another long trek, with a group consensus hell-bent on pilfering whatever resources wal-mart had to offer. Following the residential back roads adjacent to the mainline tracks; we passed acres of abandoned garbage. Mattresses, dryers, mangled bike frames, car bumpers, empty half-gallons – all haphazardly dumped only 100 yards from the doors of wal-mart, their obvious origin. While stopping to admire the graffiti monikers of some fellow iron-tramps, a three car string of flatbed spine cars loaded with anti-aircraft weaponry rolled into the departure yard – never a good sign.
It required about 10 minutes of walking around Roseville to recognize that the entire populous was fucked, genuinely proper fucked in the head. However, the true extent of this could only be portrayed via wal-mart, where we encountered an endless montage of wingnut tweakers emerging from their meth-den mobile homes in the parking lot. Good prices for good people? Either way, we were rolling our shit back to the hop-out, a massive fort constructed beneath a bridge of reclaimed couches, tarps, and shopping carts with a centralized pallet fire pit. The local homebums invited us in for a lunch of stolen liquor - Good prices for good people. We ended up shooting the shit for hours, missing a train due to logistical incompetency, and watching some random bro jackass blow the tire on his truck while attempting to off-road in the nearby mudflats.
Following the slurred advice of an old home guard, we opted to bag a later afternoon tanker/reefer train to LA. Sure enough, come the hour a mile long train fitting the description rolled right up on the mainlines. With little hesitation, the four of us flew into the porch of a rolling reefer, thankful to finally ditch the two creepy wingnut kids attempting to ride with us. Unfortunately, our escape from Roseville lasted about 200 yards, as the train suddenly lurched into reverse without warning, thrusting us into the center of the yard at full force. By the time we realized that our train was breaking up, our car was being humped into the center of yard without attached power. Fuck! Stupid! Never jump a working train!
Holding our breath, and ready to sprint, our reefer string slowly and silently rolled into the yard, passing directly in front of the main yard office. We glanced over to see UP desk jockeys staring down at us through the office windows, both sides sharing equally bewildered looks. A brakeman who spotted us chuckled and with a hint of empathy said “Hang in There Guys.” Moments later, with a massive crash of mass and metal, our car collided with another string. The ensuing silence was broken only by the sound of worker trucks passing nearby. Climbing to the rooftop of our reefer with intoxicated agility, Hayduke and I vainly attempted to survey the easiest escape route. With 10 minutes of daylight remaining, the severity of our situation became all too apparent. We were in the dead fucking middle of the yard with “ghost cars” creeping silently all around us as junk trains dismantled on parallel tracks. Somehow, as if we weren’t completely fucked enough, a military helicopter suddenly loomed into view. Roaring through the sky armed with a massive spotlight, it began circling the north end of yard. With 5 minutes of daylight remaining, “Fuck It – Go!” suddenly became the best possible modus operandi.
Now, when you’re sprinting over the couplings of freight trains as the air brakes hiss, dodging ghost cars, mobbing past a dozen rail workers, and away from a military helicopter spotlighting you, the phrase “genuinely proper fucked” comes into mind. Yet, somehow, by grace of the hobo spirits watching over us, we managed to escape the yard with all limbs intact, just as the sun disappeared. Desperately diving for cover into the surrounding fields, we sought shelter in a small ravine. Undoubtedly, the bull was on his merry way. Chugging Milwaukee’s Beast and canned ravioli, we once again prepared for our likely arrest as the ominous ghetto bird chopper circled above the yard. However, in my time on the road, I’ve learned that just when your situation couldn’t possibly be more fucked, when you’re surrounded by the enemy on all sides, and any notion of hope seems like a false idol, that is your greatest moment of opportunity. When you reach the bottom, you have no where else to go but up. And in that moment of ultimate despair, a great blinding light suddenly was shown down upon us. Not the helicopter, not the bull, and definitely not Jesus, but a southbound, fully loaded intermodal double-stack rolling nonchalantly into the outside mainline of the yard. Praise the Hobo Spirits!
As a committed chain smoker with particularly bad lungs, running is certainly not my forte. But for a split second there, I was a fucking Olympic athlete sprinting down the ballast on a madman quest to find a ridable deep well. Despite having to repeatedly dive into drainage ditches to avoid the patrolling bull - Hell or high water – we were getting the flying fuck out of Roseville. A mile down the line there was still nothing, fucking nothing. With air brakes hissing, the four of us opted to split and snag the opposite ends of a 53’ porch. Whether or not this train would take us to LA was long since irrelevant. Anywhere but here. With the helicopter still buzzing overhead, the slack action caught, our iron chariot awoke with the groan of a wounded beast. The wheels turned. We were gone.
Victory cheers and cheap beers! Soon we were slamming our celebratory $3 wine down the West Coast mainline, only to slam to a grinding halt in a siding less than 10 miles away. “What the fuck!? Why would a high priority IM side here after changing crew? Did the bull see us? Where’s that fucking chopper?” Paranoia would have been the death of me if I hadn’t heard that oh-so-familiar blast of a freight horn off in the distance. The rails sang. Seizing this brief moment of clarity, somebody caught the freight trace Id number off our ride. The cacophony of the oncoming freight train exploded past us like a 10,000 ton bullet…….. And suddenly it all made sense, as tanks, apaches, hummers, APCs – all strapped to flatbed cars, hauled past us with immense fury. For all we knew, Martial Law could have been coming to Roseville that day. The obnoxious feminine voice of the Union Pacific automated trace hotline had been drowned beneath the roar of rolling thunder, but not before it could say Los Angeles.
And sure enough, the pig was on us before we’d even set our packs down. With biceps like tree trunks and hardened veins popping out of his neck, you can recognize his steroid habit from a mile off. At least we got to watch the sunrise over the yard as he confiscated our knives and ran our IDs. After a lengthy lecture/blatant threat about how he was going to literally beat the crap out of us and steal our gear, he returned our knives and told us to get the fuck out of his jurisdiction. He also pointed out that his jurisdiction happens to end just before the South chokepoint of the yard, right behind the wal-mart.
Donning our gear, we prepared for yet another long trek, with a group consensus hell-bent on pilfering whatever resources wal-mart had to offer. Following the residential back roads adjacent to the mainline tracks; we passed acres of abandoned garbage. Mattresses, dryers, mangled bike frames, car bumpers, empty half-gallons – all haphazardly dumped only 100 yards from the doors of wal-mart, their obvious origin. While stopping to admire the graffiti monikers of some fellow iron-tramps, a three car string of flatbed spine cars loaded with anti-aircraft weaponry rolled into the departure yard – never a good sign.
It required about 10 minutes of walking around Roseville to recognize that the entire populous was fucked, genuinely proper fucked in the head. However, the true extent of this could only be portrayed via wal-mart, where we encountered an endless montage of wingnut tweakers emerging from their meth-den mobile homes in the parking lot. Good prices for good people? Either way, we were rolling our shit back to the hop-out, a massive fort constructed beneath a bridge of reclaimed couches, tarps, and shopping carts with a centralized pallet fire pit. The local homebums invited us in for a lunch of stolen liquor - Good prices for good people. We ended up shooting the shit for hours, missing a train due to logistical incompetency, and watching some random bro jackass blow the tire on his truck while attempting to off-road in the nearby mudflats.
Following the slurred advice of an old home guard, we opted to bag a later afternoon tanker/reefer train to LA. Sure enough, come the hour a mile long train fitting the description rolled right up on the mainlines. With little hesitation, the four of us flew into the porch of a rolling reefer, thankful to finally ditch the two creepy wingnut kids attempting to ride with us. Unfortunately, our escape from Roseville lasted about 200 yards, as the train suddenly lurched into reverse without warning, thrusting us into the center of the yard at full force. By the time we realized that our train was breaking up, our car was being humped into the center of yard without attached power. Fuck! Stupid! Never jump a working train!
Holding our breath, and ready to sprint, our reefer string slowly and silently rolled into the yard, passing directly in front of the main yard office. We glanced over to see UP desk jockeys staring down at us through the office windows, both sides sharing equally bewildered looks. A brakeman who spotted us chuckled and with a hint of empathy said “Hang in There Guys.” Moments later, with a massive crash of mass and metal, our car collided with another string. The ensuing silence was broken only by the sound of worker trucks passing nearby. Climbing to the rooftop of our reefer with intoxicated agility, Hayduke and I vainly attempted to survey the easiest escape route. With 10 minutes of daylight remaining, the severity of our situation became all too apparent. We were in the dead fucking middle of the yard with “ghost cars” creeping silently all around us as junk trains dismantled on parallel tracks. Somehow, as if we weren’t completely fucked enough, a military helicopter suddenly loomed into view. Roaring through the sky armed with a massive spotlight, it began circling the north end of yard. With 5 minutes of daylight remaining, “Fuck It – Go!” suddenly became the best possible modus operandi.
Now, when you’re sprinting over the couplings of freight trains as the air brakes hiss, dodging ghost cars, mobbing past a dozen rail workers, and away from a military helicopter spotlighting you, the phrase “genuinely proper fucked” comes into mind. Yet, somehow, by grace of the hobo spirits watching over us, we managed to escape the yard with all limbs intact, just as the sun disappeared. Desperately diving for cover into the surrounding fields, we sought shelter in a small ravine. Undoubtedly, the bull was on his merry way. Chugging Milwaukee’s Beast and canned ravioli, we once again prepared for our likely arrest as the ominous ghetto bird chopper circled above the yard. However, in my time on the road, I’ve learned that just when your situation couldn’t possibly be more fucked, when you’re surrounded by the enemy on all sides, and any notion of hope seems like a false idol, that is your greatest moment of opportunity. When you reach the bottom, you have no where else to go but up. And in that moment of ultimate despair, a great blinding light suddenly was shown down upon us. Not the helicopter, not the bull, and definitely not Jesus, but a southbound, fully loaded intermodal double-stack rolling nonchalantly into the outside mainline of the yard. Praise the Hobo Spirits!
As a committed chain smoker with particularly bad lungs, running is certainly not my forte. But for a split second there, I was a fucking Olympic athlete sprinting down the ballast on a madman quest to find a ridable deep well. Despite having to repeatedly dive into drainage ditches to avoid the patrolling bull - Hell or high water – we were getting the flying fuck out of Roseville. A mile down the line there was still nothing, fucking nothing. With air brakes hissing, the four of us opted to split and snag the opposite ends of a 53’ porch. Whether or not this train would take us to LA was long since irrelevant. Anywhere but here. With the helicopter still buzzing overhead, the slack action caught, our iron chariot awoke with the groan of a wounded beast. The wheels turned. We were gone.
Victory cheers and cheap beers! Soon we were slamming our celebratory $3 wine down the West Coast mainline, only to slam to a grinding halt in a siding less than 10 miles away. “What the fuck!? Why would a high priority IM side here after changing crew? Did the bull see us? Where’s that fucking chopper?” Paranoia would have been the death of me if I hadn’t heard that oh-so-familiar blast of a freight horn off in the distance. The rails sang. Seizing this brief moment of clarity, somebody caught the freight trace Id number off our ride. The cacophony of the oncoming freight train exploded past us like a 10,000 ton bullet…….. And suddenly it all made sense, as tanks, apaches, hummers, APCs – all strapped to flatbed cars, hauled past us with immense fury. For all we knew, Martial Law could have been coming to Roseville that day. The obnoxious feminine voice of the Union Pacific automated trace hotline had been drowned beneath the roar of rolling thunder, but not before it could say Los Angeles.
