Rolling Blackouts
Well-known member
Fuck my life – if there’s anything I can’t stand, it’s Schwilly Drainbow Hippies. I swear, there’s an underground army of these wingnut retards floating around the country, completely fucked on meth, periodically emerging to suck the life out of communities. You can often find the Schwilly Drainbow in its native habitat at the National Rainbow Gathering, in which it among with the rest of its inbred brethren converge in the wilderness to spread violence, ignorance and disease.
After about two hours of listening to this moron spout off about the gathering, how much he loves shooting speedballs, and how he’s got warrants for blah blah blah blah…Our intermodal train finally arrived, albeit, a full mile due East from us. I’m fairly confident that despite our lack of coordination, we could have gracefully ditched the loser were it not for the wretched combination of heat exhaustion and intoxication. We reached the train just in time to bag the rear unit, unfortunately, so did Sunny despite repeated threats. In a split second decision, Hayduke and I wisely opted to catch another 53’ porch a few cars ahead. The idea of freezing to death all night would be a welcome relief compared to listening to Sunny ramble on about how he met Jerry on acid. Accordingly, I make it a protocol to never ride with a stranger. You never know.
Soon enough we were flying through the desert once again, surrounded by a desolate valley of wind turbines feeding the addictions of civilization. Southern California is a wonderful place to leave. The vast expanse of the Saltine Sea engulfed the setting sun as horizons merged. The silhouettes of cacti danced defiantly across the sands before drowning in the night. There is no solitude quite like the desert. The winds relentlessly ripped into us, the cold dry desert air an unfamiliar foe. At a brief siding, Hayduke and I decided to sprint back and rejoin the crew inside the safety of the rear unit, less we risk being detained at the Niland, CA border checkpoint an hour down the line. Moments later with pulses racing, we scrambled into the cabin of the unit to find our friends passing wine casually, smoking cigarettes, and disputing interpretations of the Union Pacific radio babble. Sunny, for probably the first time in his life, had shut the fuck up, and was reclining in the leather captain’s chair.
Having never ridden a unit before, this was quite the adventure, all the beauty and raw energy of riding freight within the luxurious confines of a tremendous diesel monster. With the wine bottle firmly clutched in one hand, I explored every minimal detail of the unit. Levers, buttons and gadgets of all sorts adorned the expansive dashboard. A plaque on the wall warned employees of the threat of stowaways. The silence of everything, save our typical drunken ramblings, was astounding.
Flying down the tracks at remarkable pace, we were living the high-life on the low-line, passing drink and smoke and applauding ourselves on a job well done. I imagine all would have continued as such joyously, had the resonating blast of our unit’s five-chimer horn not suddenly torn through the night. At 65mph, the engine was a roaring beacon declaring trespass. I turned in time to see good ole Sunny, looking bewildered, remove his feet from their perch on the dashboard. In his ignorant stupor, he’d kicked a switch. We were fucked, genuinely proper fucked. With the INS station only a few dozen miles away, we hustled to right our wrong, to unflip what was fucked. The train slowed….slower. Stopped.
Life presents you many opportunities, and this was ours to run. With the horn still chiming away, echoing across the desert wasteland, Hayduke and I leapt from the unit, leaving the others. Our boots crushed ballast, up the ladder and back onto our cramped, windswept porch. Air brakes hissed, and we were off without incident. Five minutes later, the horn was silenced. For the engineer to have ignored that awful siren was impossible. Without notice, the train slowed to a halt once more. The all encompassing desert darkness was shattered by spotlights. 100 yards up the line, Hayduke and I watched helplessly as INS agents forced their way into the cabin. Lights flickered in the distance. Car doors slammed. The air brakes hissed once more….and they were gone.
Still high-balling down the low-line with minimal geographic comprehension of what lay ahead, despair for our situation abounded, but sleep overwhelmed. The dreams I’ve endured while riding freight have always been so lucid, so emotionally intense that returning to a consciousness of cold, unforgiving steel is often passive by comparison. Crawling back to reality, my blurred vision recollected itself we passed beneath a plateau crowned by an illuminated deathly white church. For all I knew, it was the gates of heaven, or worse still, Mexico. Regardless, I figured neither would accept my food stamps. A highway dotted with billboards appeared in the distance. To my knowledge they don’t have interstate highways in heaven, so the former was thrown out.
The ambiguity of our situation was resolved for us as our train grinded to a halt amid a razorwire gauntlet of industry. “Alright Boys – Let’s Go.” The unfamiliar authoritative voice beckoned us. I’ve found there are two distinct schools of thought for dealing with police encounters, run or don’t. There is no grey area. Still in our sleeping bags, the idea of escape was a pipe dream. Casually hopping off our porch, Hayduke and I collected ourselves, resigned our fates to the system, and mentally prepared for the worst. The badge read Union Pacific – Yuma, Arizona.
Standing in silence before the law, our train rolled off, leaving us in what appeared to be a godforsaken desert spittoon of a town. After running our names and all but apologizing for having to write us trespassing tickets, he pointed us in the direction of the closest truck stop. “Guess your buddies got pulled off back in Niland.” The pig already knew, and had been patiently waiting for us. “Now don’t let me catch you boys on U.P. property in the next 24 hours.” Whether he meant that statement as a threat or a challenge, I’ll never know.
To be Continued....
After about two hours of listening to this moron spout off about the gathering, how much he loves shooting speedballs, and how he’s got warrants for blah blah blah blah…Our intermodal train finally arrived, albeit, a full mile due East from us. I’m fairly confident that despite our lack of coordination, we could have gracefully ditched the loser were it not for the wretched combination of heat exhaustion and intoxication. We reached the train just in time to bag the rear unit, unfortunately, so did Sunny despite repeated threats. In a split second decision, Hayduke and I wisely opted to catch another 53’ porch a few cars ahead. The idea of freezing to death all night would be a welcome relief compared to listening to Sunny ramble on about how he met Jerry on acid. Accordingly, I make it a protocol to never ride with a stranger. You never know.
Soon enough we were flying through the desert once again, surrounded by a desolate valley of wind turbines feeding the addictions of civilization. Southern California is a wonderful place to leave. The vast expanse of the Saltine Sea engulfed the setting sun as horizons merged. The silhouettes of cacti danced defiantly across the sands before drowning in the night. There is no solitude quite like the desert. The winds relentlessly ripped into us, the cold dry desert air an unfamiliar foe. At a brief siding, Hayduke and I decided to sprint back and rejoin the crew inside the safety of the rear unit, less we risk being detained at the Niland, CA border checkpoint an hour down the line. Moments later with pulses racing, we scrambled into the cabin of the unit to find our friends passing wine casually, smoking cigarettes, and disputing interpretations of the Union Pacific radio babble. Sunny, for probably the first time in his life, had shut the fuck up, and was reclining in the leather captain’s chair.
Having never ridden a unit before, this was quite the adventure, all the beauty and raw energy of riding freight within the luxurious confines of a tremendous diesel monster. With the wine bottle firmly clutched in one hand, I explored every minimal detail of the unit. Levers, buttons and gadgets of all sorts adorned the expansive dashboard. A plaque on the wall warned employees of the threat of stowaways. The silence of everything, save our typical drunken ramblings, was astounding.
Flying down the tracks at remarkable pace, we were living the high-life on the low-line, passing drink and smoke and applauding ourselves on a job well done. I imagine all would have continued as such joyously, had the resonating blast of our unit’s five-chimer horn not suddenly torn through the night. At 65mph, the engine was a roaring beacon declaring trespass. I turned in time to see good ole Sunny, looking bewildered, remove his feet from their perch on the dashboard. In his ignorant stupor, he’d kicked a switch. We were fucked, genuinely proper fucked. With the INS station only a few dozen miles away, we hustled to right our wrong, to unflip what was fucked. The train slowed….slower. Stopped.
Life presents you many opportunities, and this was ours to run. With the horn still chiming away, echoing across the desert wasteland, Hayduke and I leapt from the unit, leaving the others. Our boots crushed ballast, up the ladder and back onto our cramped, windswept porch. Air brakes hissed, and we were off without incident. Five minutes later, the horn was silenced. For the engineer to have ignored that awful siren was impossible. Without notice, the train slowed to a halt once more. The all encompassing desert darkness was shattered by spotlights. 100 yards up the line, Hayduke and I watched helplessly as INS agents forced their way into the cabin. Lights flickered in the distance. Car doors slammed. The air brakes hissed once more….and they were gone.
Still high-balling down the low-line with minimal geographic comprehension of what lay ahead, despair for our situation abounded, but sleep overwhelmed. The dreams I’ve endured while riding freight have always been so lucid, so emotionally intense that returning to a consciousness of cold, unforgiving steel is often passive by comparison. Crawling back to reality, my blurred vision recollected itself we passed beneath a plateau crowned by an illuminated deathly white church. For all I knew, it was the gates of heaven, or worse still, Mexico. Regardless, I figured neither would accept my food stamps. A highway dotted with billboards appeared in the distance. To my knowledge they don’t have interstate highways in heaven, so the former was thrown out.
The ambiguity of our situation was resolved for us as our train grinded to a halt amid a razorwire gauntlet of industry. “Alright Boys – Let’s Go.” The unfamiliar authoritative voice beckoned us. I’ve found there are two distinct schools of thought for dealing with police encounters, run or don’t. There is no grey area. Still in our sleeping bags, the idea of escape was a pipe dream. Casually hopping off our porch, Hayduke and I collected ourselves, resigned our fates to the system, and mentally prepared for the worst. The badge read Union Pacific – Yuma, Arizona.
Standing in silence before the law, our train rolled off, leaving us in what appeared to be a godforsaken desert spittoon of a town. After running our names and all but apologizing for having to write us trespassing tickets, he pointed us in the direction of the closest truck stop. “Guess your buddies got pulled off back in Niland.” The pig already knew, and had been patiently waiting for us. “Now don’t let me catch you boys on U.P. property in the next 24 hours.” Whether he meant that statement as a threat or a challenge, I’ll never know.
To be Continued....
