by Aaron Dactyl
The train made good time to Rawlins, crossing the Red Desert of the Great Divide Basin, and then crossed the Continental Divide and rolled on to Green River, a mighty busy junction where all trains to and from Portland via Pocatello, as well as trains to and from Roseville via Ogden, stop to change crews. I climbed out of the unit once when the train stopped, and hid in the shadows the next line over. And just in time as a worker arrived to check the inspection cards in both DPUs. The train departed soon after. I would have liked to see Green River in the day, but I could only make out the silhouette of Citadel Rock structured against the starry sky and a waning crescent moon. The train climbed in elevation above the Green River itself and headed west to Granger, where the tracks once again split: northwest to Pocatello and southwest to Utah.
6 A.M. At first light I am awake at Altamont, a remote siding in southwest Wyoming near the Utah border. The sun is rising as we pick up speed, and the hills are reflecting back its light in sandy red hue. As soon as we cross into Utah, around mile 928, the rocks appear redder with the sun rising higher behind us.
I woke at Altamont siding in southwest Wyoming, just past Aspen Tunnel 2, twenty miles from the Utah border. I did not immediately know where I was but determined my location by Evanston, once a boomtown for the railroad and the namesake of the subdivision.
Few trains remain in the Evanston yard, a long, multitrack expanse decorated with ancient passenger trains, cabooses and old engines, and bordered by old mechanical shops and the telling half-circle facade of an old, red brick roundhouse that dates back to 1871 and the initial construction of the line.
Crossing into Utah at 6,799-ft. elevation atop the Wasatch Mountains, the sun risen high, deepening the red hue of the rocks and projecting the marching shadow of the train playfully across the deeply creviced valley where cattle graze in what looks to be the bed of a once mighty river, the double-mainline divaricates, diving down into Echo Canyon, one of Union Pacific’s most picturesque and dramatic sections of track. Rolling on Track Two, the less-steep grade of track, the train descends through stunning, hundred-foot-high red rock canyon walls to Echo, a small town with a “Gas Café” and but a few houses. I wonder if the town was indeed named for the auditory sensation one experiences hollering into this canyon at night, or because an approaching train can be heard miles in the distance as its whistle ricochets off the red-rocks; or perhaps because one can hear the howling of wolves echoing at night or the slight groan of desert sprites seeking mischief amongst man.
Passing Devil’s Slide, a gorge of twin limestone ridges that rise vertically from the earth, we cross the Weber (“Wee-ber”) River at Devil’s Gate, a dramatic and treacherous white-water portion of the river. Suddenly the hillsides turn lush, the mountains green, and the land once again appears arable. Here, Strawberry siding is as lush a western landscape as I can imagine (if only the early Overland Pioneers knew how much worse it became past Strawberry, perhaps they would’ve stayed instead of suffering on to California).
Salt Lake City, Utah- Though I was hoping to cross the Great Salt Lake to California the train made a U-turn after Riverdale and headed south through the industrial megaloburbs along the freeway leading in to Salt Lake City. It pulled into Salt Lake’s North yard just after noon and stopped on the departure tracks, where I lingered nervously in the cab, unsure if a worker would arrive to inspect the unit. Little did I know this would be the demise of my DPU.
Minutes after arriving a hotshot pulled in on the track next to my train. I traced it to find it too headed to West Colton yard in southern California, and though some of the 48”s looked like nice rides I knew it would be more dangerous; besides, why give up my warm, water-stocked DPU for a few hours time gained? In some weird way though I actually felt safer riding the DPU than on an actual freight car. And it’s a good thing I stayed put because the Bull came rolling slowly between the two trains in a black SUV, along with a worker-truck paralleling opposite the hotshot, searching the wells from both sides. I fled the DPU before they made it to my end and I hid in the classification lines of the yard to be safe. Within minutes a worker building a nearby line spotted me, and preferring to deal with him rather than the Bull I stepped forward and said Hi.
“Just makin’ sure you ain’t gonna hurt me,” he said peering over a coupler two tracks away. “Where you tryin’ to go” he asked, a forty-something-year-old black man wearing a gold earring.
“South,” I told him.
“No. Where are you trying to go?” he reiterated with emphasis.
“Oh, uh, Barstow” I said, stupidly. (I should have said West Colton). “I’m on that train” I said, pointing behind him.
He commenced to inform me that the train I was on was picking up a string of cars and bound for West Colton, and also that he was building another southbound train for West Colton.
“See that ‘WCLT’” he said showing me his manifest, “that means West Colton. That’s what I’m doing right now: building the train.” He pointed to a string of hoppers inching backward and told me I could get in one of the cubbyholes, but to stay out of view. “And there’s a black truck driving around,” he told me. “That’s the police. I know you seen ‘em.”
“Yep” I nodded.
“He’s lookin’ for you; he’s using a mirror see?” The man gestured to show how the Bull was hoisting up a mirror on a tall pole in order to peer down into each well-car where I rider might ride.
I knew the Bull wasn’t looking for me, or else he would have inspected the DPU of my train and not just the wells of the other train. He was looking for riders certainly though, and that line of double-stacks got inspected from both sides, hard. If anyone was aboard and too stupid to jump off, he surely caught them. (I wouldn’t have minded if he had caught those hipster train-hoppers I encountered in Cheyenne.)
In the meantime though I kept out of sight in the classification yard, and eventually the line I arrived on pulled out. At first I thought the worker had given me faulty information, but later I saw the same line backing into the yard on a different track with the DPUs gone and realized had I not run into him I’d’ve been hiding in the bathroom of the DPU when they cut it, and most likely would have been busted.
Things calmed down around the yard after about an hour of hiding out and I located a decent porch with a dirty cubbyhole on the line headed south and climbed aboard. But I quickly decided not to stay holed up under the hot sun, low on food and water and with no idea when the train would depart. I found a nearby tree surrounded by tall grass in which to stash my bags under, and I walked toward town for supplies.
Downtown blocks stretched for football-field lengths and it was Sunday and I could not even find a place to refill my water bottle. I ended up walking for miles around the city and then right into the yuppiest part of town I could have ever imagined—a giant stripmall of recently-erected cheap Spanish architecture featuring upper-class enterprises and privileged people everywhere participating in the abhorrent commercial orgy, carrying fancy status-symbol paper-bags indicating fresh high-end purchases. I walked through a whole goddamn square mile of that shit before exiting the gated community onto a street of SSI rejects, alcoholics, and bums sweltering in front of the local mission. Near there I found a rare food mart, thankfully, got a couple beers, some hummus and pita, and then skirted back around the whole mess to return to the yard.
Upon returning I ran into a local near where I had stashed my bags who was photographing trains and who turned out to be the friend of a friend of a friend. After striking up the appropriate conversation he toured me around to some local “spots”, to the Roper yard, the Junks. He dropped me back off at the North yard an hour before sunset and we made tentative plans to meet up again after dark.
At dusk a train heading back north pulled into the yard and, feeling tired and a bit drunk, and no longer wanting to go south through the Vegas heat and the whole mess of southern California just to ge
t back up to Roseville, I decided I’d ride back north, hopefully to Green River, and there wait for another Californiabound train.
I walked the line back toward the yard office and despite a worker-truck sitting two tracks over boarded the DPU. Shortly after, I watched the train retrace the tracks to Riverdale, then loop around and head back up into Weber Canyon.
“Oh, Sorry,” I said waking upon the floor of the unit with a worker standing over me reaching for the inspection card.
“Oh you’re ok” he responded as I sat up.
“Rawlins?”
“Yep. I just gotta sign this card and you’ll be leaving. Just stay low so my manager doesn’t see you.”
“Thank you sir.”
Outside, two other workers gathered around the greatest railroad employee I have ever encountered as he showed them how to refuel the engine.
The sun rose high above the Red Desert as the train departed east leaving all fuelpad technology and signs of civilization behind. Hours of sleep later the train passed through Laramie and the Hermosa tunnel on Mainline 1, the northernmost route through Sherman Hill, highest point on the transcontinental railroad at an impressive 8,015-ft. Leading into Cheyenne westbound trains lined what seemed like every siding—Dale, Buford, Granite, Borie, Wycon—and I could only imagine how many other riders were on those many porches, wells, and even DPUs.
Cheyenne, Wyoming- Fall blew swiftly into town, a cold, brisk wind that battered the tramps sleeping under bridges along the tracks. I found the crusties right where I left them, loitering in front of the same Kum & Go, but now with a fourth friend. They filled me in on their last few days in town—getting black-out drunk on the tracks, drinking Steel Reserve with the soda-pop bums, or “sodies” as they call the mission stiffs who hang around behind the mission drinking diet soda all day (the mission gives it to them). We sat in the grass next to the Warren Ave. overpass and smoked a bowl supplied to them by a Cheyenne local who last night picked up the crew outside a bar. Floppy took to getting his restless dog high by blowing smoke in the diminutive mutt’s ears. Afterward, they headed off to the mission for food, new boots, soda pop, and warmer sleeping bags; I made my way back to my jungle spot with a case of Lost Lake in arm.
There was a noticeable lull in traffic throughout the afternoon, like I thought there would be, and before I knew it most my beer was gone and six o’clock had arrived. By evening, trains began pulling in from the west—all headed to Illinois—and at one point a lanky young kid ran across the field in front of me and climbed up into an empty gondola car. Forty-five minutes later, the line still not moved, I climbed the gondola’s ladder and looked down on a young Latino boy no older than 18, huddled in the rusty corner looking at me with surprise and confusion.
“Where are you going” I asked him.
“California.”
“This train’s headed east.”
He gave me a confounded look and quickly stood up.
With no pack, no food, and no water, he was dressed for the cold of a still night at best, and I knew he would be no match for the windblown Wyoming plains. Still, there was an air of perseverance and fearlessness to him, and as he stood there facing me straight-on, eye to eye, I knew he was for real—anyone hopping trains alone is not to be disrespected.
“I thought if it was pointed west it’s going west” he said.
To this I gave him a confounded look. The train had pulled in from the west and was undoubtedly heading east. “How do you determine which way it’s pointed,” I asked pointing westward to the end of the train. “Look: there’s no engines on that end.”
Now he knew; and as we stood there on the outermost track in the dying sunlight a westbound train pulled in to CC on the opposite side of town, dimming its headlights about three-hundred yards from where we stood.
“Where are you going” I asked him again.
“California. My family’s there.” He said he came to Cheyenne by train to see a friend. “Are you going west” he asked me.
“Back to Oregon” I lied to avoid company.
“—so we can take it together” he preemptively queried.
“I ride alone” I told him (perhaps a bit preemptively as well).
In hindsight I should have taken him under my wing and aided him at least to Green River. With that he would have had a little more security about getting himself home and my otherwise subject-less photographs would have benefited from his presence. But I did not even photograph him. Instead I took to explaining in the simplest of terms the process and purpose of the crew change, that trains heading west stop to crew change on the east side of the station (for the most part).
“The train needs to change drivers” I explained, pointing to its dimmed headlights.
“—so I can go get on that train?”
He started to go but I stopped him to tell him one more thing, that he could ride in the rear DPU. “It’s an engine,” I told him. “It’s warm and has water.”
“So it’s covered? I can get behind it?”
That’s when I gave up to just let him figure it out on his own.
“Be safe” I hollered after him, reiterating what so many railroad workers have said to me so many times before and but finally realizing that paternal feelings associated with the statement: I understand trains and furthermore the terrain, and Yes, it can be a very dangerous thing; when riding trains you must never take anything for granted, or assume anything because there’s absolutely no telling when disaster might strike so make sure you have ample water and be prepared for anything at all times.
Ten minutes later the westbound, a lengthy line of hoppers, flew past on the mainline and I scanned every porch hoping to see his huddled silhouette, but did not. I sincerely hope he got to the DPU because I have faith that the good workers in Rawlins, and even Green River, will help him if they found him. And if he didn’t make it back to the DPU he was going to have a rough night.
After dark I tramped around the UP yard, climbing in and out of abandoned passenger trains and old cabooses. I found two wrecked units coupled together near the station and in one I slept, not thinking anyone would notice me. But a worker walked in during the night as if he was going to start the thing.
“This thing’s not going anywhere is it,” I asked, sitting up into his flashlight.
“No,” he said incredulously. “This thing’s a wreck.” (Literally!)
“I’m just camped out here for the night.”
“Alright. I didn’t see you.”
The last date checked on the inspection card was over one month ago—August 4th 2010, in Denver. That’s when the derailment must’ve happened. But I still have no idea why he came onto the unit in the first place.
I left the yard just after sunup and had coffee at City News, where I acquired two new books on Wyoming history and geology, then walked across town to the east end of the UP yard to catch-out. I waited most of the afternoon before I climbed on a hotshot that pulled in to CC and headed back west, riding dangerously low in a suicide-well, sitting on a thin metal ledge with my feet resting on crossbeams that formed the bottom support. The train’s trajectory at first had me thinking I might be on my way to Denver, as it veered south on the alternately routed Track 3 toward Speer, where the tracks ultimately become Colorado’s Greeley subdivision. But at the splitoff the train arched back northwest toward Laramie, destined for some undetermined industry in California. Curving around the bend I looked back to see one of the longest trains I have ever; I must have been about seventy-cars back from the front and I was still unable to see the end, but I assumed it had a DPU.
The day was gorgeous across the Precambrian prairie with high winds. Segments of battered snowfence lined the undulating hilltops. I crossed back and forth on the gratings of two train cars taking pictures, climbing back down into the well when necessary to hide. It was a lot of moving back and forth acr
oss an allthewhile moving freight train, and all it takes is one slight misstep on the old Iron Horse and I could’ve lost my leg or very possibly my life, as dozen undoubtedly have. I was thirty-miles from Cheyenne barreling westward at a serious 60 mph when through the bottom of the well the tread on my shoe caught lightly against the exposed rail and my foot jammed suddenly back against the metal like a soggy toothpick. The pain was sharp and excruciating, causing nausea, light-headedness, and a cold sweat, but I shook it off, likening the damage to a lightly sprained ankle. By the time the train stopped in Rawlins the swelling had set in though and the lateral and medial malleolus of the tibia and fibula were no longer visible. Still, convincing myself I could walk it off, I limped out of the yard through a motel parking lot and crossed the street to a gas station to refill my water jug. I must have looked like death manifested the way everyone seemed to stare like I was a zombie hobbling out from the grave. In the bathroom mirror I saw why: my eyes were drunk and burned red and my face looked like I had just climbed out of a coal hollow while the rest of my skin paled ghostly in comparison.
My foot really began to hurt back at the train yard as the swelling became still worse. I laid in the desert basking in pain, trying to stay warm and conscious as night fell. Several hours passed before another westbound train pulled into CC, and I knew I had to get out of Rawlins were I going to survive. But I tried to stand and could no longer put any pressure on the foot. On my already-sore knee I hopped over to a line of cement hoppers and climbed onto a back porch of one, just to get to the next town: Green River.
