Ruminations of an Expatriate

Dan, in a comment to My Trip To Ayutla report, has asked for the story of my 1977 cross-country freight train adventure. Here you go Dan, this is for you.

The story actually begins in 1974 when in April, imbued with my back-to-the-land hippie dream, I left Washington D. C., where I had lived with my family since 1962, on a drive across the Northern USA and Southern Canada, with my female companion of the time, for my home state of Washington, where we would look for land to buy.

Arriving in Olympia in July, I was serendipitously introduced by my uncle to a realtor of his acquaintance, who, after showing us a few properties, took us to the acreage along the Satsop River, on the Southern Olympic Peninsula, which completely satisfied all of our criteria and which we ultimately bought.

Having purchased the property through a real estate contract with the owner, in October, we moved to Portland, Oregon where we both had previous connections, to work while we paid off the contract. I worked as a VW/Porsche mechanic, my companion worked as a carpenter, and on the weekends we would travel to the property to work at constructing, what I called, our hippie shack.

Two and a half years later, having fulfilled the contract by making double, sometimes triple, monthly payments, I had decided to move to the property. I resigned my job and made plans for a cross country trip before moving North. I had decided to make the trip by “hopping” freight trains, though there was very little of actually hopping on moving trains, which is quite dangerous. Ultimately three friends decided to accompany me for the first few days of the adventure.

Preparing for the departure I went on an intelligence gathering mission to the Portland rail yards to ask the yard workers when trains heading South leave. I was told that a “piggy back” train, with truck trailers lashed aboard the flat cars, left each evening about eight. I was also told that, other than passenger trains, the “piggy back” and container trains were given the highest priority, and, thus, were fastest.

Having set a departure date in mid-April, off we went on the appointed day with our backpacks. We located the piggy back train heading South, crawled up under the dual rear axles of the trailers, laid out a ground cloth, unrolled our pads and sleeping bags, secured our shoes to our backpacks, and crawled into our bags to await departure. Before long the train pulled out.

The next morning, not long after sunup, the train pulled into Klamath Falls, in Southern Oregon, and stopped. We disembarked and headed for a café at the edge of the rail yard. During my journey I found cafes to be fixtures in all of the rail yards I visited.

We finished are typical greasy spoon café breakfasts and shouldered our backpacks. Just as we left the café we saw an empty, double decked, automobile carrying train just pulling out. We ran to the train, each grabbed on to one of the ladders located at each end of each car, and pulled ourselves aboard. We spent the bright, warm day on the upper deck of the train enjoying the spectacular scenery as we snaked through the California mountains, often seeing the front of the train crawling along the other side of a switchback turn.

As darkness fell we again crawled into our sleeping bags, intending to depart in Sacramento, where we planned to head East through Roseville, and then to Reno. Unfortunately we slept through our intended stop and ended up in Oakland the next morning. Oakland, as it turned out, was a little used yard; and, after asking yard workers for departure information, we waited the morning lounging around the yard, experiencing a minor brush with railroad police while we awaited our train

I should explain the rail yard workers were without exception eager to help with directions, suggestions, and scheduling information.

When finally, at mid-day, a train was to depart for Roseville, a huge rail yard East of Sacramento, one of the rail yard fellows approached with our instructions. Once again we crawled up under the axles of the trailers on a piggy back and enjoyed the scenery, arriving in Roseville that evening. We had been told in Oakland that the train would continue from Roseville on into Reno, so we stayed aboard and waited as more engines were added to the train for the pull up the mountains to, and over, the infamous Donner Pass.

As the sun rose we crossed Donner Pass and began our winding descent to Reno, where we arrived during the late morning. The sun rise over the snow covered mountain scenery was stunning. We pulled into Reno, actually Sparks, about mid-morning and headed out in search of a motel for a bath, a meal, and, later, a bit of Reno fun. We found cheap rooms near the rail yards, cleaned up (riding the rails is a really grimy business), and off we headed for a night on the town. I had left Portland with about two hundred bucks, so when I lost twenty bucks playing blackjack I began looking for a building to jump from.

The next morning we headed out for the Sparks rail yard, were informed by a yard worker from where we could catch a train to Ogden, Utah and where to wait, and we settled into our appointed station for a short wait. Eventually our train arrived, again of the piggy back variety, and we mounted up and settled in, arriving in Ogden early the next morning. The trains we rode upon often would stop on a siding, sometimes for an extended period, to await the passage of another train.

Again, in Ogden we sought out the yard café for breakfast. We settled into a booth abutting a booth occupied by a rather grisly, one armed fellow who almost immediately struck up a conversation. He told us that if we are going to ride the rails that we should ride in one of the engines, only the front one of which is occupied by engineers.

Following breakfast I bid adieu to my companions who headed home to Portland, while I continued on to Denver. Again, I received instructions from a rail yard worker, waited for my train, and upon its arrival climbed up into the fourth engine, being the final engine from the front, and settled into the seat opposite the control panel.

About a half hour out of Ogden an alarm bell in the engine in which I was riding began to ring, and it rang, and rang, and rang. The ringing of the bell, in the control panel in front of which the engineer would normally sit, was irritating. Eventually I removed the back of the control panel and stuffed paper towels, from the handy bathroom dispenser, into the bell to mute the ringing.

Just as I had finished the muting operation, the door of the engine opened and in walked a rather portly, older fellow wearing typical railroad overalls. I was of course startled and thought “man, am I ever screwed”. The fellow pulled a switch to turn off the alarm and, while removing the paper towels from the bell and reinstalling the control panel cover, explained that they were having a bit of an over heating problem. The alarm extinguished, towels removed, and control panel back together, he departed without another word. Whew, I felt, while I wondered at the kindness shown by the old fellow to this young, dirty, long-haired hipped riding the rails.

I went back to my comfortable seat and continued reading “I Will Fight No More Forever: Chief Joseph and the Nez Perce War” and enjoying the desert scenery flying by the window next to which I sat. About twenty minutes later the door again opened and in walked the same fellow with a paper bag, which he handed me while remarking that perhaps I was hungry. I thanked the older fellow profusely as he left. The bag contained one of those small cartons of milk and a Hostess pie. Damned, I thought; here I should probably be prosecuted for illegally riding the train, not to mention tampering with the equipment, and this kindly gentleman is feeding me. This is the kind of weird travel experience I have very often experienced in my travels since, and for which I have no explanation.

The train pulled into Denver that night about 8:00. Bearing a two day accumulation of rail riding grime, since a bath in Reno, I struck out from the rail yard in search of a room. Across the street from the rail yards I found a tavern which I entered, ordered a beer, and asked where I might find an accommodation. The kindly bar tender asked about my travels, while I drank a couple of beers; and directed me to a flop house down the street.

I thanked the bar tender heartily for his help and friendliness and headed to the flop house. I knocked on the door of the manager and inquired as to the availability of a room, to which she kindly showed me. I paid the five dollar nightly fee, checked into my tidy room, went down the hall for a leisurely bath in the spotless bathroom, and headed down the street for a bite to eat. Sated, I returned to my room and settled in for the night.

Sometime later I answered a knock on my room door to encounter the manager. She explained that there was an unruly party down the hall and that I looked like I might be able to restore order. I politely declined the offer, explaining that I was only passing through and certainly was not looking for trouble.

The next morning I headed back to the nearby Denver rail yard, located the yard café, and settled in for a bit of breakfast. While eating, my inquiries as to the best way to find a train to Lincoln, Nebraska were eagerly satisfied by a number of other patrons. So, again, off I went.

Having located my train, another piggy back, I crawled up under the axles of a trailer on the first car behind the engines, planning to move into the engine as soon as prudent. Having just settled in, the door of the abutting engine swung open and a young fellow urged me to join him in the engine.

As it turned out the fellow was a Burlington Northern employee heading about sixty miles out of Denver where he would disembark and work another train back into Denver. The guy jumped rope almost the entire sixty miles, only interrupting his exercise to smoke an occasional cigarette, while talking non stop. I judged that he must have been under the influence of amphetamines. He gave me his copy of his union contract booklet which contained a complete Burlington Northern route map; and told me that if I was headed for D. C. that I would need to go through Lincoln to Chicago where I would need to change carriers. Eventually he departed, as I thanked him for his help. It was another of those serendipitous travel moments.

Eventually I arrived in Lincoln, disembarked, and had no trouble finding a yard worker to direct me to the next train to Chicago. Again I boarded an engine and away I went.

Being a major railroad hub, the train yards in Chicago are vast; but, none-the-less, again I had no trouble receiving directions on how I might transition from the Burlington Northern system to the Conrail system (at the time a USA government owned consortium of bankrupt carriers, including the Penn Central and others) which would carry me to D. C. Having received my directions I climbed up onto the cat walk of a tank car on a train that would carry me to the Conrail yard, adjoining the Burlington Northern yard into which I had arrived. Noticing the train was approaching a control building, I moved along the catwalk to the other side of the tank to avoid detection.

Once I arrived at the Conrail yard, and having learned which train would take me to D. C., I climbed up into a box car; secured the door in the open position with a piece of wire I carried for the purpose, though which I had theretofore had no need to use; and settled in.

In short order a rail yard worker approached the box car door and indicated that “you’d better get out of here, the gumshoe is after you”. I swear that he referred to the railroad cop as a gumshoe.

Having received the alert I departed the box car and headed out through a rather swampy area to the nearest street, down which I headed toward a restaurant I had spotted. When traveling and in need of information, I had learned sometime before, one should go to the nearest restaurant, café, or bar.

This particular café was a riot. The proprietors were two portly women, one a Caucasian and the other African-American, both of whom were preparing breakfast for a bunch of men, to whom they tended as if they were their children, even handing them brown bag launches as they headed off for work. The women very kindly inquired as to what the hell this grimy hippie, with a grimy backpack, was doing in their restaurant. I explained my situation and as how, having abandoned the rails, I needed a ride to D. C. They began surveying their customers about a ride to D. C. Finding none they directed me to the nearest interstate highway, a few blocks away.

Again, off I went. I hadn’t waited long before a rather nerdly fellow in a Chevy Chevette, outfitted with a CB radio, stopped and took me aboard. I explained that I was heading to D.C., so he got on the CB and began calling for truckers heading for D.C., explaining he had a passenger in need of a ride. Receiving no response to his pleas and approaching an intersecting interstate highway which I would need to take, he explained to me where I should head, and discharged me at the edge of the interstate.

Knowing it illegal to hitchhike on the interstate I was quite nervous as I sought a ride. Before very long a woman driving a Sunbeam Alpine pulled over. I explained where I was going. She looked over my backpack and expressed her doubt that I would be able to get it into her Alpine. Being anxious to get off the side of the interstate, I assured her that I would get it in. I did, and off we went.

The very fetching young woman explained to me that she lived in Oklahoma and was on her way to visit her family in Ohio, upon her husband’s suggestion. A ways down the road we pulled into a rest stop, a Howard Johnson’s I think, and bought a snack which we consumed while sitting at a picnic table and conversing. Being a bit shy and a bit short on funds, my thoughts of getting a motel room went unvocalized.

Alas, after a most pleasant encounter, we arrived near her destination, she discharged me at a Howard Johnson’s rest stop along the Ohio Turnpike, and went on her way.

I sat down on the curb at the parking area in front of the restaurant to repair my backpack strap with the wire I carried to secure box car doors. Completing the repair I looked up at the ’57 Chevy next to which I was sitting and noticed it carried Virginia plates. Heading for a Virginia suburb of D.C. I waited at the curb for the car’s driver, who eventually emerged from the restaurant.

I explained that I was in need of a ride to D.C. and that I would gladly contribute what little money I had remaining to pay for gas. He indicated that he was indeed heading for Virginia, invited me along, and took me all the way to the beltway which circumnavigates Washington D.C., discharging me, at about 1:00 am, at the exit nearest to my destination.

I thanked the fellow, shouldered my backpack, and began walking down the road which would eventually become Old Dominion Boulevard, and which would carry me to my destination of the family home in McLean, Virginia.

Not too many miles down the sparsely traveled road a patrolling sheriff’s deputy pulled over to inquiry just what the hell this grimy hippie was doing out walking so early in the morning. I gave him to whole story, boring him to tears I imagined; he wished me well; and along I went, arriving at the family home at about 4:00 AM. I scratched on the screen, announced my arrival, and enjoyed the ensuing reunion.

I spent about a week visiting, while scanning the want ads for a “drive away” opportunity. (For those who do not know, a “drive away” opportunity involves someone who wishes a car driven someplace.) I happened upon an ad for someone wanting their 1974 Turino driven to Seattle, made the necessary arrangements, and headed out on my return to the Northwest. Along the way I stopped for a tour of Wall Drugs in South Dakota; but otherwise pretty much drove straight through, stopping only for an occasional nap in the back seat. I stopped in Portland for a couple of days to rest and off load some stuff I had retrieved from the family home, delivered the car to Seattle, and returned to Portland on the bus.

It was indeed a grand adventure.

A couple of months later I moved to the hippie shack on the Satsop in which I resided for the next fifteen years until I had constructed more commodious accommodations into which I moved. I sold the place in 2005 and moved to Mexico.

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