Preface – The day after

I never, EVER, complete a story about any of my train rides. I have a drink, sit down at the computer, crank out fresh recollection of the first few days and then applaud myself, take a break and email “Part I” to everybody. Part II generally comes about 10 months later, sparked by some desire to finally complete a single train-riding story. The mood is never right, and the memory has faded, so I attempt to cover the lack of detailed content with witty, retrospective banter which I eventually also grow tired of. As far as I can remember, I have never written a Part III.

So…

In the kerouacian style of narrative pros, I begin – actually have not yet begun, further preparation is necessary. I recall stories of Jack sitting in front of his arm-style typewriter with a roll of paper 50 feet long so as not to be interrupted with paper changes. Accordingly, I have set Microsoft Word for a page length of 6,000 inches. While no virtual paper-changes exist, the lack of pagination stops me from bothering about worrisome odds and ends such as page count, page-orphaned sentences and other such nonsense. Another of Jack’s tricks is getting high enough on Benzedrine that he could write for 20 hours straight, and then crash for days before recycling the ritual. Wal-Mart was out of Benzedrine, so pardon me while I run to the kitchen and make a pot of espresso.

Setup

Ok, I am cheating. I haven’t gone for the espresso yet – but I will. It’s currently Sunday, October 14, 2007 at 12:49 in the afternoon. Friday night I took my first train trip in over a year – my last being the week or so around the 4th of July, 2006. I started a story on that one, too. My buddy and newly found travel partner, let’s call him Ben, has been a friend to me now for only a few years. We both work at the same company as engineers (although I not for long) and play soccer together. Ben is a handsome, well-raised speed freak (in the rate-of-movement definition of the word) who enjoys fast motorcycles and environmentally conscious women. Depending on his facial-hair style de jour, he bares an incredible resemblance to Hollywood star Ben Stiller – which is an endless if banal source of comedy for our small group of friends - Hence the current pseudonym.

[Espresso brewing]

I never had the chance since moving to Denver (or before) to ride the famed route between Denver and Grand Junction, over the Rockies and through the seven-mile long Moffat Tunnel. After scoping the catch-out spot under the I-76 bridge in northern Denver about a month earlier, and finding the ease at which it could be accessed by public transportation, and how well protected it was from suspicious eyes and the elements, I knew my next trip was on.

So here we go – the account of my trip west over he Rockies from Denver on a freight train with Ben Stiller.

[Espresso ready]

Friday, October 12, 16:30

Ben and I step off the Denver local-6 bus at 56th Ave and Federal. My right shoulder has been bothering me for weeks now and lugging my pack in awkward contangulations around the commonfolk bus riders is no therapy - and I wince in pain while heaving it around my back and into place.

I am wearing my dark olive indestructible nylon riding pants, with my green BN “Mean Machine” T-shirt, a black zip-up jacket and my Burlington medal necklace. Ben is sporting navy blue work pants, a blue and white plaid shirt and a carhardt-style hooded jacket. We both have much heavier clothes in our pack in anticipation of the chilly night through the Rockies in mid-October.

“We have about a mile walk from here,” I tell Ben who comments that he is glad he wore his hiking boots with good inserts. We trudge up Federal, and a thought flashes that this is the first progress towards our destination that stems purely from manpower and ingenuity – i.e. we ain’t payin for transportation no mo’ this weekend.

The railroad tracks approach us as an overhead green corrugated steel bridge that we must walk under before veering right, up the gravel road that the railroad has installed for crew van access to the tracks.

“Walk briskly,” I mention over my shoulder as we begin up the gravel path. The “No Trespassing, Railroad property” sign speaks silent justification of my statement to Ben as it passes us to the right. “Don’t really need any passing cops to see us walkin’ up here.” The gravel road inclines rather steeply to meet the railroad grade, and is surrounded by tall dead grass and thistles. As eye level rises over the gravel horizon, we stop.

“Shit, there is already a train sitting there for a crew change.” About 100 yards before us sits a unit coal train with UP units sitting idle. The nose-hatch is open but no people are apparent. “Ok change of plans – we need to go back down and around quickly. I don’t know if anyone is in the unit or saw us, but there is going to be a crew van coming up this road any minute. Let’s move.” I overstate the urgency of our situation a bit, but I don’t want to start Ben’s first trip with a worrisome wave to a passing crew van – or worse. The rest of the hike around the back-way to the crew-change proves no incident, with a pleasant walk through some weeds, over a creek and up to the I-76 overpass erected on the downtrack side of the crew-change point. The bridge was erected solely for the railroad and spans over 4 tracks – two mainlines with two sidings in between. The empty westbound coal train waits impatiently on the closest track next to us for its crew change and a green signal on the trellis, which is clearly visible to us above the bridge over Federal. We share a common urgency for rolling into the mountains.

Saturday, October 13, 00:00

The last seven hours can be described as apprehensive but not unpleasant. Turns out the impatient train was abandoned and awaited its inbound crew, which arrived about an hour after our arrival. It backed about a half mile to pick up more empty hoppers from the nearby North Yard and then continued west up-track and out of sight.

An eastbound Amcrap passed at about 7:30pm, and three other coal trains in various directions stopped for 30 minute crew-changes. None of the westbound empties had DPUs (unmanned locomotives in the middle and back of the train), and we had decided collaboratively that we didn’t want to ride those tonight anyway. A Denver-originating westbound UP mixed-freight passed at 10:00pm, but had no reason to stop and crew-change because the crew was fresh out of Denver already.

Weary but not defeated, we snuggled up on our sleeping pads along the side of the I-76 embankment, with our feet pointed down on the 30° slope. Our packs were zipped and sealed and ready to be scooped-up in a sprint. I remember drifting off to sleep completely content while autos plowed by 10 feet away.

Back to the present…

“Nodoubt! Nodoubt!” Ben yells as the units of a westbound approach on one of the middle tracks. I am drifting in and out of sleep at the time, and truth be told I may have missed this particular train had Ben not alerted me. I dig in my hoodie for my glasses, and stand to scope the consist. BNSF and CSX units … mixed freight … definitely the BNSF trackage-rights train. This is good and bad. Good = This is one of the hottest trains on the route that travels on UP trackage rights all the way to Stockton, CA (sometimes) or Provo, UT (other times). Either way it’s definitely headed to Grand Junction. Bad = This train originates in the Denver BNSF yard – there is no reason for it to stop here either. I verify that fear by walking down the embankment until the signal tower is in sight. Indeed it has a “slow clear” – red on top, green on the bottom.

“This is our train, but it probably ain’t gonna stop!” I yell while grabbing my backpack, sleeping pad and camping pillow [yes I’m a wuss]. Ben follows my careful jog down to track level. The first ride opportunities are a couple of grainers about 10 cars from the units. The train is still clipping along, so I take note but keep walking towards the back.

A crash of slack followed by the slower sound of the clicking rails indicates slowing (stopping?). We pick up the pace and jog further downtrain for ridable cars. The train is now what I would consider “slow-enough-to-catch” and by all indications, rolling to a stop. Car after car passes as we ensue into a quick jog. I glance backwards, they still have a green signal – why are they stopping? I resume scanning the train while running towards the end, craning my neck to see the end of the train around the bend. The train stops right about as the end comes into view. Shit – no rides. All tankers and plug-door boxcars.

“We’re never gonna get back up to those grainers before she pulls again.” I think outloud.

“Should we run?”

I don’t answer and we walk – jog – run – my ears constantly in tune for any sound that indicates she is about to pull. We pass about 25 cars, but it feels like 250. We start passing grainers – but so far none of them have floors. Still jogging. There’s one with a floor, but it’s facing the wrong way. Still jogging. That’s the end of the grainers. Obvious decision is to run back and grab the grainer that has the porch facing forward. It’s pretty open and it’s gonna be windy but it’s the only ride. We turn around and run back 3 carlengths.

“Get on!”

“There ain’t no floor!”

“Not that one… Get on the one facing forward!”

Having never mounted a train before, Ben climbs the ladder and steps around inside. I follow suit and by now the train is moving about 5 mph.

We’re on. I shout in victory as we pick up quickly to about 30mph and clack along towards the mountains.

Saturday, October 13, 00:30

There is no moon. We are huddled side-by-side along the right side of the forward-looking grainer, watching the empty grade-crossings pass to our right. Preparing for the cold mountains, we have just changed into our thermal underwear. We now have no more clothes in our backpacks. Our sleeping pads are unrolled behind our backs and beneath our asses as we sit and lean against the grain car. Between the flat wheel thunking beneath us and the 30dB earplugs, there is little conversation.

“This is the last road for a while!” I barely hear myself shout as we rattle through the grade-crossing right before Rocky-siding in Golden. I have watched trains here at least ten times before. The next two miles are a unique double-horseshoe that gains altitude as the foothills of the Rockies begin. We stand up and walk to opposite sides of the grainer to watch the black scenery flowing by. Ben finds the “headache bar,” an oddly placed horizontal bar that crosses the grainer porch at forehead level, but only on one side of the car. Trial by fire.

I am hanging my head and arms out of the side when I notice a white suburban with no lights and no apparent printing whiz passed, parked in the ballast, about 3 yards from the tracks. It’s obviously a railroad vehicle because we are way out of any civilian traffic areas. I look back at him, and when he is about 4 carlengths away I see the brake lights go on. Someone’s in there. I know that in this blackness no one can see us unless they are looking for us. I continue to watch the area of the car for the remainder of the loop. I never see any headlights… oh well. Probably a crewvan?

Probably 2:00AM, October 13

Part of me is pissed that it is night time, foggy, with no moon visible. This scenery is some of the most amazing in the country. Yet the enormous, unknown expanses of black, blanketed with starlight-illuminated fog, and dimly visible rock outcroppings, and the cold sting on my face accented by the damp smell of the rock-climbing pine trees, and the cozy feeling of my body warm in my multiple layers of clothes, all remind me squarely of my place in the world as an observer. Why am I out here? To experience the universe. Is there an I? No. Why is all this out here? To be experienced. Is there an it? No, only an I… and other such nonsense.

“There are about 25 tunnels along this route! The most in the county!” I yell to Ben as we penetrate our first 100 foot long tunnel. He already knows well that the longest tunnel is down the way, the Moffat, crossing the continental divide between Winter Park and Rollinsville. It’s gonna be damn cold by then. We get out our sleeping bags and wear them like blankets over our legs as we sit side-by-side.

Probably 3:00AM, October 13

We are stopped – most likely at a “meet” to wait for a coaltrain ahead of us to go into the hole. Our train dangles above an unseen cliff to the right, and hugs to the sheer rock wall on our left. We enjoy the earplug hiatus and Ben digs in his backpack. He produces a 3 liter bag of red wine, Shiraz I think, and digs through my bag as well to find my blue-speckled mug. He is drinking out of a measuring cup.

“To your first ride,” and we clink plastic against ceramic and warm our souls with good grapes. After two glasses, we are rolling again. I feel no effect of the wine. As predicted we chug passed a holed-up eastbound coal train. Every time we pass another train, the headlights brazenly illuminate us and temporarily steal our night-vision.

Probably 3:30AM, October 13

We are stopped again, and although dark, I can pretty much tell that we are 100s of yards away from the east portal of the Moffat tunnel. I climb to the top of our grainer and confirm this, right as the thousands-of-horsepower ventilation fans activate in the tunnel, sending soot and carbon monoxide from the previous train spewing out of the entryway into the night. The fans are loud enough to annoy people for miles. We drift in and out of sleep for close to two hours while two eastbound trains plow through the tunnel before us. After each passing, the fans blow for 20 minutes and then power down like the Death-Star, leaving the night even quieter than before they started.

We are nervous about the miles of soot and carbon monoxide, although I have gone through a longer tunnel (Mt McDonald) completely unprepared before with no issues. We each have trash bags that we fill with air to help for the (hopefully) 15-20 minute haul through the middle of a goddamn mountain. My anxiety nags me about what to do if we were to suddenly stop in the middle of the tunnel. I tell my anxiety to fuck off.

We pull, and quickly pick up speed. 50 feet outside of the entrance, we pass a grade crossing with a car 10 feet away with headlights blazing right at us. I can only imagine the driver thought he was looking at trash, since our two blown-up hefty bags were dominating the scene. It spooked me a bit, though, because I know the crossing is on UP-only property. Five seconds later the mouth of the tunnel engulfs us. Blackness.

Time and distance passes, and every mile we blow past a lighted mile marker. In retrospect, I should have counted them to keep my mind occupied. The tunnel is so dark that my mind creates the scenery, which I can only describe as dimly glowing red-hot stone flowing by like lava. The diesel exhaust is warm and thick on my face. I am traveling through the heart of a volcano. Right as I reach perfect Zen after 15 minutes of meditating on breathing (into a bag) we emerge from the west portal. The first indication is a wall of icy air. We deflate our bags and stuff them away. I notice the feeling of the slimy layer of soot on my skin. We are flying through Winter Park. The eastern sky is starting to glow a dark neon blue. We rearrange ourselves to lay down and sleep.

Probably 7:00AM, October 13

I have no concept that it is light outside, because my knit hat is over my eyes and I’m deep into my sleeping bag. I think I woke up because we stopped though. I pop out and squint at the sun like God’s discovered us with his searchlight. We’re in a small 3-track yard with piles of ties here, old rusty rail-cranes there, and what sounds like a Mexican track gang shouting to each other just out of site. Our car is about as open as a car can be, so I flatten again the porch-floor and nudge Ben.

He pops up and sits erect, confused.

“Bitch be cool!” I whisper, imitating Pulp Fiction. “It’s our crew change. Get low.” I am pretty sure we are in Kremmling, but also surprised this “hotshot” H-train seems to be taking its good ole time. Ben also flattens as much as he can in his royal blue sleeping bag. In two minutes, we pull. I’m peaking over the 8 inch lip that “hides” us, and I can see that the outbound crew is standing by the van, inspecting the train as it goes by. I duck back down, so I have no idea if they see us. But since they are standing below grade level, and we are pretty flat, I have to hope that they didn’t. A quarter mile later, we passed a red highrailer on the siding next to us, with a guy in a red helmet and yellow safety glasses staring right down at us. He double-takes as our eyes obviously meet. All I can do in the 2 seconds of face time is throw him the peace sign. I cannot discern a response.
Another half-mile later, we hear a siren blip, much like that of a cop indicating that he is behind you and wants you to pull over. Ben peers in the direction of the sound,

“There’s not even a road there.” We are confused. We pick up speed. We are a little freaked, but I have been through much worse sightings that didn’t result in anything. Still I am a bit worried about the sheer number of possible or apparent sightings that have occurred in less than 6 hours. Ben reads my mind, “Maybe we should pack our shit?” We do.

Probably 9:00AM, October 13

I have heard a few horror stories of the little town of Bond, Colorado, which is 20 miles down the road and approaching at about 40 mph. It’s another 3-track yard where the line splits to go up towards Phippsburg and some coal mines, or down towards Dotsero and on to Grand Junction. The Train Doctor had told me once how he was camped out in the weeds and the county sheriff somehow found him and busted him. The second was of a group of riders who got pulled off of a train in Bond and ended up spending a WEEK in jail (probably because they were broke and couldn’t shell out for the man). Given all the possible sightings, and the fact that in broad daylight we are visible from the units anytime they make a sharp turn, I figure that if they were gonna pop us, they’re gonna try it in Bond. So in preparation we throw our stuff and my entire self (or as much as will fit) into the grainer hole, and Ben stands in the tall porch center compartment, where he can quickly shield himself from either side. I know that BNSF trains don’t work or crew change in Bond, so I decide that if our train stops, we will bail into the weeds and wait to see if anyone comes around.

The miles count up. We see “MP 128.8 E BOND” and the track next to us multiplies once… twice. And we keep speed. We pass the line that goes off to Phippsburg. We pass some shacks. And we keep going. We pass Bond.

“You want some breakfast?” I look up to Ben and smile. Ah… paranoia.

I fail miserably at keeping the stove hot enough to boil water with the 40+ mph wind hitting the front of the grainer. So we settle for lukewarm reconstituted freeze-dried Mountain House eggs and bacon. Mmmmmm. Actually the taste is pretty good, but somehow a 70 degree breakfast is a huge let down in 35 degree weather. It’s also right about now that we notice it’s not getting a whole lot warmer as the day goes on.

We finally have time to sit, chill out, and enjoy the scenery in the daylight – and amazing it is. I am not a huge fan of Colorado’s fall colors… err, color… but along the Colorado River between Bond and Dotsero we inhale gasping breaths of not only the golden aspen, but also bright greens, browns and reds that I never thought existed out in the mountains. Ben’s digital camera snaps here and there, and hopefully one of the pictures will make its way into the story.

As we approach Glenwood Springs, we both decide that the coldness, the chance of rain, and the general sluggishness of this “hotshot” is disheartening. Bailing at Glenwood seems like a good idea. I know the train isn’t supposed to stop there, but it goes right through downtown and will probably slow considerably. We are following the Colorado River turn-for-turn to our right, and Interstate 70 accordingly to its right. Bridges across the river are scarce, maybe one every five to ten miles. If we bail off too early, we will be stuck on the wrong side of the river. Finally, the highway sign:

“GLENWOOD SPRINGS, NEXT TWO EXITS”

Almost as if following the highway sign, cascades of slack indicate the train is slowing.

“Ben – as soon as this train is going slow enough for you to comfortably get off, get off. Like… right now.” The train is slowing abruptly as I speak. “Go… get off now! Throw your pack off first.”

“What?”

“Throw your pack off first!”

“What?”

“Your backpack! Throw it off first then you get off!”

He complies, and as his pack hits the ground. I know that we are committed to getting off. I toss my rolled up sleeping pad. He mounts the stirrup. I toss my bag off and notice immediately that we are on an Amtrak platform! Ben has his right leg in the stirrup, on the left side of the train, getting a feel for the ground speed. I accidentally step on his hand as I move around onto the ladder. He later tells me that he didn’t notice. He’s off. I look back and sure enough, he’s still on his feet. We are moving at about 8-10mph now. I dismount. There is a yellow line on my feet, reading “STAND BACK OF YELLOW LINE.” I step onto the legal side of the line. The train passes. We gather our shit, walk about 100 feet to the Amtrak office and plop down in the white and green plastic chairs. No one sees our Hollywood action scene, save a barefoot longhair sitting crosslegged in the weeds, watching trains. I smile,

“Hey man.” He doesn’t answer. He thinks it’s the acid.

Saturday, 10:56 AM, October 13

I call my wife, and note the time; ten hours from Denver to Glenwood Springs. I know I have seen the trackage rights train get mostly to Grand Junction in that amount of time. Oh well. The next half hour consists of making Amtrak platform espresso, taking pictures and talking to the ticket agent who meets us curiously on the platform: $37 per person and the train leaves in about 2½ hours. She declines our offer of espresso but is quite pleasant.

Saturday, 12:30 PM, October 13

Over four slices of pepperoni and two (free) plastic cups of Hazed and Infused, we decide to try hitchhiking home, using Amtrak as a last resort. I write “DENVER Please” on a white pizza box with a black Mean-Streak grease marker and we are off to work the sign. We stand under a construction sign by the I-70E on-ramp and emanate unimaginable charm and innocent good looks to each passing car. With only 5 seconds of face time per vehicle, we must pour it on thick! Within a half hour a kid in his early 20’s, blonde, shaved head with acne scars pulls over in a black Honda Civic. I pull the old, “Hey do you have room for my friend too? If not that’s cool.” He does. Riding shotgun, Ben has the privilege of a half-eaten slice of pizza at his feet.

Conversation is stunted mostly due to Ben and my exhaustion, but spurts last as long as half an hour, and are marked by at least five cases of Bruce (our driver) using the adjectives “wicked-cool,” “wicked-hot” or “wicked.” Ben and I each drift rudely off to sleep once or twice, which bothers me because the least we can do for this guy is offer conversation (and gas money). But things go great and he gives us his email address and claims to contact me about riding a freight himself some day.

We are back in Denver in three hours. He drops us off at the Broadway light rail station.
We give him $11 for gas.