Riding the Möbius Line - part 2

The wine was passed around and we made the best of being crouched under a concrete ceiling amidst scattered pieces of broken glass and worse. I noticed when I left on my "tour" of the yard that if you were down at track level you couldn't see anyone sitting in the shadows at the top of the embankment under the bridge, so we had no fear of spending the afternoon in such a guilty-by-association location. Before too long the stress of pontificating nonstop about the intricacies of freighthopping took its toll, and one by one we settled down to sleep for awhile. The yard tracks extended for a short way north of our bridge, then the tracks converged as they exited the yard going north. Alongside this area was a roundhouse, and out of this roundhouse just as it was getting dark were five units hooked together that slowly made their way up to the north end, then began to back down to the edge of the yard tracks, where they remained for a few minutes before backing down onto the head end of a string of cars. With the glare of the yard lights making it impossible to see very far down the string of cars they hooked onto, I vaguely remembered seeing a string of grainers near the head end, and those, it was determined, would be our ticket out of here.

Before we had a chance to pack up, the headlight of a southbound train lit up the yard below us so we stayed up under the bridge until it passed. As the train slowly entered the yard I saw a tramp walking away from the train in our direction. I walked down the embankment to say hello and he said that he just came in from Whitefish, riding almost the entire way in the last units. I told him that my friends and I were just about to leave on a northbound, and he cautioned us about the footbridge over the tracks a little ways north of the yard. He remembered that a few weeks ago when he too was going north from here the train was stopped after the Bull, standing on the footbridge, spotted him in a doublestack well. Only after some crafty scrambling through a forest of blackberries was he able to re-board the train safely after it began to pull out again.

I thanked him for the info and we shared some wine as his train disappeared into the yard. Parting ways, he headed up the embankment toward the street and we made our way over to the line of cars behind the five engines. There were grainers alright — it looked like a whole train of empty grainers. Not known for their stable riding qualities from not being loaded with grain, at least we didn't have to walk too far to find a ride. I told the tramps about the footbridge, and we agreed to each take one car, so that we'd be able to cram our packs into the cubbyhole in the front end of one car, and ourselves into the cubbyhole in the rear of the car ahead. Finding two grainers facing the proper way, I climbed up just as the air began to hiss and the cars settled a little. Weaving my way through the brake rigging surrounding the cubbyhole on the front of the rear car, I managed to cram everything inside, after first removing a bottle of wine, hopefully to celebrate our safe departure. Turning around, I climbed over to the rear of the car ahead and tossed a carefully folded chunk of cardboard into the hole, then joined it a few minutes later. This one was fairly clean, and my thoughts turned to a not-so-clean cubbyhole I rode in a few years earlier that had a dead seagull inside, which I didn't notice for quite awhile because of the darkness.

Getting as comfortable as I could given the confines of the compartment, I unscrewed the cap of a very new release from Ernest & Julio and tried to relax as best I could. Before long the car began to creep forward and I was tremendously relieved to discover that there were no flat wheels anywhere near me, as it would have been miserable to have to retrieve my pack, jump down, find another car, and climb up and manage to stash my gear and myself before we got up to the footbridge. Hidden where I was, and hopefully where the other tramps were too, there was no way the Bull could see us, but I was still a little nervous as we wiggled closer and closer to the mainline. I had no idea where the footbridge was, but soon we passed under it and sure enough the back of my car was spotlighted from above, but only for a few seconds as we passed. There was no way that I could know for certain if we were spotted, and I unconsciously awaited the dreaded application of the brakes, but it never came. Unfortunately I had to pee like crazy, and caution was thrown to the wind as I extricated myself and peed over the side as best I could as we wobbled along at harmonic rocking speed. In minutes we jolted forward and began to follow the edge of Puget Sound, and I knew we'd finally gotten out of town without any problems.

I assumed the tramps were doing the same things I was — bringing my pack over from the other car and getting settled for a long ride. I wasn't sure how far it was to Everett, but that was where the line split, with one line going up to Blaine, WA and eventually Canada, and the other turning east and crossing the Cascades on the way to Spokane. I refrained from completely unpacking my gear until I found out for sure that we were indeed headed east, so I sat up and drank wine for an hour or so until we slowed down coming into what I assumed was Everett. Highway signs indicated that it was, and shortly we began a long sweeping curve to the right, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Although I never got a chance to look back along the entire train, it seemed like an empty grain train on its way back to the Midwest somewhere, so I didn't think that we had any reason to stop and work along the way. As this comforting thought was swirling around in my brain, we slowed down and stopped near a small yard on the outskirts of town.

The fact that we didn't drop the air immediately was a good sign — we were probably just waiting for another train to pass, so I climbed down and walked back to check on the two tramps. They were, as I thought, sorting their gear, glad to be able to sit upright once again. Soon we were joined by another tramp who literally emerged from the shadows alongside the train. He said that he was a homeguard camped a little ways away, and just came over to see who else was riding through. He told us that this grain train was a pretty regular event, almost always stopping here about this time to wait for two hotshots coming down from the Cascades. He invited us back to his camp to hang out, but I was reluctant to leave the proximity of my car, and, since I was the one with the wine, the two tramps were as reluctant to leave as I was. The homeguard's eyes lit up as I reached over to offer him some wine, and he too decided that it was unnecessary to hang out anywhere but right where we were. Fortunately, in the spirit of sharing, the two tramps brought down some peanut butter and a loaf of white bread, and we all sat along the ballast, eating, drinking, and bullshitting. After two filling peanut butter sandwiches, a perfectly timed short pig train came by on the main, followed about 15 minutes later by a much longer doublestack. We all stood up and passed around the last of the wine, then went our separate ways — the two tramps sharing the back of a grainer and the homeguard back into the darkness. I climbed back up and rolled out my bag, glad that I didn't have to share the car with anyone else.

Soon we were rolling east, but I had no idea how far it was until we got to the Cascades and apparently a very long tunnel, but the gentle rocking of the train did its job, and I was soon asleep. The next thing I remember is a loud roaring sound and the smell of diesel exhaust. This must be the tunnel, I thought, so this must mean that we're in the mountains, too. I never even felt us slowing down for the foothills — nothing like White Port to inspire a deep sleep. I remembered hearing, from several individuals, that the tunnel was anywhere from 5 or 6 to almost 8 miles long. I figured that at the speed we were going, it wouldn't take more than a ½ hour to make it through, so I glanced at my watch, then burrowed down into my sleeping bag to ride it out.

The roaring suddenly stopped, and it seemed to be lighter outside, so I peeked my head out and saw the high walls of a deep canyon with a strip of stars overhead. Satisfied that I had emerged from the dreaded Cascade Tunnel unscathed, I sat up for awhile and enjoyed the night air, but then it was back to sleep. Just my luck that I'd pass through the scenic parts of the line at night, I thought.

I woke up thinking that someone was breathing very close to my face, but it was just the warm air of Eastern Washington on a sunny morning. We were in the middle of a long U-turn and I was finally able to see the end of the train, confirming my impression that this was a solid empty grain train. This was a good thing, as they sometimes had higher priority than regular junkers, and they didn't get stuck in every yard dropping off or picking up cars. From where I was I could see nothing but flat prairie-like land on every side, so to alleviate boredom I started in on a new bottle of White Port, a great way to start any day. The morning was spent trying to determine why anyone would want to live out here, and I was relieved to see what ended up being Spokane in the distance. I packed away the wine, rolled up my bag, and got ready to detrain when we got to a suitable spot. My plan was to get off here and take a southbound down to Pasco, then over to Wishram, and down to California, making a big loop of Oregon and Washington, for what that was worth.

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