Riding the Möbius Line - part 3

Going over the Latah Creek bridge coming into Spokane, I wondered what it would be like if a train derailed up there. A big mess indeed. But we didn't derail and slowly made our way past the downtown area and eventually into the southern end of the freightyard. Here is where I needed to stay out of sight while we passed the yard office, while at the same time look around for any power on this end of the yard, which would indicate a train that might be going down to Pasco. It ended up that on the very next track to us there were several units coupled to a string of cars. I quickly switched sides of the grainer so I could check for rides and try to figure out if the train was going back to Seattle or heading south. There were a number of empty wood chip cars — a good thing since they might be returning to the Vancouver/Kelso area, and further back were some short brown hoppers lettered for Santa Fe, and I knew they were going back to Stockton, so I figured that it wasn't a Seattle train, and began to hop off my train and back onto the one on the next track.

The problem was that there was very little room between the two tracks, and until we slowed down a bit I didn't want to risk getting my beautiful piece of carefully rolled up cardboard caught on anything when I stepped down. Soon we dropped to a slow walking pace and, hanging on the ladder staring at the southbound train, I saw an empty bulkhead flat coming up. Not having seen any good rides go by so far, I decided to jump from my ladder to the deck of the bulkhead flat when it passed me. In a few seconds the bulkhead was right next to me so I just jumped over and ran like crazy and made the switch without a mishap. It was sort of like the hobo's version of landing a plane on an aircraft carrier.

Fortunately there were no cars on the track on the other side of my "new" train, so I climbed down and looked up and down for any other rides, but my bulkhead was the only thing resembling a good ride, so I stashed my pack in a small compartment on one end of the car and scrunched myself down in a corresponding spot on the opposite side of the coupler. Here I waited for maybe 15 minutes while another train came into the yard, this time pulling up on the previously empty track right next to me, and eventually we began to move. Flattening myself as best I could from the prying eyes near the freight office, we crossed over to the main and were on our way. I maintained a heightened state of vigilance, for what it was worth, until we got to the big bridge where the tracks split, but even if we did turn right and go back to Seattle there wasn't much I could do — we were going too fast to get off and even if I did jump it was a long, long way to the ground. To my profound delight we veered off to the left and I gathered my stuff and set up "camp" against the front bulkhead. Checking my stock of wine, it ended up being about 2 or 3 swallows left in one bottle, and only one more full one, so I knew that I'd have to get off in Pasco to restock.

The eastern half of Washington, like the eastern half of Oregon, was not a destination spot in anyone's travel itinerary, "Less'n yer a hog or a cattle", to paraphrase Owen in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. In probably 10 minutes or less you could see every kind of geographical feature in this entire half of the state. The lack of people was nice, though, and the last of my wine did much to enhance the overall experience. After a pleasant nap I got up to pee and saw what should be Pasco in the distance, so it was time to gather up my gear and mentally (and physically) prepare for the upcoming commando run. I knew of a market that sold wine on a street that paralleled the yard, but I would have to ride my train as far as I could into the yard, hoping there weren't any strings of cars between me and the frontage road, then sprint over to the market, grab some wine, and get back to my bulkhead before the train pulled out.

Since I was riding in the back of the train, it came to a stop well before I got as far as I wanted to, so it was get over to the road and walk as fast as I could toward the market barely visible in the distance. After sitting up for most of the 4 or 5 hour trip down from Spokane, the transition to walking, and walking fast was not as smooth as I had hoped, but eventually I reached the store, gathered up my bounty, paid the lady, stuffed everything into my pack, and hobbled across the street and into the yard. Fortunately there were no intermediate strings of cars to climb over, and I made it back to my bulkhead before we pulled out. Well before we pulled out. After sitting there for half an hour I could look back and see the market in the distance, and wonder why I didn't spent one more minute there and grab some bread and cheese.

This is pretty much how the next hour, and the hour after that went — I would try to get up the enthusiasm for another run at the market, but then realize that if my train started to pull out there were no other decent rides on the rear end, and I would be stuck in Pasco for who knows how long. Remembering my extended stay in Seattle, I resigned myself to making the best of my situation, and I made a final sandwich out of an egg-sized ball of congealed cheese and some white bread. There were even a few slices of bread left for "dessert". After achieving the height of boredom, I heard the cherished sound of air in the brakes. By now it was late afternoon and I cursed the Sun and the Earth for forcing me to stare at the void of Eastern Washington all day, and then bring on darkness when I was beginning a very scenic ride along the Columbia River.

We slowly wound our way out of the yard and eventually left the towns behind, with nothing to do but drink wine and watch the wide river go by on one side and rows of shadowy cliffs pass by on the other. Without the dips to cross over in Eastern Washington, which would force us to alternately slow down then speed up, the "water level" route we were on now made for faster speeds, and I reminded my self that in an hour or so we'd be coming into Wishram, where the tracks again split — with one line (the line I wanted) going left across the river on a big bridge, and the other line continuing on to Vancouver, Washington. Again I was faced with an important decision — if my train continued without crossing over into Oregon, I'd end up in Vancouver in the middle of the night, and the thought of waking up in the morning still in Washington was unpleasant, to say the least. What I hoped was that we'd go over to the Oregon side, then down the Deschutes River canyon and eventually Klamath Falls, and home.

By now it was almost too dark to see the head end of my train, and as we crawled to a stop for the crew change I tried to figure out some foolproof strategy to figure out which way my train was going. It was too far to walk up and ask the crew in the head end, and if I walked back to the caboose and the train pulled, I'd never make it back up to my car. Soon we started to pull up and change out the rear end crew, so I leaned over on the freight office side and when we drew alongside the new conductor, who was intent on watching every wheel for signs of sticking brakes or whatever, I yelled "Oregon?" as plaintively as I could, looking for some expression on his face indicating a "yes" or a "no". Unfortunately, my exclamation spooked him so much he took a few steps back in surprise, so I repeated "Oregon?", this time pointing across my shoulder at the far shore, and he smiled, nodded his head, pointed across the river, and went back to watching the wheels go by.

We stopped for the last time at the wye just before the bridge to throw the switch, and in a few minutes we began the long pull over the Columbia and finally off Washington soil. The moonless sky began to fill with stars, I began to fill with wine, and I was on home rails again...