The Way of the Land - part 3

Sometime during the night we stopped and I could hear handbrakes being set, which told me that we must be at the border. The maps I looked at before I left showed the towns of Eastport, Washington and Kingsgate, British Columbia straddling the border at this point. If there were towns here they must be small, because it sure looked like we were in the middle of a forest. I went back to sleep, hoping that we would at least wait until daylight before we left so I could see everything.

I woke up at first light and we were still in the same spot, although I suppose that we could have moved sometime during the night and stopped again, as it would be difficult to tell if I was looking at "new" trees or the same trees as before. I got up and dressed, then walked up to the head end and sure enough there was a small "town" here, and up ahead there was a tall flagpole with the Canadian flag, which further supported what I already knew. The engines had been cut away from the train, and even though I was still in the US I kept out of sight, mostly from habit, as the possibility of this place having its own police department was negligible. I returned to my grainer and reached into my pack for the small bag containing my wad of Canadian money. Ceremoniously I took out the American money from my wallet and replaced it with the "funny" bills. Satisfied that I was about as Canadian as I was going to get, I equally ceremoniously opened my remaining bottle of White Port and toasted the morning, the trees, and anything else that looked like it needed a good toasting.

Sometime later I heard the unmistakable "footsteps on the gravel", so I stashed the bottle and sat upright, projecting an air of nonchalance as best I could, while hoping that the footsteps belonged to a member of the outbound crew and not a cop or sheriff. Suddenly a very large man in pin-striped overalls appeared next to me and we both jumped at the same time. Apologizing for startling him, I blurted out "Good morning!" in my best Canadian accent. Regaining his composure, he smiled and returned the greeting. If you could stuff Santa Claus into a pair of railroad overalls this would be the result. He began with stating that he hasn't seen many "hoboes" (as he called me) up this way, and inquired as to where it was that I was headed to. Taking a deep breath, I told him about my lifelong interest in Canada and all things Canadian, only not in those words. When it was his turn to talk, he began a predictable litany of the dangers involved in riding trains, with specifics relating to the line we were on. He elaborated on how long it would take me to get up to the mainline, as he would only be on the train for a few hours, then another crew would take it a few more hours north, then possibly a third crew until the train got me to my connection with Vancouver. I quickly realized that I was now in branch line territory. To bolster my interests, I reached for my wallet and flashed my stash, which got a very positive reaction, as he stated emphatically that it was more money than he had on him at that time and wished me luck on my journey, then made his way down the train, checking for whatever it is that they check for.

Retreating into solitude as he left, I felt as though an objective decision had to be made, or at least thought about. Did I really have time to get all the way to Vancouver and back in the next 4 or 5 days? I'd traveled all the way up to the border and it seemed silly to turn around now, but soon the southbound CP train would pull down and stop alongside my train, and it would clearly be decision time. Before I could make up my mind the conductor (brakeman?) returned on the opposite side of my car and I asked him about how the trains switched crews here. He said that as soon as the southbound pulled down and cleared then he'd take my train north. I asked him if the southbound would stop or crawl by and he said that he didn't know, as he was never in this area when the southbound was, which made sense. OK, so now it was crunch time — I would gather up my stuff and watch the southbound for rides — if there were some I would catch it on the fly in case it didn't stop, and if there weren't any I would get back on my train and take my chances in Canada.

Standing there waiting for the train to pull down I realized that I had very little US money left, as I was counting on converting any unused Canadian bills back into US money in Vancouver. This represented a serious case of poor planning, and I vowed to figure out a better way of dealing with money the next time I headed for Canada. Before I could dwell on this much longer the southbound came into view and I became intensely focussed on the events in front of me. In a matter of a minute or two the events of the next several days could change dramatically. Fortunately there was a good deal of room between the two tracks, and I stood there as the southbound passed, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. There were lots of closed boxcars at first, then the unmistakable profile of an approaching grainer. This was it — I was surprisingly neutral as the car came closer and closer. If it was a good ride, I hoped that it was at least facing the right way, but it wasn't. I leaned over as far as I could to see cars behind it but there was a slight curve ahead and I saw nothing but more boxcars. Suddenly an inaudible thunderbolt cracked somewhere above me and I turned and began running up toward the passing grainer. Riding "in the wind" wouldn't be so bad up here as the speeds were fairly slow, and I reached the front end of the car about the time it was moving at a pretty good clip. The train never stopped, and looking back at points further down the line I saw that it was the only grainer on the train.

Even though I never actually set foot on Canadian soil, I considered the trip a success, and secretly thanked my conductor friend for putting things into perspective. Concentrating so hard on the end made me lose sight of the means, and hopefully I would become more balanced in planning future trips. As I finished the wine, I thought about waiting until a northbound train was passing and tossing my Canadian stash into a boxcar if I saw anyone inside, but it never happened...