Iowa, my Iowa! - part 3

As good as my ride was, there always comes a time on a train trip when you ask yourself "Should I stay on this junker, or bail off at the next crew change and wait for a hotshot?" It was a comfortable ride, and we seemed to be making good time, but this was double-track territory (or is it "two main tracks?"... whatever) and every so often I'd get passed on the fly by an intermodal train, sometimes even going in the same direction! I was tempted to simply jump from my train to the other several times, but decided that it might not pan out exactly as I imagined it would.

Leaning back against my pack, with little to eat and less to drink, I decided to change trains in Boone, our first stop, then (hopefully) catch a faster train in North Platte, preferably on a car with functioning springs. I'd stopped there before on the way back from an earlier trip to Iowa, and knew that there was a store near the yard that actually sold real beer. I could get some water that was cold, bread that was soft, and cheese that... I don't know, actually resembled cheese. The weather was fine — not nearly so humid as in Britt, and if I got stuck in the yard for a few hours I didn't care.

After another blissful nap I woke up as we slowed down and looking ahead I could actually see what looked like a real town, not just another of those block-long communities of brick buildings and no people. A highway sign confirmed that we were entering North Platte and I rolled up my gear and prepared to de-train. At least I wouldn't have to bail off at speed, as we slowed to a crawl immediately and plunged deeper and deeper into an incredibly large freightyard. My God, this yard never ends! Just as we emerged from between two strings of cars into an open area we re-entered another group of cars and crawled along between them for another 10 minutes before repeating the process. There really wasn't enough room between the cars to get off with my cardboard, so, getting tired of watching the sides of freightcars go by at a snail's pace, I gingerly lowered my cardboard as low as I could on the ladder and released it as carefully as I would an egg, only to watch it pirouette in an arc and land on the rail, getting immediately sliced in two. Hoping that I wouldn't face a similar fate, I carefully dropped down to the ground and walked back to recover my cardboard. Except for a greasy diagonal gouge, it remained serviceable, and I made my way over to the edge of the yard to get my bearings. As often happens, my train stopped for good about 1 minute after I got off, and at a spot where I wouldn't have had to cross over several strings of cars to make my exit.

I found the convenience store without much trouble and gleefully ran around restocking my food/drink supply. Plodding along with a now much heavier pack, I scanned the yard for strings of cars that looked like they'd be headed west. Soon the approach of 4 units made the choice for me, and fortunately there were lots of what looked like loaded grainers to select from. Any thoughts of waiting by the mainline for a hotshot evaporated as I thought of the huge cheese sandwiches I could now assemble, so I picked a clean ride and climbed aboard. Joining the two pieces of cardboard as best I could, I decided to take care of the culinary tasks now, before we started moving, but I barely had time to lay out the bread and cheese before we aired up and started to pull. It proved to be a false alarm as we stopped, then backed up on an adjacent track to pick up more cars. With two huge sandwiches made, I cleaned up the "kitchen" and prepared the "refrigerator", an old tramp trick I learned. I brought out my spare pair of socks and rolled each of them down to cover a 16oz can of beer, then placed them over on the end of the car where they would be in the wind when we got moving. Pouring some water over each one not only did a marginal wash for my socks but aided in evaporative cooling as we sped along the tracks. Once underway my little science experiment proved to be a success! I watched afternoon turn into evening with a full stomach and a couple of cold beers, certainly a step up from the day before. Once I get to Utah or Nevada I could really celebrate with another bottle of White Port, but I was still in the Midwest, and had to play by Midwest rules.

I remember stopping during the night in what must have been Cheyenne and noting that it was actually cool compared to the last few nights, a sure sign that I was getting closer to home rails. I actually had to zip up my sleeping bag a little later as we crossed what I assumed to be the Continental Divide. I tried to imagine what things looked like around here in the middle of the Winter, but sleep overtook me and I could only dream about it. The next morning I woke up as we entered the Salt Lake metropolitan area, such as it is. Bypassing Ogden, a half hour later and we entered the Salt Lake freightyard. I leaned over the side of the car to talk to a car knocker who was going by on a small tractor and he said that part of my train was going to Portland, and the rest to Stockton, but he didn't know how long it would take for the work to be done. When I told him that I was headed to California he said that an Oakland-bound piggyback would be stopping for a crew change in about a half hour on the main, which was on the other side of the yard. He even told me about how long those trains have been recently, and pointed out that if I waited near some big oil storage tanks I would be far enough away from the freight office and they wouldn't be able to see me get on. I thanked him profusely, then made my way over to the mainline and located the tanks, where I squatted down behind an asphalt berm and waited for my train.

Apparently I wasn't the first person referred to this spot by friendly yard workers — adorning a wooden box containing a fire hose were numerous scribblings from prior tramps, including one poor schmuck who'd been stuck there for three days. I'll never know if he ended up catching out or his Magic Marker dried up. This was a good spot to wait — there was a sort of containment berm around the tanks in case they sprung a leak, I assumed, and if you kept a low profile then nobody driving by could see you, and the freight office was just out of sight around a corner — almost as if someone planned it this way. Sure enough, just as I settled down to wait a piggyback train pulled in, with the tops of the trailers visible above the berm. Stealthily I climbed over onto the dirt road that parallelled the mainline and walked back to a likely-looking ride, climbing up and shoving my pack onto one axle and scrunching myself above the other.

Fervently hoping for a quick crew change because of my uncomfortable position, we crept away a few minutes later and picked up speed immediately, when I unstuck myself and dragged my pack behind the wheels to set up camp. Looking back I could affirm what the carman told me about the train length — this one had maybe thirty cars or less, and I made a mental note not to stray too far if I got off to pee during a meet. I never got the chance because we made great time around the lower end of the Salt Lake and never stopped until the crew change in Elko. Leaving town I polished off the remaining beers and settled down for that comfortable sleep that you can only get on intermodal trains made up of 5-pack cars, meaning much less slack action than on a conventional train.

part 4 of 4→