Alimentary, My Dear Watson!

Meals enjoyed whilst train riding can be both a blessing and a curse. One extreme would certainly be sitting in the San Jose yard one morning with several wetbacks who just got off a train from LA. They walked over to me for directions, and since they didn't speak English and I didn't speak Spanish, it grew into a lengthy session of drawing a large map in the dirt using a railroad spike. When they were satisfied to the point of at least knowing what State they were in, a few of them started a small fire and began to cook chunks of meat they withdrew from a bundle of aluminum foil. This prompted me to bring out a bottle of Hearty Burgundy and a breakfast was begun. A piece of meat was offered to me and, not wanting to seem aloof, I took it and thanked them. As soon as I bit down on it a few of them began to chuckle, and I remember the word "perro" being used, but it made no sense to me at the time. Although the meat tasted pretty raunchy I smiled back and thanked them for sharing their food with me as I passed the wine around our little circle. Soon they finished off the meat and packed up what little belongings they collectively carried, and set off into the yard, while I packed up and walked into town to catch a bus. Years later I learned what "perro" meant...

A similar experience unfolded in the Oroville yard while waiting for an eastbound train. I got in the night before but bailed off to get supplies. Had a quiet sleep in a bad-ordered boxcar in the yard, and woke up to a beautiful June day ready to stock up on food and drink and catch out for Salt Lake. My memories of trying to find wine of any proof on Utah were dismal at best, so I planned on setting aside several days worth of alcohol while I was still in California. As I rolled up my gear I paused to think about how long it would take to get to Salt Lake and what time it might be when I got there. I didn't really want to arrive in the middle of the night, so I started counting back the travel hours to figure out when I should leave Oroville.

While I was lost in the calculations, two tramps walked over to me and called out if they could "come into camp". Impressed with their tramp manners, I waved them over and soon found out that two of their companions got arrested the night before for public drunkenness and, not knowing this, cooked up a large quantity of food for their group which they couldn't finish because their train was ready to leave. Holding out a soot-covered pot, they asked if I was hungry, adding that I could keep the pot, too. In the spirit of solving their dilemma, I graciously accepted the pot and thanked them, and made movements to suggest that I was ready to re-heat my new-found bounty and enjoy a great breakfast. Watching them disappear into the yard out of the corner of my eye, I returned my gaze to the pot as I lifted the lid and found myself staring at a huge piece of lasagna that smelled delicious. I didn't want to build a fire right then to heat it up because a trip to the liquor store held higher priority at that time, so I set the pot down and walked over to the store, planning on returning and having breakfast, but as I was walking back to the yard an eastbound train pulled up for a crew change, and all thoughts of having a hot meal and timing my Utah arrival went out the window. I piled onto the back of a grainer and in minutes I was on my way, with no chance of picking up the pot of lasagna before the train left. I could only hope that some tramp found it before it sat out too long in the June sun...

On a winter trip from Roseville to Ogden, I enjoyed a nice, warm ride in the second unit of an Oakland to Denver piggyback. After being especially careful when boarding the train in Roseville, I let my guard down going over the Sierra and the engineer saw me through the window. Shortly the conductor made his way back to the second unit and joined me inside. Fortunately I didn't have my gear strewn about the cabin, and he began by warning me to stay down and don't touch anything. One thing that I could "touch" was the cab heater, which he showed me how to operate. Next was a tour to the cramped bathroom, where I was admonished not to make "a mess". Last on the tour was the tiny refrigerator, and when he opened it up we both were surprised to see two large sandwiches wrapped in butcher paper and a bottle of Gatorade. He turned to me as if to ask if they were mine but I shook my head, and he surmised that they were left by the previous crew. Smiling, he turned toward the door and said "Finders... keepers" and added that he'd let the new crew in Sparks know that they had a "passenger", so keep my gear together in case they weren't as friendly.

After he left I quickly transferred the contents of the refrigerator to my pack, and resisted the urge to break out the wine until I was safely east of Sparks. The crew change was quick but nerve-wracking, and soon we were crossing the snow-covered basin and range geography for the rest of Nevada. I put the wine to good use, but saved the sandwiches (tuna and onions!) for another meal. Later that night, after rolling out my bag and cranking the heater up, I sat in the conductor's chair and enjoyed one of the sandwiches while watching a full moon come up over the frozen desert. Not all train trips are like this, but it only takes a few to balance out the all of the bad stuff...

After a week-long train trip to the midwest, I was in Stockton for the last train I had to catch before I got back to "home turf" in Oakland. I was wearing pretty much the same clothes that I started the trip with, and I wasn't looking forward to stuffing myself into a crowded BART car and a transit bus for the two hour ride home. After being on "train time" for days, I tried to re-adjust to normal time as I waited in the west end of the Western Pacific yard for a train. It was late afternoon and a small thunderstorm was developing over the yard, strengthened by the moist air from the coast merging with the dry air of the Central Valley. Mentally urging a train to manifest itself, I heard the sounds of approaching power and soon a pair of old F-units pulled out of the yard tracks and backed down to a string of piggybacks. I was looking for a cab ride with the weather deteriorating, but to enter the cab of the F-units required climbing up a ladder, putting myself out in the open for anyone to see. There was a ladder going up to the cab and another one farther back that led to the inside of the unit, but I had no idea if they were locked, and not much time to find out.

The units backed down to the train and a crewman walked over to cut the air in. I would be out in plain sight if I just waltzed over and climbed up the outside ladder, but I couldn't see any way of avoiding the crew. As luck would have it, a maintenance truck pulled up to the lead engine and the guy got out and began futzing with one of the air hoses. Soon he was joined by the engineer and conductor, and I had my moment of opportunity. All three of the men were on the right side of the engine, so I backtracked along a string of cars and climbed over the end sill, then walked back up along the left side of the engine. Without pausing, I climbed up the ladder to the back of the car and to my delight the door was unlocked. Turning sideways to squeeze in with my pack on, I quickly closed the door and gave my eyes time to adjust to the darkness.

Aside from the huge engine, there was a toilet against the wall and not much else. No walls for privacy, just a toilet seat. This became my "throne" as I took off my pack and put in my earplugs, because being a foot away from the engine was not only warm but loud! After a period of time I heard the brakes airing up and soon we were on our way for the last two hours of a long train trip. By now I was sweating enough that I took off my shirt that had served as a second skin for many days and draped it over a part of the engine to dry out. Remembering another shirt that I had put away "wet" a few days ago, I began to rummage around in my pack to dry out anything that might benefit from being dried out. In the process I discovered the remains of a bean and cheese burrito that had gravitated to the bowels of my pack from a convenience store in Nevada or Utah. With the rain beating down outside, I relaxed on the toilet seat while my clothes dried out and the burrito was washed down with a rather nouveau Hearty Burgundy. As I leaned back to put a few more inches between bare-chested me and the hot engine, I couldn't imagine a finer "dining establishment" than the one I was in now...