The Cascades at 80 mph From a Train
The Cascades at 80 mph From a Train was about another extreme weather event that inspired an image much later in my life. My previous two blog posts were about such events lodged in my memory (Green Monster Mountain, and Three Twisters on the Horizon) and they were all created in one gigantic burst of outpouring that I cannot explain. These things happen to artists, I suppose. Who knows why certain memories come to the fore, wanting to be realized on paper or canvas or clay or stone?
I have ridden a lot of trains. I hopped on a slow one as a teenager in Northern Wisconsin. It was either the Soo Line or the Tomahawk Trail. I hung on to it and rode a ways, then walked the tracks home.Years later, I bought actual tickets and rode the Trans-Canada Line across the country from Thunder Bay to Prince Rupert, British Columbia, or Vancouver, multiple times. The photo shown here is from one of those trips, on my way to Alaska. When I first met my husband he had been riding unofficially on the Burlington Northern Line and one winter he took me along. Neither of us had any money, so it was not much of a choice. It was, however, an experience I now treasure. The starting point wasMinot, ND, and the destination was Seattle.
First step was to hang out in the railroad yard without being spotted and harassed by the “Bull” who was there to prevent just such riding. We put anything that looked remotely valuable in Ron’s old backpack so as not to invite theft or trouble. I had two fried egg sandwiches for the trip, and my sleeping bag. We met some drifters, shared wine and cigarettes, and Ron tried to glean information. He knew that a train going non-stop over the Rockies would require a certain number of engine cars with certain numbers on it. A nice railway worker (who surreptitiously asked me if I was okay) gave us a tip, and when we thought we spotted the right number we climbed in an open boxcar. It was intensely cold. Ron explained that we would huddle in the upwind side and use the downwind side for any necessaries. He also used ice to pack a metal boxcar part against one of the doors to prevent us getting locked in if the doors closed on us. I hunkered down in my bag and my sandwiches (in my bag) were frozen within hours. Thus began the darkest and scariest internal organ-blending ride of my life! It went on for what seemed like days! At one point, Ron figured we must be nearing the tunnel, a mile long tunnel through the mountains that was a landmark. Ron had learned from drifters that one old hobo trick was to take an inflated pool air mattress and breathe from it in the event that exhaust filled the tunnel and threatened asphyxiation. After we survived the tunnel, he assumed we were crossing the Cascades. I could see out the open boxcar a blizzard of white and wind, blowing into curves the spindly firs of the high boreal forest. Eventually, we found that our car had come to a stop, apparently in the middle of nowhere in near pitch blackness. As I continued to curse at him (which had been ongoing) he attempted to get his feet into frozen boots, but they would go in only partway. We had absolutely no idea if our section of cars had been abandoned in some godforsaken yard, or what! He thought he saw reflected water. When he jumped down from the car, he tripped on the boots and fell end over end down a little talus slope. Thinking quick on his frozen stockinged feet, he thought to taste the water body he had landed near. It was salt water! We gave thanks that we had made it to the coast! But was it Prince Rupert or Vancouver or Seattle or what? We followed the tracks towards a dim light on a pole which turned out to be a factory rear yard, where we yelled “Where are we?” to a security guy. Everett, Washington. Hours later, I looked at myself in a cafe bathroom mirror and I had aged from 20 to 40 years. It took several days for my cursing at Ron to cease. Then, like all the adventures he has taken me on, it became a favorite memory.
