It had all started out so well. A weekend get-a-way with the family. Camping below Mt Baker in the National Forest. With our spot staked out, it was clear looking around the campground that other vacationers had the same good notion. It also became abundantly clear that many had brought full coolers of alcohol. Riotous displays of fireworks soon exploded and the bangs fractured the peaceful spot.
Suzette was not enjoying the patriotic celebration by the highly inebriated campers. Being a very sensitive yet loyal hound, she went into a hyper manic mode attempting to deal with the evident danger that we did not seem to be aware of.
Our Dad determined that the best recourse was to drive Suzette back home ( three hours round trip) while we settled in, and Mom made dinner on the Coleman stove.
As the rolling freight car jolted me awake, the door seemed to have moved. On my next levitation as the train ran over another bad section of track, I realized the door was slowing closing with each jolt and if it continued on its trajectory, it would close me in for good.
When I jumped aboard to ride the rails from the Chicago freight yard to the Northwest, I checked the door and it was stuck open. This was becoming the nightmare scenario naysayers had warned me about. “What if you get stuck inside and no one finds you for weeks…and by then you’re a goner!” The railroad workers had given me a ride on a working rail yard engine to the train (advising me to stay on the side opposite the rail yard control tower to avoid management scrutiny). They found me a Hot Shot bound for the Northwest that would shoot straight through to my destination in a matter of days. They dropped me off and generously suggested I pick any freight car. I checked several…this one was too dirty, that one might have an unknown occupant (though I did not stick my head in) and finally I found my suitable chariot, with one door closed and the other stuck open for a view. I would have ventilation without vicious cross-winds chilling me to the bone. (This was October and there was frost on some cars.)
I tossed my Gerry Back Pack up and hoisted myself in. The place was immaculate except for a few 2×4’s. The back pack was a bit of a liability since it was brand new. I had tried to age it considerably by rubbing mud onto the fabric before taking off on my expedition, but it was no hobo swag. There was very little chance I would blend in with a hobo crowd.
An acquaintance who had ridden the rails across Canada had warned me to avoid security personnel aka “Bulls”, yet the experience for him had been totally rewarding. For the first leg of my global travels, this looked promising. In Chicago I had stopped by the Burlington Northern headquarters and got a map of the railroad system just to get a sense of direction. I was still uncertain where this trek was to take me but I knew I had to break from the “expected” course of a career that had been shaping my future. Having spent those college break summers doing monkey research in the field (Puerto Rico, St Kitts, and Colombia), I was seen as having launched into a career path with gusto by others in the academic community. I was digging myself a career track that seemed unlikely to be as creative as I had hoped – much as I enjoyed trekking through tropical forests. I did not want to get stuck in a rut.
Reorienting my internal compass might take a real shake-up. Uprooting from all that was familiar and comfortable could land me in deep shit or shift my bearings enough to seek new purposes for my life. The academic life, though successfully achieved by my father, was beginning to look a bit claustrophobic for me. The Hobo life was probably not the choice preferred by my family.
I was as prepared as I thought necessary. Besides the sturdy pack, I had a Gerry mummy sleeping bag, a one-person tent, a mini-stove with cup and plate, flashlight, hunting knife (and fork plus spoon), jeans, socks, underwear, shirts, hiking boots, rain gear, down jacket, gloves, warm hat and sufficient food items to get me across the country (as long as it did not take more than three or four days.) And toiletries to deal with ablutions on the road. How to take a crap on a moving freight car was still a mystery to be solved.
THE DOOR WAS CLOSING. I now had to take some desperate action but what.
“And when on the still cold nights, he pointed his nose at the North Star and howled long and wolf like, it was his ancestors, dead and dust, pointing nose at the North Star and howling down through the centuries and through him.” [The Call of the Wild by Jack London]
Our last night on the trek in the wagon across America, did not start out well. The sun had set and we were late in locating out campground, Dad took a wrong turn on the way to the campsite. Once he realized the error in reading the map in the dark, we were on a single lane road climbing up the mountain…with no space to turn around. Mom was on the outside looking down…way down into the valley below. She did not like heights. She was not happy. It did not help that we kept pointing out the distant, tiny lights way below.
No way to back down with the trailer. There was nothing to do but keep heading up. And UP. And UP. We were doomed.
Finally we reached the end of the road at a fire tower. And there was room to turn around. We were saved.
On my safe return to the family, the group was very relieved. In appreciation, Dad gave me one slap on the butt for all my pathfinding. I was so confused. I thought I had done the right thing in heading from the point of no return to our last known place of contact. But I guess I was guilty of abandoning the team when it faced the insurmountable odds of survival. Next time I would speak out and rally the troops. All for One and One for All.
Whittoons 