Wednesday

Wednesday April 12
4 am
Gully

For a while the tarp kept me dry. I think I slept a bit, early on...I could hear the rain coming down, then stopping. Then resuming, but different now, lighter but also heavier if you can believe that...a pit, not a pat. It was dark, and I had no flashlight, but I knew what that sound meant: snow.

The awareness of being snowed on, plus the cold, equalled not much sleep from then on. Then, after a couple hours of self-pity, with dawn still to come, I hear air brakes and a horn. Another engine coming in, Southbound - this has to be the one. I reach up for my jeans, and they were frozen, two solid crunchy tubes. I put them on over my green pants; I put on every shirt I've got, plus an extra pair of socks. Then, peering up the ridge, I see that the unit is in fact Northbound. I retreat into my sleeping bag.

Then the train stops, right above me. Then it reverses. Now it starts lumbering back and forth, coupling and uncoupling again, this goes on a long time. I love this sound - I grew up next to the train tracks, and the chugging clatter lulled me to sleep every night. Through the freezing eyehole of my bag, I watch the movement of the lights and listen to the stainless steel lullaby, drifting in and out of lucidity. Eventually, I can tell the sun is up - not from any rise in temperature, but because of the syncopated bird chorus that erupts. Almost too horrified to look, I lift the bag from my head.

There is a good inch of snow. It has covered the foot of my sleeping bag, it sits sagging above me in the tarp. It's caked my backpack. It's everywhere. Let's pack up and forget this situation as fast as possible.

Wednesday April 12
7 am
The tracks

I clamber up to the tracks, and follow the train North, away from the yard, to see if the engine was on that end - nope. This train is Southbound. I maneuver down the street to the other end of the yard, where the engine is running. I scope things out. Lots of auto cars, which are no good for riding; the only hospitable cars are toward the front: some grainers, boxcars mostly closed, and farther back, a small section of gondolas, heaped with snow. There should be something rideable here; but to catch out, I have to run across the tracks, well south of the engine.

Immediately after this, I see that the forklift at the other end of the yard has turned and is headed in my direction, fast. Did they see me? What is it doing? I don't know, but paranoia has taken over. So I run like hell, heading south for the highway, where I continue walking briskly, panting, trying to look innocent. The forklift drives right past me, gives me a dirty look, but doesn't stop. I keep walking for quite a while before deeming it safe to turn around and re-enter the yard.

There is a truck parked across the tracks - is this security? I hide in a strange, long indentation in the ground, and wait for the train to move. It's a long run out to the Southbound track, and my pack is pretty heavy with that gallon of water - can I make it out before the rideable cars are past? Can I keep pace with the train? I grit my teeth as I see the train moving forward. I crouch down and prepare to sprint as it comes closer, picking up speed. It takes forever for the engine to pass. As soon as it does I bolt out and head for the train. The grainers are long gone - my only hope are the gondolas, and the long, rickety ladders up the side to the top. I don't think security has seen me. Now there's only one gondola in reach, so it's now or never. Running furiously alongside the train, I grab on to the ladder with my hand, pull up, and step on to the bottom rung. I clamber up quickly, and hurl myself into the basin of the car.

I'm in. I'm going.

Wednesday April 12
9 am
Southbound

Immediately after I was ensconced on board, the train stopped and reversed. Had they seen me? Was I in trouble? I heard some chatter, laid low, and read my book. Soon enough, we were off again - this time for real.

Mine is the only gondola whose load isn't steaming. It's some kind of metallic slag, small shavings of something or other, hopefully not radioactive. It is piled close to the top of the car, but there's about a three foot trench at the front, so I wedge myself in, laying the tarp down to keep dry. The sun's coming out, and it warms me a bit, although the air is still cool.

It's fun riding past crossings and gazing over at stopped cars. I wonder if any of them see me, but don't care much. From the tracks, you see the backside of every town - the real scuzz, the kind of dirt and decay that thrills me to no end. I don't quite understand this attraction of mine to industrial decomposition...I tend to talk about it in ideological terms - evidence of the impermanent nature of corporate rule. but I think it has more to do with the "take-apart center" we had in kindergarten, where we gutted old radios and TVs to look at the insides. It's primal, playful. There are no rules back here, for better or worse.

Wednesday April 12
10 am
Middle of nowhere

About fifteen minutes later, the train wheezes to a halt. AGAIN. I lay low, hear some clicking and clanking, and peer ahead to see the train driving ahead - without me. It has uncoupled from the whole line of cars, leaving it where it stands, next to another silent chain of boxcars on the next track. Panicking, I get off, whereupon the strap of my backpack breaks. Then I see that it is reversing to couple with the other train; it advances again, and rejoins with my line of cars, now far in the rear.

By now I have learned my lesson: if a train does weird shit, it is probably recoupling. It also means that this train is probably a service run and is not going too far. But I want to know for sure; so, acting as innocent as possible, I backtrack alongside the train and approach the train worker, who is checking the couplings. We look each other over, and I speak:

"Where you headed?
"Johnsonsburg."
"Where's that?"
"Oh, it's about fifty miles up the line, in Pennsylvania. We're ditching these cars there."
"Oh yeah. Yup, I'm headed for Washington DC."
"DC? You're heading the wrong way." (I had approached him from the South.)
"Oh...uh, well, where's the highway?"
"Over there. Shouldn't be too hard to hitch a ride."
"Thank you."

My mission to gain an invitation into the engine - I hear it works sometimes, really! - has failed. So I walk away from the train and into the adjoining field...and, as soon as he heads back for the engine, I bust ass back to my gondola - now totally remote from the front of the train, not to mention stationary, hopping was more casual. No way I'm going to give up a guaranteed ride for another 50 miles.

And the journey is gorgeous - a slow drive through the mountains, mostly off road, along rickety old tracks, through sprawling gray forests, past dead demolished train yards, over iron bridges. In fact it was more like 100 miles, and it makes me understand why I have been so driven to do this, sitting on top of this enormous load, eating chick peas and sugar cookies. This is the final frontier. I'm flying high.

Wednesday April 12
1 pm
Johnsonsburg, PA

The train starts to slow down. We have reached our destination. Slowly emerging from the unbroken greenery, I look ahead and see a bizarre, enormous edifice - an impossibly high, tent-shaped structure of tubes, running an incredible length, dwarfing me and the train, like nothing I've ever seen before. The train grinds to a halt; I hurl my pack overboard, clamber down and scurry up the hill and into the trees.

It is atop this hill, having changed out of my slag-stained outer layer into something relatively civilian-looking, that I see what this thing across the tracks is. it is a chip mill. The horizontal pipe at the top of the vast supports leads to a series of funnels, which spew out wood chips into impossible piles perhaps a hundred feet high, maybe more. As I clamber forward along the hillside, I stare at this nasty piece of work in slack-jawed amazement. Two days earlier I was composing a soundtrack to the story of these things -now here I am face to face with one. I get totally emotional.

Chip mills, FYI, take mature growth forests and reduce them to tiny chips for the pulp-paper industry - the absolutely worst, most wasteful, pointless way to destroy a forest. You don't need a hundred-year-old tree to create a fragment of fibre. Why not hemp, or something? They create very little employment, too, and it's not long before they use up all of a region's resources and get the hell out. They're evil, straight up - I'm standing in the shadow of The Enemy.

They do not, however, have any visible security, and once I figure out that all available trains are bound for Pittsburgh, I amble down the hillside, across the tracks, and through the gates without any questions from anybody. Out front, I take note of the owners of this monstrosity - Willammette.

I could definitely go for a sub right now, but I end up walking away from the center of town, and out for the highway. My hobo bible points to an active train yard down in the West Virginia panhandle. I will hitch-hike that far, and from there I will hop out for Baltimore.

Wednesday April 12
3 pm
Highway outside of Johnsonsburg, PA

My lunch was three peanut butter sandwiches at a sorry little picnic-table area on the outskirts of town. I had to walk a long way to find a decent hitching spot, but here it is: At the top of a long, straight hill, with a few metres of paved shoulder left ahead of me and enough sunshine to keep me relatively comfortable. It's cool, so I've had to put my smutty train clothes back on, which will not endear me to the motorists; I try to compensate with a big ridiculous grin.

Obviously I haven't hitched for a while; half an hour of thumb-wagging has me convinced that I will never get picked up. But as usual I am rescued, today by Brian. He has just started working in Johnsonsburg as an auto mechanic, which he considers a step up from the shop in his home town, one hour away. He is a Vicarious Thrills ride, says he's never been out of state, but has always wanted to hitch-hike. He's a good guy.

Wednesday April 12
4:30 pm
Brockway, PA

Brian lets me out at the 7-11 in this town, which is tinier than Johnsonsburg. He says if I'm still on the highway when he's through visiting his girlfriend, he'll pick me up as he continues South. I am pretty sure that this will happen.

Once I'm past the decrepit ex-movie theatre - the highlight of every small town - and a stunningly enormous and incongruous mystery mansion, Brockway gives way to a long climbing hill. I know I will never be able to hitch on this hill - there is no shoulder, and one lane both ways barely leaves room for me to walk. So I lose myself in my book, tramping slowly upward as I bury my nose in the author's first encounter with Woody Allen.

This is the longest hill I have ever seen; my ascent continues for at least 45 minutes. Habitually, I scan the sides of the road for sleeping areas, but the hillside is almost sheer. There is a narrow ledge below the road, however, and there I see at least four bleached deer skeletons. This makes me wonder: did they wander down here after the car hit them, or did the street sweeper deposit them there? Either way, grimacing skulls do not spell hospitality, so I keep slogging.

The big hill ends but the road keeps going slowly up, widening out to three lanes but still no shoulder. I pass a private school, hydro-company lawns, and a small cluster of retirement cottages. I start to worry that Brian has passed me already; where the hell's the shoulder? The answer comes half a mile ahead, in front of a 'drive-in' restaurant with fll seating and a ten-year-old giving me the thumbs up through the window.

It's getting on dinner time by now, so I am tempted to go in for food. But I know I have to wait out here, or Brian will miss me. Come to think of it, I can't remember what Brian's truck looks like. And my stupid grin is losing conviction as the vehicles whizz by. I start to wonder if I'll be stuck here for a while. Will I get to DC in time? How much will I miss? That's what I get for not planning better.

Twenty minutes mass, and as I continue craning my neck behind me to watch cars that aren't pulling over, I see a guy jogging down the street, from a fair distance. I ignore him and keep on thumbing; but as he gets closer I hear him call out:

"Hey, don't you know hitch-hiking is illegal?"

Oh, fuck, worst-case scenario. Now I'll have to explain myself. I turn around to address the Yankee jogger - and there, staggering to a halt, is my friend Dave.

I have (in SJ #1) documented numerous freakish coincidences in my travels - running into the same friends twice in two middle-of-nowheres a thousand miles apart; meeting friends-of-friends on BC back roads. But this is different. I'm in the middle of the United States; I'm well off the main highway; I'm not even supposed to be hitching! And yet, standing in front of me is my activist buddy from Toronto. This is the #1 greatest coincidence of all time!

We embrace before I can think, but that doesn't last long. I need answers - what the hell is he DOING here? Leased a van for DC, as it turns out, with a bunch of friends and some help from OPIRG-York; driving past, he just happened to see me on the shoulder.

Dave offers me a ride to Washington.

Wednesday April 12
6:30 pm
Dark highway

The van is so jam-packed that I have to sit in between seats on the floor, but I don't care. I've got a ride to DC, and I'm with friends! In fact, I only recognize two passengers: Dave, and Jesse, a former resident at one of Toronto's premier bohemian party pads. Soon enough I recognize Chris too - he had been present at one of the few internet collective meetings I had bothered to attend.

The others are all strangers from York: Anthony, Kole, Maria and Meredith, whose dark curly hair and narrow, intense features remind me of my aunt - except my aunt can drive.

Despite the advancing hours, everyone is still excited and energetic. We are quietly speculating about what lies ahead. Will it be crazy like Seattle? Will we shut down the IMF/World Bank meetings? What role would we play - direct action, labour march, medical? Anything goes.

We finally stop at a 'family restaurant' (that means something different in the States) called Aunt Lu's, which does have a salad bar and vegetarian soup, so the vegetarian half of our group is pacified. We come up with a great slogan for them: "You can't lose at Aunt Lu's!"

Huddled among the cheesy old baseball and black-and-white movie star pictures, I lean into a pay phone and call Siue, to tell her my situation. She can't believe it either.

Thursday April 13
2:30 am
Washington DC

We are driving in circles around the confusing one-way streets of Washington. Somewhere in here is Kole's mother, who will put us up for the night. I normally hate city driving, but tonight I barely notice, because the city is Washington DC and I am HERE. The long stretch of forested highway on the way in only intensifies my sense of disbelief - makes this feel like a hidden fortress, a remote outpost.

The apartment, once we find it, is a tiny one-bedroom in a high rise - and it must sleep nine of up. Kole had mentioned in the car that his mom actually worked for the IMF in some capacity; so I had fears of Dumb Parent Syndrome; but she is impossibly hospitable, practically doting over us, and tonight ideology is not an issue. Sleep is what we need, and with my still-soggy sleeping bag on the hard floor I grab a few paltry winks.