Henry was an illusive individual. You would see him hanging aroundand then he would be gone. I would ask someone near by, “Have you seen Henry?”
Yeah, he was here.” was the answer. “I don’t know where he went. Just like him you know.”
Then a week later he would be back. I would ask him, “I thought I saw you last week at my party, but then later on I couldn’t find you.”
He would say something like, “I just dropped in. Didn’t know you were having a party. A little too crowded for me.” Then he would be gone and back again, unexpected and uninvited, sitting at my supper table, eating my food, and eye-balling my sofa. Yet he was a remarkable and indomitable young man. Even though he was unremarkable in looks he had a rugged handsomeness to him and an attitude that was simple and honest.
The girls congregated around him, attracted to his body but more to his unassuming nature and the shy way he had of hanging out in the background and watching, always watching.
He didn’t talk much, but always had an experience to share. In the winter he skied daily with a midweek ski pass at one of the local ski areas. In the spring and summer he hiked and climbed. One whole summer and fall he disappeared. Told no one where he was going or when he would be back. He turned up in Jimmies out door bathtub one evening in the fall washing off the dirt from the PCT after crossing the Cascade Mountains in Oregon. It took a month to earn the money for the food drops and a month to hike the state.
In the small community where we lived in the Sierras everybody knew everybody else and Henry had become a bit of a character. One winter he disappeared during the Christmas holidays and we didn’t see him for three months. He turned up at the end of February dripping rain on my floor and totally broke. The clothes on his back were threadbare and patched with duck tape. He was nothing but bones and skin. On his pack were skis and poles. On his feet he wore his only foot ware, mountaineering boots. His tent was torn to shreds and what was left he used to wrap around his pack.
“Where the hell have you been?” Harry asked, shocked at his appearance. “Are you O.K.?”
“Sking.” Henry answered in a hoarse whisper, around a hacking cough. Harry bedded him down and poured hot soup into him. He slept for threedays before he ate again. He looked up at Harry through bloodshot eyes and smiled a sad smile thanking him for his help. He told Harry that where he had come from was a glorious and beautiful place where he had finally failed. “I tried.” he said and it would have mattered, those few mortal words, if he would have immediately died, but he did not. People like Henry did not die, they just disappeared.
Henry liked to explore and travel during the night. To him the night drew the world in and at the same time provided a cloak. He told Harry this tale, late one night drinking his wine, while the wind blew and the snow flew horizontally through the light from the windows.
Henry was talking, again, about hopping freights in that easy rambling tone that emphasized how unimportant everything was. He had just told Harry how easily it would be to die on the wrong ride and had caught his attention, as he had meant to.
Now that Henry had Harry’s attention he paused and lingered on the death statement, fishing for a response. Harry had the impression that Henry didn’t share these stories with many people and in a sad way felt privileged. After all, this was the accumulation of an individuals life and no matter how unimportant it may sound it was still a persons’ life.
Harry played his game and asked what he meant by the death statement.
“Hotshots!” he repeated in a one word summation. In the following silence of the next minute they looked at each other as expressionless as possible. Neither would be the first to exhibit any emotion. It was Harry’s way by British birth and Henrys’ way by imitating Harry in order to get under his skin and, as he put it, loosen him up.
“Yes, of course. Hotshots, the the trains that have the right of way. Harry said as indifferently as he could without yawning.
“What did you mean by the wrong ride and the death statement. Surely you exaggerate!” Scoffed Harry.
“If you ride the hotshots enough you will; go to jail, go to the hospital, visit the yard police much longer than you want and, yes, die. Only desperately ill humans ride the hotshots.” Henry smiled.
If Henry was not desperately ill he was, at least, addicted like many of his kind to adrenaline and supremely afraid of boredom. Henry lived a fast life for many reasons not the least among them was to stay one step ahead of himself, another to just be unique among a common horde. There were times when Henry was desperate but it was his image that he was concerned with not his health or his fears, his desperations were born out of an anxious necessity to get on with his next climb, ski, hike explore…..or whatever he wanted to do. Henry didn’t minimize his life, he continued on, unbroken from one thing to the next as long as his meager money flow continued. And when it did not he went to work as fast as he could get a job and living out of his sleeping bag to save as much money as possible while he plotted his next crazy scheme.
Henry was desperate, he admitted to Harry that cold winter night at Lake Tahoe. He was desperately bored and when the chance to ride this short car carrier freight over Donner Summit from Sparks, Nevada to Roseville, California he jumped at the chance.
The power of the freight, remotely controlled from the front engine, was four Special Duty engines modified for the snow sheds going over Donner Summit above Donner Lake. The modification was where the air was sucked in through screens. These special units had their intake screens high on the rear of the engine rather than low down on the body where the air would be limited.
As the freight pulled out of the Sparks Yard Henry was hunkered down between some low dense bushes and invisible in the dim reflected light of the main yard. The sun was below the horizon and a small cool breeze traveled across the surface of the hot dessert as the flanges ground against the rails and the synchronous thrumming of diesels vibrated the air. Henry was up and running, briefly across open ground before he ducked into the shadow of the train and ran along struggling to keep his feet on the edge of the ballast.
“The lead engine was the only one with crew as the engines in the consist were controlled remotely from the front. Ahead of him he watched the manned diesel go around a curve and disappear as it led the rest of the consist and freight out of the yard. Now that he was out of sight of tower and lead engine Henry sprinted forward to the cabs boarding latter and whisked him self up and onto the forward part of the engine as it pulled the train in a backward position. He reached up and opened the cab door from a kneeling position and crawled inside the cab and slowly and carefully closed the door behind him. Beneath him and all around him he could feel the engines pulling the train faster and faster. He crawled over to the speedometer and saw thirty-five. The rail speed through Reno was twenty-five and Henry was surprised that the engineer was still was still picking up speed as he leaned on the horn between intersections. The freight was doing forty-five through the gambling heart of Reno while the engineer laid on the horns of his four engines. It was madness and Henry had never heard of the like before. There was one thing for sure; this train was in a hurry and because it was so small it could be. Henry kept out of the sight of the crew in the lead engine as the train followed the Truckee River as it splashed its’ way out of the Sierra Mountains.
The speed of the train increased to fifty miles per hour as the freight raced along the banks of the Truckee. Here the tracks had moved out of the strict alignment causing the train to take on a rolling motion while the train drove forward. Henry could look down the side of the train cars behind him and watch the roll continue to the end of the freight where it disappeared like the hump in a moving inch worm.
“I had ridden across this section of rail many times,” Henry told Harry, “once on top of a freight of reefers that had all the scaffolding on top removed so that the only grip I had was the wide corrugated valleys of the roof while I lie prone on my stomach sliding from one side of the roof to the other. I don’t mind admitting that by the time the freight rolled through Truckee, California I had lost all bravado and was hanging on by a thread to my wits and strength.”
Now, as the hotshot roared up the mountain grade he was snug in the engine compartment digging out his quart bottle of port wine from inside his pack and without the lights of the city to illuminate his presence in the engine he made himself comfortable in the engineers seat with the throttle and brakes close at hand, the speedometer staring him in the face.
Henry continued. “While the freight raced up the grade with the river on one side and Interstate 80 on the other I drank from my bottle of strong wine and let my mind wander along its’ own train of thought while the engines roared and the flanges shrieked. By the time the train sped through Truckee California a mellow high had settled onto me and by the time the train made Nordan I was drunk and was bent on a new and daring ploy.”
A gust weighted with heavy wet snow rattled the windows of themountain home and interrupted Harry’s experience with its’ ferocity. The two friends sat enveloped in plush leather recliners while a fire licked the logs in Harry’s large fireplace. Harry rose and refreshed their wine glasses and sat back down. They both sipped their wine in silence before Henry began talking again.
“I drank the port as the train roared through Norden and then down the Sierra crest grade through Blue Canyon, Emigrant Gap and Nyack. As the train whistled its’ way through Colfax I was climbing the iron bars that led to the top of the cab where the diesel exhaust from the lead engine swept into my face and past my stocking cap. I got down and crawled forward over two enormous grated intakes that tried to suck the overalls from my body and approached the first of two elongated exhaust stacks that took up nearly all of the width of the engine. Every molecule of air was filled with a roaring, screaming, thundering blend of furious noise. There were moments of heart gripping fear when the massive beast, traveling over bad rail, would heave its’ cold steel shoulders as if trying to peel me off into the unseen screeching void. When this happened I would flatten out and embrace the beast with a devotion no man has ever shown a woman.”
The lights in the cabin flickered, dimmed and then went out as a gust of wind rattled the windows of the cabin. Harry groped the shelves within a closet and emerged with a candle and holder. When lit it flickered and wavered sending ghostly shadows across the ceiling and walls. “Please continue said Harry.” again refilling their wine glasses with the excellent wine he proudly kept locked in his cabinet of private stock.
“I had crawled to the first exhaust stack and lay in front of it peering at a mesmerizing transparent sheen of incredible heat and force shooting out of a relatively small opening that stretched the width of the engine.” Henry said sipping the wine and staring out the window at the violence of the night. “I shrank in fear imagining the possibilities of negotiating over the exhaust and then flying through the air like a wingless bird forever leaving its’ vastly important perch. Yet, I am very curious and slowly like some great ignorant bafoon offer a gloved hand to that shimmering heat bellowing its’ own demonic warning into my drunken face. The force of the exhaust gripped my offered limb and drug the arm upward violently. Somewhere someone screamed, a noise that was faint against the nature of the power emitting from the exhaust and I found myself on my back clutching the pain in my shoulder. Tears streaked a dirty but wiser face while I flexed my fingers within a smoking and tattered glove as the consist entered a cut in a hill echoing the roaring engines until the noise filled the limited space consuming all possible thought, then suddenly we emerged and the echo reached out into the endless night.”
“Very poetic but unnecessary, Henry. How you do drag it out.” complained Harry.
“Only so that I may drag you along along with me on the roof of the engines, my friend.” countered Henry.
Harry laughed. “I don’t think I have ever felt so dirty.”
Henry was pleased. The storm, the darkness and the flickering candle slowly edged him into the details of the tale until he too was engrossed. He continued. “I inched my way around the exhaust praying to a God I wasn’t sure of and with a little luck encountered no bad rail during the process. In front of me was one more intake and one more exhaust before I would have to leap from one engine to the next. By now I was pretty sober from the fear, nearly as quickly as I had gotten drunk on the nineteen per cent wine. If I was going to die though, I think I would rather be the latter. I negotiated the intake and exhaust quickly and a bit carelessly not wanting to hesitate and give the invading fear time to take a mind freezing hold on my progress. Then with a short sprint leaped across the void from the rear engine to the next collapsing onto my knees as the train rounded a corner and swept past an unused tunnel at Cape Horn. For an instant I thought we had arrived at the series of tunnels below Rockland which would have swept me off the consist and the thought froze me in terror.” He paused here for emphases and went on. “Once I had controlled my thundering heart I considered retreating but I had come to far and quickly negotiated the next group of intakes and exhausts and with another short sprint leaped to the next engine before the lead. The four engines that comprised the consist seemed like a mile and the short spurts of fear and diminishing adrenaline was leaving me spent, even so I made my way slowly to the lead engine with less enthusiasm as we neared the small town of Auburn.”
Auburn is separated by Interstate 80 and the Southern Pacific right through the middle. There are five intersections with electronic guard crossings that flash red light and clang loud bell tones. The traffic is held behind an automatic closing gate while the train goes rushing, banging and screeching by. On this night, being Saturday, the traffic with girl friends, wives and children, is more like an audience and Henry has carefully included this information in the completion of his plan.
“I, Henry Besser, do swear that it was I who, that night, crawled slowly and quietly across the lead engine while the Engineer and the Conductor/ Break man stood within two feet of me below in the cab. The trip to the front had been a little rougher than I had thought it would be and I had made a rag of one glove, ripped the arm of my coveralls when I tried to hug the exhaust crawling around it and a ripped knee on my right coverall leg crossing an intake. Of course the rest of me was dabbed and splotched with soot and diesel exhaust so that I looked like a chimney sweep. As I crawled the final feet to the nose of the lead engine I could see the MARS light sweeping the track with a slow rotation and above on the horizon the glow of Auburn. I crawled up to a fist sized bell hung inside a bracket and laughed out loud a short bark at the incongruity and slowly peeked over the roof to the top of the huge hood. The hood that I lay on was three feet thick and hung over the windshield of the engine by four feet. The front of the roof housed large numbers lit from behind in window fashion like a large glowing eyebrow over receded windshield eyes. I knew well this area above the crews cabin. I have crawled over these engines in yards from Colorado to California. With the bell between my dangling legs that hung suspended in front of the lit numbers I sat comfortably with the blast of cold wind freezing my ears beneath a dirty stocking cap and the beam of the MARS light rotating out in front. Behind me thirty over sized car carriers loaded with brand new cars from Japan and three engines followed.”
Harry filled Henry’s glass once again shaking his head. “Come on Henry, how you do go on. In deed, on top of a train? See here, that is utterly unbelievable!”
Henry smiled and drank his wine. “Why do you think that is so unbelievable,
Harry? Do you think I am incapable or that I would not have the courage?” he spoke these words softly and in a quizzical manner.
Harry pondered and admitted to himself that Henry was very likely to have done this and probably many other things as rash. “While actually Henry, now that you say it, and because it is you who say it I do believe you. HA-HA…HO-HO!” laughed Harry. “You great nut.”
“Well, obviously I don’t look at it that way.” but Henry was not insulted. Actually he felt that in a way it was a compliment.
“So that was your great plan, was it?” asked Harry.
“We are getting there, Harry. Nearly at the end of the ride.” Henry handed an empty glass to Harry raising his eyebrows rose from the chair and walked over to the plate glass window covered with see through visqueen. “I sat straddling that ridiculous little bell while we bore down on the little town at 45 M.P.H. On the outskirts the engineer began slowing down the train using the dynamic brakes. All up and down the freight wheels screeched and sparks flew while the slack in the couplings thudded softly into one another. We rounded a few corners and crossed a few roads, their barriers down, flashing and clanging and still we slowed, until about 40 MPH the dynamics began to wind down and we scooted along right through the middle of tourist laden Auburn. The town was lit like film lot. I could see my shadow off to the side on top of the shadow of the lead engine. I looked out to the first of three downtown crossings. It was packed with tourist waiting to walk along the street. Automobiles sat one behind the other on both sides of the crossing. I could look inside the open windows and see the faces of the occupants. Some of them were talking to one another or listening to radio music, bobbing and swaying a little as the bell clanged and the red light flickered. Then I saw two cars that had fingers pointing at me through their open windows. Then some people got out of cars and stood gaping. Then we clattered by, headed for the second downtown crossing that was also lit up like a circus. Pretty much like the first one; we clattered into the spotlight a few people were pre occupied and others pointed and waved. I waved back grinning like a fool.”
Henry had been sipping at his wine while he was talking and at this point Harry didn’t even wait for the raised eyebrows, he just opened a fresh bottle and poured some more of his vintage stock and said, “What about the police, dear boy? Up there on the roof acting like a monkey, surly you recognized the consequences if a patrolman had seen you. What say yea?”
Harry laughed a wicked rumble holding his hanky to his lips. “I’m glad to see you are enjoying yourself Sir Harry. Because, if you weren’t then it wouldn’t be worth the effort.
They both pondered this in a little confusion and then they both looked, simultaneous at the three empty bottles and then at each other and laughed.
“Alright!” Harry said putting down his wine glass and shrugging. “I admit it. I am having a bit of fun actually.” He sat down next to his wine glass and the green and gold hand glassed lamp and smiled at me. “Do continue.”
“Before the third crossing I crawled from my position around the small bell, but not before accidentally clanging it once. It rang a high imperious note that froze me in position and then I lay flat for a few seconds, got my breath back and slowly crawled until I was above the engineers seat and as we went through the crossing I looked over the side and watched the engineers hand waving to the people so I sat back up and waved with him.”
The storm still raged outside but it made it cozy resting your feet on real Persian Rugs and drinking very good wine in the glow of a green and gold glassed lamp shade. The fire crackled warmly in its’ hearth and Henry reached down to pet a non existent dog before he remembered that he was at Harry’s house.
“So that was it. The grand, suicidal Hotshot Story.” Harry said in a way that meant he was or was not joking.
“Ahh, no. Not quite. You see, I still had to get to Roseville. This train wouldn’t slow down past thirty-five. At thirty-five you are definitely taking a risk. I’ve done it and at night too. But not because I wanted to.” Henry took another drink of wine but his mood had changed and sobered him. “I think now we will come to the crux of the story. You do agree?” Harry laughed his low snickering, dirty laugh.
‘He is strangely serious.’ thought Harry. ‘This isn’t like him.’ Harry said aloud, “Come on, man. You have gone strangely serious.”
Henry came out of his revery and smiled. “I think you have hit the nail on the head Harry. Indeed, after we left Auburn I laid down on the roof of the lead engine. I was exhausted and beginning to sober up. My head was pounding and hadn’t any water for quite a while. For ten minutes I lie there. Ten precious minutes, before I remembered the bridges. I began crawling quietly across the lead engine and leaped with care to the next one. I lie down looking into the direction of travel. I tried, unsuccessfully to identify the surrounding country and continued crawling to the next engine. When I think back, Harry, I don’t remember crawling around the exhaust and intakes. I must have moved across the top of that engine like a snake. Before I made the jump to the next engine I lay facing forward rose up and looked for the tunnels. The tunnels that just barley fit the engines and the over sized car carriers. Upon raise arms I searched, but could not see a thing. I looked around me again and didn’t recognize anything. I rose quickly and immediately jumped and lay down on the nose of the next engine. Just as I did we roared into the first tunnel and just as quickly we roared out. Those two seconds were a roasting oven. I had burned all the thread out of the back of my coverall and my neck and wrists were raw from the heat. And this was just the first tunnel. There were three more and just as quickly we shot into another came out, three seconds later we shot in and out of another. The exhaust was forced down by the cealing of the tunnel and lay its’ scalding hot breath along the top of the engines. I lay singed waiting for the last tunnel, gulping air like a landed fish. The last tunnel came and went and I rolled over and tried to lie on my back but my overalls were too hot.”
Harry laughed. This time it was a pure laugh of amusement. “I bet you were sober now.” he said.
“Yes. Quite sober. Except for my head ache.” Henry bent to the small oaken coffee table and did the honors. They raised their glasses in a silent toast.
“I still had to get off the train and since I had been on it the train had not slowed less than thirty-five miles an hour. I was pretty sure it would stop in Roseville for a crew change, but you never really know. After the tunnels I had just enough time to reach the rear engine and collect my pack before the engine began to brake for the yard in Roseville. I off loaded at an easy twenty miles an hour and as I walked across the road to a seven eleven the earth felt extremely good beneath my feet. I walked into the store and set my pack down, collected some cold drinks and while I was paying for the sodas the clerk looked at me curiously and told me that I was on fire. I looked over my shoulder and could see faint tendrils of smoke whispering up off my shredded and blackened back. I left him even more confused when I told him I had been riding dragons. I was blackened, my clothes were shredded and smoldering so I wouldn’t be surprised if he believed me.”
“You should write that up, old boy.” said Harry.
“Too busy.” said Henry. “I would rather live it.”
Harry rose and began collecting the empty bottles. “Would you mind if I gave it a try.” He said walking the bottles into the kitchen.
“Have at it.” Henry was standing in front of one of Harrys paintings. A forties navel combat vessel fighting its’ way across difficult seas done in blues, grays and whites. He gave Harry the story freely, knowing the implications. “It is a true story, Harry!”
“Yes. Well, I will have to keep that in mind.” he said walking over to the open wine locker, reaching in and turning off the tape recorder.
The next morning the storm had settled and the snow fell silently. Harry woke after sunrise and took a shower. When he came down stairs he saw that Henry had left. He walked over and stood in front of the window looking out at the snow. He shivered and wrapped his arms around his chest shaking his head.
