When the Union Pacific Big Boy locomotive #4014 returned to steam, Robert John Davis made a pilgrimage of a lifetime to see it on it's home turf in Utah and Wyoming. Along the way he found fellowship, sunny days, good food and drink. 68 page ebook PDF.

1. The Overland Tales
Wanderlust, Steam & Transcendental IDGAF
words and images by Robert John Davis

2. The Overland Tales:
Wanderlust, Steam Trains &
Transcendental IDGAF
Created for my own amusement.
And yours.
Robert John Davis
rjd@robertjohndavis.com
October 2019
Version 1.1
All rights reserved. Content may not be reused without permission.
Online version available at www.robertjohndavis.com

3. Dedicated to Patricia and Ben for your tolerance
and support. I love you both.
And with thanks to Jimmy and Mike for all of the
adventures over the decades.

4. Prologue
I’ve contained my wanderlust. More accurately, I have
compartmentalized the desire to roam into small three or four
day bursts. Often with family. Occasionally with friends. Rarely
on my own. Between these condensed pockets of freedom, I
run the course of daily life, making notes and charting the next
ramble. On good nights I dream in the voice of Kuralt,
narrating nocturnal visions worthy of Steinbeck and Kerouac.
On the bad ones? I lay restless in the glow of my iPhone,
obsessing over satellite images of the back roads and rusty
rails awaiting me.
Presented here are vignettes of one such indulgence. In early
May 2019 my passions for railroading, history and roadside
culture collided in the great American west as I bore witness to
the return of the grandest steam locomotive ever built: Union
Pacific Railroad #4014, one of the legendary “Big Boys.” The
restoration was born from the railroad’s desire to celebrate —
in the biggest of ways — the 150th anniversary of driving the
Golden Spike to celebrate completion of the transcontinental
railroad. One can read more about the motivation and
mechanics behind the project on the pages of TRAINS
magazine. There’s no need to cover that here. I have
something a bit more personal share.
Oh, yes, there is some adult language peppered throughout.
Sensitive readers should approach each sentence with fear
and trepidation as to what I may say next. Just like in
conversation, which in many ways is exactly what this is.
— Rob

5. Chapter 1: A Sort of Homecoming

6. Flaps extended. Wheels down. I land with my secret
intact. Someday, the right moment for contact may
come. For now, I slip between bodies in the airport,
wondering if any share my DNA.
Given my druthers one genetic match would be
walking at my side: my son. I am here to see the
return of Big Boy steam locomotive #4014, a
blueprint of which has hung in his room since he was
three. Pictures of him in front of one adorn our living
room. We’d often talk about seeing a Big Boy run, but
we never thought it possible without a lottery windfall.
The days ahead will realize an adventure I’ve long
dreamed of sharing with him, but thanks to school
calendars and commitments that don’t revolve
around steam trains, I am alone.
For now.
May 9, 2019: A Sort of Homecoming
The scenic spectacle on approach to Salt Lake City
International Airport humbles even the most
narcissistic heart. Passengers on the right stare at
reach-out-and-touch-me peaks, still frosted with
snow on this early May afternoon. Those on the left
gaze upon the endless horizon of high desert fading
away behind ridges surrounding the Great Salt Lake
basin. The rest crane their necks in middle seats
looking for a glimpse of something. Anything. Only
the pilots are fortunate enough to see the entire
expanse.
I’m thinking of another pilot: my father, a man I never
met. He lived here in the Wasatch foothills raising a
family oblivious to my existence. I look out the
window doubtless that below relatives are going
about daily routines, unaware an unknown half-
sibling, uncle or cousin glides above them.

7. Chapter 2: Brothers and Sisters from Other Mothers

8. Like me, Dave has compartmentalized his wanderlust, but
when he roams, the man roams. He’s everywhere. We
regularly find ourselves breaking bread in beer joints
around America; each an unplanned moment when our
paths cross. On this occasion, among the thousands who
have gathered to see the spectacle of the Big Boy, Dave
and Matt are in the middle of a two week coast-to-coast
drive photographing over a dozen different steam
locomotives and visiting countless local brewpubs.
Dave is a pop-up party ready to happen. Tonight, he has
orchestrated an assemblage around a huge timber table at
Ogden’s UTOG brewery. Jim and Kate Wrinn are already
there with the TRAINS magazine crew. Pulling up stools,
we get right into the flow. Each round brings more friends,
friends of friends and a few introverted observers on the
periphery of the conversation comforted to be among
those who don’t care that they — as Dave likes to say —
“have a touch of the trains.” Most have spent the last
week photographing the Big Boy’s maiden trip from
Cheyenne, Wyoming to Ogden.
I order the brewer’s bratwurst. The beer pours. The tallest
of tales from the journey grow higher. The beer pours
again. I am trying each brew. The Porter is right on target
for a chilly spring evening. After a few rounds I start
thinking about the name UTOG.
May 9, 2019:
Brothers and Sisters from Other Mothers
The legion of railroad enthusiasts pervades societies
around the globe, wherever flanged wheels rolled upon
steel rails firing the wanderlust dreams of the populous.
Tonight, thanks to the presence of Big Boy #4014, it
seems we are all in Ogden, Utah. Well, almost. I am still
on my way. Knowing good beer lies ahead, I decided to
sample the local ales with imprudence rather than a sip
or two before driving back to the hotel. So, I need a ride.
My friends Dave and Matt have road-tripped out from
Pennsylvania and by happenstance are around the
corner, headed up to Ogden. I fold myself into fleshy
origami wedged behind Dave’s backseat, bent between
camera gear, suitcases, and a collection of exotic
microbrews gathered along the journey.
Utah traffic is unexpectedly Jersey-bad, and the quick
hop up to Ogden turns into a stop-and-go slog. That’s
OK by me. I have a front-row seat to the Dave & Matt
show: an extempore display of sarcasm, pop-culture
references and finely tuned profanity of such caliber that
I regret not livestreaming it. Forty-five minutes of
nonstop banter shifting effortlessly between base
observations worthy of Beavis & Butthead and classic
guy humor stamped with the whiskey-breath elegance
of Martin & Lewis entertains more than any Netflix-and-
chill evening could.
Minus the chill.

9. Many of us who have worked in the New York
metropolitan area know UTOG as the name of an
executive car service. As far as the brewery’s monicker
is concerned, I am guessing UTah OGden. I can’t resist
a quick Google to see if “utog” is an actual word. It is. In
Cebuano, utog means “erection.” I chuckle, but choose
not to share this revelation with mixed company at the
table. I make a note to myself that if I am ever sipping
gin in at a Bisaya-speaking pub in the southern
Phillipines, I’ll be careful about mentioning how I like to
have a big UTOG for the ride home from Newark airport
or talking about that time in Utah when I sat in a brewery
with 20 friends comparing our UTOGs.
Amidst the revelry, our waitress approaches me. She
caught my eye about 25-feet ago and is now face-to-
belly with me. She looks up. She seems uneasy. Maybe
even pissed. “I have bad news.” My mind swirls. Is she
my half-sister? Is the jig up? Have I been found out?
And then it comes to me. The worst possible thing she
could say… the one announcement to sour the best
sour ale…
“You’re out of bratwurst, aren’t you?”
She relaxes a bit. “It’s not that tragic.”
Excelsior!

10. The waitress is still talking. Mouth moving. Nothing heard.
I’m lost in beer-hazed visions of coriander and caraway
laden pork. She repeats herself until I lock back in.
Apparently, I have committed the offense of standing up
with a loaded pint glass in my hand. Generally, I find the
ability to stand through an entire beer session to be an
admired skill. I explain this. The waitress is not amused.
Her stern gaze stays focused on me. No laugh. No slight
crinkle of her crow’s feet giving away a suppressed
reaction. This must be a serious violation. I am
concerned. I don’t want to do anything that would put a
damper on the evening. “What can I do to make this
situation better?”
“Sit down. Just sit down, and don’t do it again.” She
orders. I comply. As the waitress walks away, I turn to
Dave. “At least it wasn’t the bratwurst.” I lift my left leg to
adjust my ass-on-stool ratio, a voice cuts through the din.
“Sit down!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Within moments, she’s back. No police, so I must have
properly atoned for my standing-with-beer sin. She sets a
plate on the table. Displayed in front of me is a perfectly
golden-browned tube steak. I swallow a few utog/UTOG
one-liners and take a bite.
It’s awesome, but there will be no standing ovation.

11. Chapter 3: A Golden Friday

12. a rented Ford Expedition with walk-away insurance
coverage, a few bottles of water, and no idea where the
hell I am going.
Bring. It. On.
Railroads exit Salt Lake City at points all around the
compass dial, quite an engineering feat given the wall of
mountains that hems in the city to the east and the 1,700
square mile lake lapping against the city’s west side. A
mental roll of the dice finds me driving west parallel to the
former Western Pacific “Feather River Route” from Salt
Lake City to Oakland, California. I’m just looking for a
train. Any train will do. I’ll settle for a full mile of municipal
waste cars as long as the lighting is good. And it is good.
So much so, that I decide to drive as far west as needed
to find a train to chase back east. Mind you, I have no
idea if such a train is running today.
Interstate 80 more or less follows the old WP across the
Great Salt Lake and into the high desert. And I do mean
“across” the lake. Mile after mile of the roadway and the
railway are built upon man-made causeways. The lake is
high this morning and I find it more than a little unsettling
to be driving with nothing but water along both shoulders
of the road and a good 50 feet of lake between me and
the eastbound lanes.
May 10, 2019: A Golden Friday
The faithful and the curious are gathering at the Golden
Spike National Historical Park in Promontory Summit,
Utah this morning to watch replicas of 1860’s steam
locomotives reenact the moment the Golden Spike was
driven and iron rails bound the nation. Many friends will
be there. I will not, having turned down a ticket in
exchange for a day with a guy I don’t get to spend much
quality time with: me.
And that guy wants to chase some trains.
Once a simple pleasure, the art of chasing trains by car
intent on finding optimal places to photograph them, has
become a technological shitshow. It’s quite common to
see my peers set out for the day with a scanner radio in
the car, another on the hip, and external antennas stuck
to the roof (all to track railroad employee
communications about train movements); two full digital
SLR cameras with batteries, lenses, and SD cards; a
video device of some type with its own accoutrements;
tripods for each camera; GPS unit; mobile phone, wi-fi
hub; maps; and a tangle of power chargers to keep it all
humming. Oh, right. And a drone. Gotta have a drone in
2019.
It all makes me want to grab my cameras and leave the
rest to fate. That’s what today is all about: fate. I’ve got

13. Train chasing requires patience and a bit of gut instinct.
An hour into my pursuit near the exit for Aragonite, I get
the urge to explore local roads that follow the tracks just
a little bit closer than the Interstate. I feel like something
is coming. Intuition? Luck? Fate? Whatever you ascribe
it to, in a few miles I see that a lineside signal is lit red.
On this single-track railroad that should mean just one
thing: a train is approaching from the opposite direction.
And it is.
I’m not the first to detour into Aragonite. A group of
settlers once followed a California Trail short cut through
here. Their leader, George Donner, was trying to beat the
coming winter weather. I just want to beat the train to a
decent photo spot. I’m hoping for better luck than Mr.
Donner and company had.
I nose the Expedition onto the dirt shoulder and leap out
- camera in hand - amidst my own cloud of dust to
capture a BNSF freight train speeding east. Shutter,
click. Shutter, click. Wave to the crew. The chase is on.

19. Chapter 4: Rolling the Bones in Rush Valley

20. Pulling up to the tracks near a grain unloading facility, we
see a dozen or so buffs are already set up: an odd site for
a weekday morning, especially one where most of the
railfan world is gathered on the other side of the lake to
celebrate the driving of the Golden Spike. At first glance,
it’s not a great spot for a picture but we don’t have much
time to look for alternatives. The three of us spread out to
pick different angles and lighting.
Almost all Union Pacific diesels are painted in DuPont
88-1743, a rich canary color the railroad calls Armour
Yellow. As the train noses into the “s” curve ahead of us,
the morning sun reflects off a much brighter of shade of
yellow on the lead locomotive. And it seems to be
surrounded by green. OMG. It’s a heritage unit. #1995 the
Chicago & North Western heritage unit.
Depending upon how severe your case of “the trains” is,
seeing a heritage unit is kinda neat or it’s a utog-inducing
moment of a lifetime. As machinery goes, there’s nothing
special about them; they are just run of the mill
locomotives. The difference — the only difference — is
that heritage units are painted in the colors of railroads
that are long gone. Almost all the major US railroads have
them wandering their systems in regular service.
Websites, chat boards and social media accounts track
May 11, 2019: Rolling the Bones in Rush Valley
The check-box version of yesterday sounds pretty
sweet. After the Western Pacific chase, I wandered up
the canyon of Spanish Fork along the former Denver &
Rio Grande and then explored the old Los Angeles &
Salt Lake mainline across the desert and through the
hills on the twisting Sharp Subdivision. Saw trains on all
of them. Got decent pictures. Had an animal style
everything lunch at In-N-Out. A dream day in my book.
With 14 hours and 558 miles of train chasing behind me,
I made it back to the Salt Lake City airport in time to
pick up Mike and Jimmy, two of my oldest friends from
back in New Jersey. Rested and refreshed the next
morning, we are looking forward to an afternoon in
Ogden with the Big Boy. But first, a little train chasing
around Salt Lake City.
As is often the case, one good day of wandering just
makes we want to roam more the next. I drive around
the south shore to the late to show Mike and Jimmy a
few industrial sites I discovered yesterday morning,
hoping that we would happen upon a train. Rolling down
I-80 near Tooele, we spot the unmistakeable mass of a
double-stack train headed west on the Los Angeles &
Salt Lake route. The grade coming up from lake-level
into the Tooele Valley is steep enough to slow the train
to a walking pace. We have time to get ahead of it.

21. their whereabouts. Railfans around North America call-
out sick from work and flock along the right-of-way bent
on capturing images worthy of instant social media
sharing.
Seeing a heritage unit, even if it is trailing a 5 locomotive
consist, is a win. One on the lead of the train? That’s a
jackpot. One on the lead on a sunny day? Nirvana. One
on the lead on a sunny day rolling down the rails once
owned by the railroad it is painted for? A blessing from
the choo-choo gods. Today, we have to settle for nirvana
as we are a long way from Chicago & North Western
territory.
As the train approaches, I click off a series of “OK”
pictures and stand back to watch it pass. The time
intervals between the banging of each truck on the
grade crossing lengthen as the train slows. The grade
through Tooele has brought the locomotives to their
knees, traveling slightly slower than walking rate. I hope
that it doesn’t stall, as my car and one of my friends are
over on the other side of tracks. Just when I am sure a
full stop is upon us, the last car creeps by. A going away
shot? Sure.
Through the viewfinder, I see the last car trundling off
into the mountains. Ahead, the tracks make a left hand
turn and disappear. I am spell bound. But wait? Now
there’s a train to the right as well? No, that’s not another
train, it is the front of our train curving back around.
Cool.

22. There are so many alluring spots, one could be forgiven
for hop-scotching along, shooting the train at every
opportunity under the cloud-free sky. But we all know that
finding a unique location will be more satisfying than any
series of roadside shoot and runs. Since there are other
folks chasing, a key strategy is to go far enough off the
beaten path that a hoard of chasers won’t show up 30
seconds before the train to park pick-up trucks, tripods
and plumber-crack asses in our shot.
We now have a dilemma. Our goal is to be up north in
Ogden this afternoon, but the heritage unit is leading its
train south. What to do? There are many things that will
prompt a man to change plans, or at least follow a flight
of fancy. As a child, it may be the distraction of a
butterfly in a field. Later in life, the slightest chance of
sex. As a railfan? Heritage unit. Ogden can wait.
We are well ahead of the train by the time we enter the
beautiful Rush Valley.

23. I share this nugget of anxiety with Mike and Jimmy, barely
finishing the sentence as a puff of dirt rises in the
distance down Lofgreen Lane. The cloud moves towards
us. I imagine an SUV armada full of safety vest clad
railfans hell bent on beating the train in pursuit of a
perfectly-lit soulless 3/4 wedge shot taken mere inches
from the rails. I’ve always been an oracle of awfulized
thoughts. It’s what I do. As the dust cloud approaches. I
have visions of every way my fellow hobbyists could
disrupt the tranquil scene before me.
The source of the sandy veil appears as a pair of off-road
buggies bounce into view. Whew! They zip by us, cross
the tracks and continue up into the hills. Just as the dust
settles, our train pops around the curve ahead, pixel after
pixel record the scene and everyone gets exactly what
they want.
The temptation to keep chasing tugs at us, but we need
to get up to Ogden, a destination now 100 miles further
away than when we started this morning. We take our
time wandering back to the highway, stopping to take
pictures of the archetypical western scenes of cattle
guards and large caliber riddled metal.
And that’s how we wind up along Dog Hollow Creek,
down a few miles of dirt road past a bullet-riddled car at
a place the railroad calls “Lofgreen.” Settled 130 years
ago by a man named Löfgren, his Nordic surname lost
an umlaut and gained an extra “e” when the Los Angeles
& Salt Lake railroad appropriated it to describe this bit of
God’s beauty 5700 feet above sea level. A park service
fire road provides an easy path up a trackside hill
revealing a perch overlooking the southern rim of Rush
Valley. We pick our spots. Mine is already inhabited by
hundreds of fire ants frantically running around doing fire
ant things. They don’t seem interested in my boots.
That’s a positive. Needless to say, I’ve chosen to stand
as we wait.
Before us lays a 270 degree vista of snow-capped peaks
and high desert hills. The tracks swing in from the left,
straightening a bit down the grade through Lofgreen
before settling into a lazy horseshoe and a series of
shallow “s” curves dodging scrub-speckled foothills.
The only thing that could spoil our view would be those
latecomers pulling up next to the tracks in a veil of dust
while we stand above with no recourse.

27. Chapter 5: The Last, Last of the Giants

28. Next to the lot, a small modern building sported a station
sign for “Riverside,” the name given to these several
acres of flat land between the Rutland Railroad tracks
and Connecticut River. Beyond lay the promised land of
steam. Of all the steam traction engines, locomotive and
other machines of yore, two were “mine”: the
magnificently designed Nickel Plate Road #759 (the first
big locomotive I ever saw under steam) and Union Pacific
#4012, one of the giant Big Boys. Both were located in
the far back corner of the site, so our visits began with a
brisk walk past all the displays to begin with the best and
the biggest. We’d see the rest later.
#4012 was much too big for Steamtown to operate, or to
even be pushed onto the turntable and displayed on one
of the radial tracks where most of the locomotives were
spending their retirement. Thus, by need more than
choice, the Big Boy sat on a separate track next to the
main. The whole scenario was an elephant-on-a-stool
trick, as the siding and the ground under it provided very
little support for the giant locomotive. Steamtown did not
have the funding required to keep all their displays
cleaned and painted, and eventually a very tattered
#4012 sank into the mud, partially derailed. But none of
that mattered to me. I was standing next to a Big Boy.
May 11, 2019:
The Last, Last of the Giants
My dreams of seeing a Big Boy in operation go back
almost 50 years when I first encountered #4012, then
part of the Steamtown U.S.A. museum near Bellows
Falls, VT. “Museum” is a generous word to describe
Steamtown in the 1970’s. It wasn’t much more than a
gravel and dirt expanse filled by 50+ inoperable steam-
powered machines, a few small buildings and a no-frills
“engine house” where a handful of locomotives were
kept in working order for the daily excursion trains. It
wasn’t much, but it was paradise — my paradise. I’m
not sure my mother saw it that way, but she provided
plenty of time for me to wander amongst the relics. And
for that I am grateful.
Trips to Steamtown from our lake cottage in New
Hampshire were highlights of summer for me. I
anticipated every curve of US Route 5, peering ahead
for the two small wooden signs that marked the turn-off
for Steamtown Road. It wasn’t much of a road, dropping
downhill from the highway, through a metal gate, across
the Green Mountain Railway tracks past a toy-like water
tower and into a very rustic parking lot. First impressions
were not Steamtown’s forte.

29. The appeal of Big Boy never waned. In my tween years,
mom would drop me off at Steamtown in the morning,
visit the leather outlet or other shops downriver in
Brattleboro, and pick me up at closing time. My routine
stayed true: pay the entry admission and head straight
back to where lonely #4012 sat in the Vermont mud.
Around 1985, #4012 and most of the Steamtown
collection left Vermont for a new home in Scranton,
Pennsylvania. A year later, I also moved there, as a
freshman at the University of Scranton. The Big Boy was
displayed directly behind the school just a 90 second
walk from my dorm. Eventually, the collection became the
nucleus of the Steamtown National Historic Site in
downtown Scranton. #4012 was moved to a prominent
place by the parking lot. The movie car tradition faded
away, but at least kids no longer had to wander past
everything else to see the biggest of the big.
It was some twenty some years ago that Mike, Jimmy
and I made a promise while standing in front of #4012
that if someone ever restored one of these beasts to
operation we would be there to see it run. And here we
are now on a beautiful Ogden afternoon. All three of us
face to face with a hot, living Big Boy. The reborn last,
last of the giants.
Across the yellow pebble midway sat elderly, wooden
Boston & Maine combination car #959: The Movie Car.
The end once used for passenger seating was now a
humble waiting area of rough bench seats. Through the
interior door, a seated “theater” was built in the former
baggage compartment. Where the newspapers, milk
cans and steamer trunks of New England once rode;
now tourists gathered to be entertained by 16mm films
projected on an old-school screen positioned in front of
folding chairs. The air lay heavy with dank railroad musk
built up over 80-years of service. #959 was no Lowe’s
movie palace, but it was where The Last of the Giants
was screened day in and day out.
Ah, The Last of the Giants. Director Allan Krieg’s 1959
opus on the waning years of the Big Boys in regular
service. The film, sponsored by the Union Pacific itself,
was the only way a ’70’s kid could see a Big Boy under
steam. And did I see it. Over and over. My poor mother
would await the final scene of a freight train rolling off
into a Wyoming sunset as the melancholy uncredited
narrator cautions that, “The rumble and roar of Big Bioy
will seem still to echo from the high country of southern
Wyoming.” As she rose from her metal chair, the
inevitable question would come. “Can we watch it again,
mom?”

31. Chapter 6: Roadhouse of My Dreams

32. Closing time comes early for most eateries in town
except - as she explains - for “the sports bar up the
road.” The clerk points out the hotel door, “you can see it
from here, it’s just next to the Holiday Inn Express Sign.”
She’s confident proximity makes everything OK.
Whatever. We’re hungry, we need a drink and it’s open.
Win.
In a town ready to close, I fear “the sports bar up the
road” must be one those faux-hometown chains where
awkwardly framed baseball jerseys from the local high
school hang right next to a shitastic reproduction of Babe
Ruth’s bat and the ubiquitous headshot of Mickey Mantle
complete with inkjet autograph. Yes, that headshot. The
one where even in two-dimensional black and white, he
looks like he’d drink you under the table, bang your
girlfriend, wreck your car, charge it all to your credit card
and still hit a dinger the next day. Asterisk, my ass, Mr.
Mantle.
We head out guided by our own north star: the Holiday
Inn Express sign. The blue and green behemoth looms
over our destination; its cool-tone aura overpowered in
the pub parking lot by the pink neon haze cast from
Romantix, the adult shop where illuminated signs tout a
variety of erotic goods and pleasing lotions. The back of
the giant lot vibrates with the low rumble of idling long-
distance trucks parked for the night. Any connection
between the two is not explored, at least by us.
May 11, 2019: Roadhouse Of My Dreams
The lights of Evanston spread out ahead of us. With a
population of just over 12,000 the city boasts a thriving
retail scene with liquor, gun and fireworks purveyors
lining the exit ramps off Interstate 80. Some shops
appear to sell all three. That’s a party for another night.
We keep our wallets in our pockets and head directly to
the Hampton Inn, a clean and predictable property set
on a rise overlooking the Bear River Valley.
Arriving Saturday evening at eight o’clock == after a
500+mile day exploring the railroads of Utah and getting
up close to Big Boy #4012 has left us all beat — Jimmy
listens to his internal jet-lagged clock and retires for the
night; Mike and I clean up and go looking for food and
something to wash down the dust of the day.
We hail from New Jersey, the nexus of all-night diners
but I travel quite a bit and I know better than to expect
24-hour souvlaki when on the road. As I approach the
hotel front desk clerk for some advice on where to eat, I
realize I am probably the 200th train nut she’s had to
deal with on this sold-out night. I don’t have to ask the
question. “It’s pretty late for dinner,” she chides.
Apparently getting seated after eight-thirty on a
Saturday in Evanston is not an easy task - even with the
town packed by the rolling hoard following the Big Boy.

33. It turns out the “sports bar” has a name: The Lincoln
Highway Tavern. A former gas station, the area under the
pump canopy has been walled in as the “Pink Elephant”
smoking area, while the restaurant itself is housed inside
the original main building. It’s funky cool and our only
alternative to hotel room whiskey from the gun/fireworks/
liquor store.
Upon opening the door I feel a tingle in my boots, a
legitimate twinkle in my weary toes. This is no faux
“sports bar.” The Evanston High School Red Devils’ team
moms were not the interior designers. No faux
memorabilia or cheap pictures of dead Yankees line the
walls. The Lincoln Highway Tavern is clearly a roadhouse
of the finest order. My kind of place. A haven for honest
food and drink, where you don’t have to whisper a pre-
apology for the dirty joke you are about to tell.
A diamond in the rough? No. It is a shining GIA 4C’s top
level bar-light-reflecting rock of Americana. Love at first
sight? You bet. And that’s not even the half of it.

34. The LHT is not a large establishment, showing all it has to
offer once you come through the door. A cooler case full
of future bad ideas glows along the left wall. Dramatically
lit tiers of liquor illuminate the bar back. To the right, a tiny
kitchen hides behind a pony wall with all the modesty of
Eve’s leaf. In between high-tops, low-tops and bar-tops
offer space to take a load off from a dy on the blacktop.
And it’s dark, roadhouse dark. If you walk into the Lincoln
Highway Tavern during mid-day with your sunglasses on,
you may think you’ve gone blind. There’s plenty of light to
imbibe by, but not enough that curious cats can watch
you do it. The way it should be.
At this point, you may expect me to tell you about our
greasy meal washed down with pints of PBR and a sleeve
of Rolaids to ward off any gastric night tremors. I’d
expect that, too, but we’d both be wrong. Very wrong.
The secrets of the Lincoln Highway Tavern begin to reveal
themselves as Mike and I order our first round. The
waitress, a pretty young lady sporting a ponytail and
sweatshirt, reels off a list of whiskey options assembled
with the variety and good taste I’d expect to find in a
Manhattan social club. And she offers a double for just $1
more. Mike goes for a single malt while I begin with a
regional whiskey and a pint of Killer Bees, a smooth
honey amber ale from up in Jackson.

35. The menu surprises as much as the whiskey lineup.
Emeril Lagasse might call the food core roadhouse
staples “kicked up a notch.” I’d say more like eight
notches, which happens to mean full-throttle on a diesel
locomotive. This is full-throttle food of the best kind. My
wings come out fried to crispy perfection: no batter. I’d
like to think that any fowl miscreant who’d dare coat
wings with an unholy runny paste wouldn’t last long in
the LHT. These are wings done right with a very tasty
cayenne sauce. If you have a friend who thinks Hooters
is the epitome of hot poultry appendages, do us all a
favor and straighten them out quickly. I know a place in
Evanston…
'The “sports” part of the LHT comes from the good
viewing angles of TVs placed around the bar. I am sure
this a great bar for watching a game, but fortunately for
us no one is playing anything at the moment. The
bartender, a bearded gent half my age, turns on an old
black and white movie at least three times his age. And
it features a train. He’s seen it before, so he talks Mike
and I through the plot up until now. This is a full service
pub of the highest order.
My main course - a hot iron skillet of
chili, cheese and America - ups the
ante over the wings with Spinal Tap-
level flavor: an 11 on a scale of 1 to 10.
I take each bite slowly. I don’t want this
end. We enjoy another round or two,
talking to the bartender across the
room and watching TV. I am happy.
Truly happy.
I have had the pleasure of eating in
great restaurants around the world,
while also racking up an impressive
roster of pubs. I generally prefer the
latter.

36. Tonight, the Lincoln Highway Tavern joins Man of Kent
(Hoosic, NY) and the Blackbird (Earl's Court, London) as
temples of beer and food that I will always make time for.
We leave the LHT knowing there has to be more to the
story. The liquor and food selection scream good taste,
much more than one would expect from a gas station-
turned-pub that is literally the only choice for food past
eight-thirty. The mystery was solved a few weeks later
after I emailed LHT owner Mick K. in an effort to figure out
just what magic he had cast over the humble former
service station.
Mick, a Wyoming native, bought the place in 2014 and
immediately began transforming the five decade old
building. The Lincoln Highway Tavern debuted on January
27, 2015. It’s a cool story about something very dear to
me - preserving roadside architecture - but the real twist
is what Mick did before the LHT. He’s a certified 2nd level
sommelier through the Court of Master Sommeliers and
has been recognized for his wine lists by "The Wine
Spectator.” Mick managed beverages at two major Las
Vegas hotels, having the honor of working directly for
Chefs Mark Miller at Coyote Cafe and Jean Joho at the
Eiffel Tower Restaurant. That explains a lot.
The curated selection of beers on tap and the bottles
behind the bar is no accident; they are the result of a
true professional. The food, an elevation of the
roadhouse genre that would make Guy Fieri have
redefine his schtick as Diners, Drive-Ins, Dives and the
fucking Lincoln Highway Tavern, finds it’s roots from
years of experience in great restaurants with master
chefs. It makes all the sense in the world.
The next time you are driving Interstate 80 through
Evanston, Wyoming - heck, the next time you are within
a 150 miles of Evanston - check out the sports bar by
the Holiday Inn Express sign. If we’re both lucky, I’ll see
you there

37. Chapter 7: Transcendental IDGAF

38. Transcendental IDGAF comes with permission to excel,
fuck up or check out as I see fit. If I capture some neat
scenes of the train, maybe I will share them. If I don’t?
So what?
I haven’t always been this way. I used to be a competitive
train chaser who tried to get as many shots as possible
no matter what. Weather, traffic and other railfans all were
just obstacles to my success. Looking back, I see how
ridiculous it was to have a hobby under a halo of pressure
from things I could not control. And honestly, many times
the pictures could have been better. Aggro train chasing
means you are always looking for quick’n’easy shots right
off the highway shoulder or at a road crossing where you
can speed on to the next spot the moment your shutter
clicks. The percipience honed chasing trains for over 40
years revealed a simple lesson: to get the good stuff, you
need to forgo the mediocre. The soul of a good
photograph is rarely found when one is out trying to get
as many images as possible.
Thus, here we are at Castle Rock, Utah among at least
200 other folks patiently waiting for the show. I figure the
train is still a good 30 minutes away. I imagine that
somewhere down Echo Canyon scenes from Death Race
3000 are being recreated at an alarming rate. I don’t care.
Transcendental IDGAF.
May 12, 2019: Transcendental IDGAF
Mike, Jimmy and I developed a no-fucks-given plan for
chasing the steam train long before we left New Jersey.
We knew we would be side by side with thousands of
people doing the same thing and among the throng
would be plenty of aggressive, stressed-out train buffs
driving like demons to get to their next photo spot. The
Utah State Police put out notices earlier in the week
reminding would-be chasers that risky driving in pursuit
of a photograph will not be tolerated. The train is
scheduled stop every hour or so to the check the
locomotive. Our plan? Endeavor to find one spot
between each stop. Anything more will be a bonus.
Anything less is OK, too.
I have no problem honoring our chase plans. A couple of
days ago, somewhere out along the Western Pacific, I
made the full transition into what the acronym
generation might call transcendental IDGAF. Anything I
want to do is on the table (within moral, legal and
financial boundaries, of course) and it’s all good. Train
chasing helps me access that level of freedom. Some
have yoga or meditation; I have a full tank of gas and the
itch to keep moving along the tracks. The trains give me
focus, while the happenstance of when and where they
might be going brings reason to visit destinations I’d
otherwise miss.

39. It’s evident we are standing with people who really want
to be here. Just within earshot are photographers from
Germany, France, Canada, China, England and
Australia. All of us jostling for space along a cliff
overlooking Echo Creek, the original 1869
transcontinental railroad alignment and the 1916 low-
grade line blasted through the far hillside. The latter is
where the train will be.
And it must be coming soon, as I can see the parade of
chasers coming up Interstate 80. They’re racing off the
exit ramp, jamming their cars into any empty space,
running to the cliff, red faced and exhausted. There’s no
room for them. Should have been here earlier.
The train eases through the tunnels. It’s a scene I never
thought I would see in person. Jimmy , Mike and I
savor it along with a few other like-minded observers.
Before the train is out of sight, the rest of the gaggle is
back on the road to chase. It’s less than 20 miles to
Evanston and the end of the day’s run. Got to get that
maximum number of shots in.
We watch as the train disappears around a hillside on
its way to the summit at Wahsatch.
Mission accomplished. Transcendental IDGAF.

41. Chapter 8: The Western Stars

42. We spent the afternoon scouting photo locations for the
next day’s run. With frequent freight trains, there was
plenty to keep our cameras busy. We didn’t realize while
we were out cavorting along the old Lincoln Highway,
kicking up dust on side roads which we later learned
included the original 1869 right-of-way of the UP, that a
crisis was gripping the Evanston restaurant scene.
Our crew wanted steaks, so went to a steakhouse. The
line of would-be patrons stretched out the door. An
electric tension crackled through the hungry masses,
most of whom were local families out to celebrate mama.
It became clear after a few minutes that there were plenty
of empty tables but no one was being seated. That’s
when I went to chat with the maitre’d. I didn’t see her
tears until we were face to face. They had no food to
serve. Not to dusty train buffs. Not to the nonna’s and
abuelita’s whose early bird celebrations were turning into
a late evening debacle. Not to anyone. As walked back
through the line, I heard grumblings about other
restaurants running out of essential items.
May 12, 2019:
The Western Stars (Are Shining Bright Again)
Evanston is almost out of food. I am not kidding. There
are so many train buffs in town that we have eaten it all
including - as one teary maitre’d told me - the stash
being held for Mothers’ Day reservations this evening.
I can’t say I am surprised. We waited for over an hour at
lunch to get a table at Jody’s Diner. The train was parked
for the rest of the day so the chasers swarmed Jody’s.
While in line for the mens room, two gents in front of me
were trying to decompress from their stressful chase this
morning. The pressure, as one put it, had never been
worse.
I’m sorry? The pressure of what? Railfanning is not a
competitive sport. There’s no winner. All that matters is if
you partake, you enjoy. I wanted to console these gents.
To open their minds. To allow them to enjoy their hobby.
To let them know that the scanners on their belts, the
thousands of dollars of camera equipment around their
necks and their new Big Boy t-shirts were all meant to
be accoutrements of pleasure. But I didn’t. I stood in line
content to just be at ease. Transcendental IDGAF.

43. Even if Sam I Am liked green eggs and ham, he would
have been SOL in Evanston. He wouldn’t have known
where to turn, unless he had a taste for the wee dram.
Then he’d have known what we knew: in a town without
food, the best place is the one with the widest selection
of golden brown libations.
The Lincoln Highway Tavern was just up the road. And
what do you know? They still had food. And drinks. And
no heavy scenes. And it had already been on my favorite
roadhouse list for 23 hours. Going back was a no-
brainer. A delicious no-brainer after which we decided to
take a spin by the tracks just to see what was up.
And so here we are standing by the Evanston
roundhouse museum along the UP freight yard. It’s well
past nine o’clock, and the buffs are still at it. The railroad
kindly tied down the train next to a parking lot. An
impromptu night photo session has broken out with
sleeping #4014 and #844, the true western stars.
A cadre of fans have kindly arranged their vehicles to
illuminate the locomotives with their headlights. A blend
of mercury vapor and sulfur street lights fill in the gaps.
Consistent color temperatures? Who needs them? I’ve
spent hundreds of dollars to photograph steam
locomotives under professional lighting, and this freebie
isn’t too shabby.
Before our new friends wear out their car batteries, I
decide that I am done with the cameras for the night. I
need to take a long look with my own eyes. The sky
above Evanston shines with the same stars seen by the
laborers who laid out this railroad a 150 years ago. Stars
are equalizers. No matter how important we perceive
ourselves to be, one look up on a clear western night
lays bare the folly of our self-delusion.
It’s time to head back to the hotel. We have an early
start. There are still a dozen or so photographers out
here. Hopefully, these guys had dinner already. If not…

45. Chapter 9: Cuppy Draw

46. In the rush to complete the railroad, the Union Pacific
engineering team not only looked for the easiest path
through Uinta County, but the least expensive. Rather
than dealing with Aspen Mountain head-on, the railroad
wound around its south slope. Once the railroad was
established as a success, the UP began working on a
realignment which would tunnel through Aspen Mountain
in 1901, eliminating both the original roundabout route
and - by default - the town of Piedmont. Have you ever
watched the TV series “Hell on Wheels?” That was
Piedmont; a true railroad boom town.
That 1901 alignment is the one we have been staring at
intently this morning, waiting for steam. I’m still staring.
The train is a bit late and the number of chasers has been
increasing steadily over the past few minutes. There’s
plenty of room for cars, tripods and drone launches. I am
in my spot, listening to the wind and - wait - a train! I can
hear the low rumble of diesel locomotives growling up the
Aspen grade. That’s not a good sign. Given that this
ramble to Ogden and back is the Big Boy’s break-in run,
I’ve had the quiet worry that at some point we might see
#4014 relieved of duty. It’s a comfort to see a freight train
roll into view.
May 13, 2019: Cuppy Draw
Yesterday afternoon Jimmy suggested we check out a
location on the western slope of Aspen Mountain where
we could photograph the steam train today. He found a
spot on Google Maps that seemed to have promise and
looked to be a bit of a dead-end for the chase: one way
in, one way out. You could see the train there, but
probably not get ahead of it before the next scheduled
stop at Granger. That fit our game plan perfectly: try for
one good spot rather than racing like idiots to get
mediocre photos at multiple locations.
That’s why we are standing in the glorious Monday
sunshine on a hill just west of Cuppy Draw overlooking
the Union Pacific mainline. We’re parked with some of
the TRAINS magazine crew and a few other folks along
a goat trail. Judging by the charred wood, beer cans and
animal pellets it seemed to be a multi-species party
spot. And it is perfectly lit for the train.
The railroad along Stowe Creek does not follow the
original 1860’s alignment. That route, the historic right of
way of the transcontinental railroad, lays behind us to
the south.

47. I expect the steam train to closely follow the freight and
by the light haze of smoke over the hill by Sheep Draw it
seems I am right. As the magnificent train comes into
view, I am burning pixels, swapping camera bodies and
lenses like an old west gunfighter with six-shooters on
each hip.
It’s a visual joy but not much of an aural experience.
There’s enough horsepower between #4014, the second
steam locomotive #844 and the diesel added for support
that it would take 4x more train to make them work. It
doesn’t matter. I am enthralled. This is what we came
for, and it’s happening right in front of me.
On cue, before the middle of the train has passed by our
perch, the railfan motorcade starts down the goat path
ready to race back to the highway. I am not moving. The
track is arrow straight through Cuppy Draw. My eyes are
fixed on the spectacle before me and I am watching it
until the last possible glimpse. It’s going to be awhile.
I am not worried about getting to the next photo
location.
I am not worried about anything.

49. Chapter 10: Intersects

50. A scattering of houses and other buildings dot the area
where state highway 412, Leroy Road and the railroad
converge. One could be forgiven for driving by, thinking
“that’s neat” and continuing on their way.
Fortunately, we stopped. Twice.
Wandering around Carter, framing its forlorn elegance for
pixel-by-pixel study, I kept thinking “why?” Why has this
town almost vanished? And why was it ever built in the
first place? I had to find out. I don’t proclaim to be
historian extraordinaire of Carter. In fact, there's much of
the story I have yet unravel. But I know now why it came
to be. The story begins just to the east with the town of
Granger,
Immigrants and emigrants have been drawn westward
across the United States from the nation’s earliest days,
when Ohio was still hard along the left edge of colonists’
maps. As these explorers dispersed throughout the
continent, trails - many times already blazed by Native
Americans - evolved into wagon roads, railroads,
highways and Interstates. The greatest of these
transcontinental transportation pathways converged in
southwestern Wyoming upon Granger, a lonely flat spot
of semi-arid scrub in Sweetwater County, just east of the
Uinta County Line. One hundred and forty-or-so souls call
the town home today.
May 13, 2019: Intersects
I am drawn to deserted places. That doesn’t necessarily
mean abandoned. Growing up at the Jersey Shore, I
spent more winter afternoons on the beaches and
boardwalks than summer mornings in the surf. The off-
season experience was much more personal. Stormy
days were my favorite: the darker the gloom, the more
cutting the wind, the harsher the sheets rain, the more
likely I could be found huddled in a seaside coffee shop
reveling in moments that most people turned away from.
I’d sometimes bring friends along, but there weren’t
many other teenage dreamers in town who could be
lured out by really bad weather.
So, it should come as no surprise that I was instantly
drawn to the — almost — ghost town of Carter,
Wyoming. Population 10.
A handful of sun-bleached weathered buildings battered
by wind — those Wyoming gales that swirl up your pant
leg, chill your balls blue and exit out of your collar
blowing icy songs of cowboy legends in your ear —
lining the busy Union Pacific railroad mainline speak to
different eras of Carter’s promise. Yes, there’s the
expected classic false front building, but next to it is a
brick affair emblazoned with a painting of the American
flag.

52. The cluster of one-story houses tucked along the
junction with the Union Pacific Railroad’s “Overland
Route” and “Oregon Short Line” is easy to miss.
Granger, by all appearances, is just another small town
overpowered by the endless landscape of the American
West. And like so many western towns, the highway
goes around it. That wasn’t always the case.
Unassuming and humble Granger is one of the most
important transportation centers in American history.
Don’t remember it from history class? Well, the original
name of the settlement was Ham’s Forks. Still doesn’t
ring a bell? Same here.
Sturdy wagon wheels of settlers headed west along the
Oregon, California and Mormon Trails; hooves of the
Pony Express; and Overland Mail stagecoaches all dug
into the dirt and mud of Sweetwater and Uinta counties.
Granger grew around the fork where the California Trail
and Oregon Trail split. Upon arriving in town, the masses
of the western migration had to make a decision: head
left towards California or right to the Pacific Northwest.
As Indian wars and weather conditions pushed other
trails out of favor, stagecoach traffic through Granger
increased and the Pony Express joined the flow on what
became known as the Overland Trail mail route.
Granger was the first major intersection of the far west.
Western stage trails generally followed river valleys,
climbing mountain ranges only when absolutely required.
Logically, as the transcontinental railroad forged west
through Wyoming, survey teams closely followed the
alignment of known trails. Thus, in 1868 Granger - a hub
of stagecoach roads - became a stop on the Union
Pacific Railroad. Three years later the Pony Express was
out of business and the stagecoach parade was fading
into the history books. Without a hint of irony, the Union
Pacific dubbed their new rail line The Overland Route,
taking the name of the trail and the stage line it put out of
business.
Since trails followed easier routes, and railroads later
followed those trails, it makes sense that America’s early
highway system did the same. In 1913 the Lincoln
Highway came through Granger on its way across
America connecting New York City with San Francisco.
Later, US Route 30 was established through the area,
turning north to roughly parallel to the Oregon Short Line
railroad, followed a few decades later by Interstate 80
built along the historic routes of the Lincoln Highway,
Union Pacific mainline and Mormon Trail. Though
bypassed by the new highways, the busy Union Pacific
junction maintains the status of Granger a railroad town.
But what about Carter?

53. In 1868 the Union Pacific survey team chose a route that
exited Granger west along the stage trail to the
confluence of Black’s Fork and Muddy Creek. There, the
trail bent south along the fork to the bustling trading
post at Fort Bridger, while the railroad continued west
along the creek. Intentionally or not, the railroad screwed
For Bridger and gave rise to a town that would otherwise
never be: Carter.
The railroad’s decision didn’t sit well with Judge William
A. Carter, a sutler who sold provisions at Fort Bridger
(and believed to have become the first millionaire of
Wyoming), who apparently had the prescience to realize
the railroad’s chosen route was an economic liability for
the trading post.
A short road was built connecting Fort Bridger to the
Union Pacific, where a new station was established as a
transfer point to serve the bypassed communities. The
lonely spot where ruts met rails was named in honor of
Judge Carter. Despite the road, the importance of Fort
Bridger waned along with the stagecoach while the
village of Carter hung on as a small railroad town
buoyed by the drillings of the Wyoming-Illinois Oil &
Shale Company.
A lot went down in Carter over the next 150 years. That’s
a story I am still learning. But at least I now know why
the town was built.

57. Chapter 11: The Lincoln Highway

58. And they call Route 66 the “Mother Road?” Bullshit.
The Lincoln Highway was truly transcontinental tying
Times Square, New York with Lincoln Park, San
Francisco via 3,398 continuous miles. Route 66, at a
paltry 2,448 miles, started in Chicago and ended in
Santa Monica. Even the Union Pacific and Central
Pacific, which built the first “transcontinental” railroad,
really only connected Omaha and California. The
Lincoln? Coast to coast, baby.
It never had a number. Didn’t need it. Still doesn’t,
though it did earn a nickname: “The Main
Street Across America.” All the Lincoln ever required
was a modest red, white and blue marker with an “L.”
Some were formal, some were homemade; painted on
rocks, poles and fences. My own experiences with the
Lincoln Highway began back east when I was old
enough to start noticing these humble, faded
guideposts.
As a Jersey boy, I found myself on state Route 27 quite
a bit. This stretch of the original Lincoln regularly
brought my family to one of our favorite restaurants.
May 13, 2019: The Lincoln Highway
Let’s get something on the table…
Route 66 is carved into the asphalt heart of America. Its
iconic badge — symbolizing the innate promise of
freedom central to the lure of highway culture — has
been whored out by every trinket factory, t-shirt printer
and repop sign maker east of the Yangtze River. Long
the totem of Route 66 mythology, it has become a
marker in our psyche triggering faded Ektachrome
visions of an America that never really existed, but one
we long to return to. I am not immune. Route 66 excites
me. I love it.
But it ain’t no Lincoln Highway.
The Lincoln - fathered mostly from existing roads in the
east and miles of illegitimate horse trails and wagon ruts
across the west - predates Route 66 by 13 years. The
Lincoln Highway was the route for early automobile
adventures. Primitive cars riding on wooden tires, driven
by goggled men and women donned with leather
accoutrements, fired the imagination of a country that
always looked west for a challenge. Going on a cross-
country road trip was serious business. The Lincoln
Highway gave no quarter when it opened in 1913. In
some ways, it still doesn’t.

59. The highway can still get you to that old joint, but the
board of health long ago decreed that you won’t be
eating anything upon your arrival. Across my home
state, Pennsylvania, Ohio and bits of Illinois the original
Lincoln is an old friend of mine. You have to know where
to look, as many miles of the original highway are under
Route 30 through these parts, while significant sections
are now side roads. Finding them used to be a difficult
task. If you were lucky, you’d find an old marker or a
new historic Lincoln Highway sign. I always looked for
hints in street names: “Old Highway Ln.” or “Lincoln St.”
Today, thanks to the Lincoln Highway Association, you
can give up on your own sleuthing and find your way
along all the historic alignments using the map at:
https://www.lincolnhighwayassoc.org/map/
Out here in western Wyoming, sections of the original
Lincoln are unpaved, though properly graded and
maintained in a manner the pioneer motorists could only
dream of. East of Evanston, the highway plays tag with
the current and historic Union Pacific rights-of-way.
South of Leroy, one can even turn off the original Lincoln
Highway and on to the railroad’s 1869 alignment.
And if you do that, Leroy Road awaits.

61. Chapter 12: Leroy Road

62. May 13, 2019: Leroy Road
Mike, Jimmy and I have been friends for many decades.
Our mutual interest in railroading, winter sports and
infinite other things have bound us together. As our
passions change and our lives evolve, we always find
common ground. Sure, we can expertly push each
others buttons, but we’re old enough to know only to
use those skills for maximum comedic effect. If that’s
not maturity, I don’t know what is.
So, how is it that a friendship bound on slopes and in rail
yards all over North America, had one of its most
memorable moments on a lonely dirt path in God’s
country? I can tell you this; we didn’t see it coming.
Well, that’s not entirely true.
First, let’s talk about maps.
Look up LeRoy, Wyoming on any map service and you
will find Leroy Road, a train chaser’s dream: 10 miles of
nirvana following the Union Pacific Railroad and Muddy
Creek through the kind of expansive western views that
have been burned into the American psyche. Our friends
who had followed the Big Boy on its westbound run
raved about the photographic opportunities presented
along Leroy Road.

63. We found that Leroy Road truly is a pathway to railroad
photography heaven, just one with many obstructions
that make it somewhat less than a ribbon of contiguous
fun. Ranch boundaries and gates have a limiting effect,
but so do slides and washouts. 10 miles of expectant joy
condensed into about 2.5 miles of real pretty fast.
About those washouts. Back east, I am used to driving
across minor areas on where water has eaten away a few
inches of a dirt road. Rarely are these spots more than a
few inches wide and 6 inches deep. Anything bigger than
that is usually a no-go as the eastern climate tends to
keep the ground soggy.
Out west, washouts are a different story - at least when
the land around them is dry and solid. The bigger your tire
diameter, the less minor washouts matter. Unfortunately,
our vehicle had wheels barely big enough to step across
the sidewalk cracks that broke mothers’ backs in school
yard games.
Despite that we made out way across a few dry ditches
on Leroy Road, albeit slowly. Given the presence of the
steam train, even at times when it wasn’t running there
were rail buffs out scouting locations and photographing
freight trains. All weekend we had seen a gent in a pick-
up truck camper doing just that. The difference being
while we were out carousing at the Lincoln Highway
Tavern, this guy was parked along a desolate section of
railroad in position for his first shot the next morning.
Now he was in my rearview mirror and clearly wants to
go faster than we are.
I pulled over at the next wide spot, which happened to
be right at a washout which was easily 10-24 inches
wide and 5 feet deep. CamperMan pulled right past us
and crossed the gap like Wilt Chamberlin stepping over
a single LEGO. Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeet! If he can do it…
I looked for my inner Bo and Luke Duke. All I found was
a guy whose greatest automotive feat to date was
burning donut tracks into local parking lots with a ’72
Dodge Dart Swinger. A badass, all original, 318 powered
penis extension. That Dart was like a Boeing 757: way
more power than it needed, but one fun machine.

64. There were some metal and wood scraps lying around
which I assumed must have been used as temporary
bridges. I wasn’t too keen on that. Mike noted that the
gap was significantly narrower in one area. All I had to do
was drive across there. What happened on my way to the
narrow section is debatable. The result is not. I managed
to get one front wheel across while leaving the other
hanging in the air. In the middle of nowhere. With no
phone reception. And no other way out.
I can imagine many folks in our position (like me twenty
years ago before age, wisdom and therapy kicked in)
freaking the fuck out. I think Mike and Jimmy were
waiting for me to snap, but it wasn’t going to happen.
What would have sent me into a tailspin in my twenties
now just made the story all the better. Remember
transcendental IDGAF? Try it over a washout with (almost)
three wheels touching the ground.
I am not bragging about this situation. It was stupid and
avoidable. I own that. In fact, had it not all worked out OK
I’d likely never share any of this story, But it turns out that
a couple of great friends, a stack of rocks and some
elbow grease pushing on the bumper can get you out of a
tight jams you never should have gotten into in the first
place.
I don’t know how long it took before Jimmy had enough
rocks and Mike had enough leverage to get the hanging
wheel some traction. We took a break after popping it
out, tired and dirty on the downhill side of an adrenaline
burst. And then came CamperMan, returning — I
suppose — after finding a washout even he wouldn’t try.
His pick-up bounced across the gap that almost ate us,
and with a tip of his hat he jostled his way south. I
wonder if he knew what we’d been through. I bet he did.
Fucker.
Oh, and that picture at the top of the page? After our
recovery, I drove back to where Leroy Road crosses the
UP mainline. All this effort and we hadn’t seen a train.
Not content to walk away empty handed, we parked
along the tracks and took a nap until we heard the next
westbound coming. It’s not an award-winner, but we got
something for our troubles.
Jimmy’s dad taught me long ago that as long as you
come away with a story, everything is OK. I’ve lived by
that though now I value coming away with your health,
mind and body intact, plus the story. Regardless, we got
a story on Leroy Road.
A story we will tell for years to come.
You think you’re sick of hearing it now? Just wait…

65. Epilogue

66. That was the week that was.
I’m still processing the parts not
stored on disk. The moments
that I dream about. But as for
the words and the images, this
is all I can offer.
I hope you have enjoyed this
meager attempt to share my joy.
- Rob