Freight Across Canada

"So if you want to join me for a while, just grab your hat, come travel light that's hobo style." - Terry Bush, Littlest Hobo Theme Song.

In the hole. Unity, Sask. km 1612.

I prefer vacationing alone. I tend to not bother meeting new people when traveling with someone from home, and I'm a big fan of being thrown into new situations without a lifeline. For this cross Canada freight train trip I hope to connect with many people. To drink coffee with ruralites in one-diner towns across the country. To travel from hobo jungle to hobo jungle, complete with homeless bums, fires in barrels, and beans. We will laugh and swap rail stories, drink wine from a box, and at night I will slink off into the bushes and pray I don’t get knifed for my gear.

These high-minded goals are abandoned when a pretty girl expresses interest in the endeavor. Unfortunately, she decides that we will likely kill each other. Given our similar natures, she is probably right. Also her idea of wearing a sundress, "I always wanted to ride a train in a sundress," while painting a pleasant mental picture, reveals that I may have not accurately explained to her the modern-day freight train hopping experience.

I book three weeks off from work, and spend the first day gathering supplies. My only criteria is that everything is black. Black shirt, black jacket, black jeans, black pack, and black duct tape to cover everything else that isn't black. I turn my red sleeping bag inside out to reveal its black liner.

I buy garbage bags and practice hyperventilating into them. The CP mainline between Vancouver and Calgary crosses the Rocky Mountains, at one point going through a mountain instead of over it. There are two tunnels, each 1 km long. Given the steep grade of the tunnels, trains creep through here very slowly so I calculate that I could be in for 20 minutes of tunnel-time. There are legends of hobos asphyxiating in the tunnels due to the lack of oxygen combined with diesel fumes from the engines. I affectionately name the tunnels the Spiral Tunnels of Doom™. Hence the garbage bag. A quick swipe of air before going into the tunnels should be enough to last me for 30 minutes.

Real hobos eat from cans. Louis Creek, BC. km 490.

In addition to the essentials, I bring along an HD video camera, 25 DV tapes, 5 extra batteries, charger, and tripod. And a tent -- I hate mosquitoes. I've spent one too many nights under the stars battling between suffocating in the bottom of my sleeping bag and being eaten alive by mosquitoes. Traveling light I am not.

I consider buying a scanner, but decide that knowing exactly where a train is going and when would reduce the experience to that of the engineer. Adventure lies in the unknown, however contrived that unknown may be. In the future, should I decide that waiting countless, mind-numbing hours in the bushes for the next train to leave isn't adventure, I will undoubtedly invest in a scanner.

I set out at the east end of the CP Port Coquitlam rail yard. I am immediately spotted by a worker. "You're in a bad spot. There's a rail cop right over there." I thank him and get the hell out of there. Ten minutes later an RCMP car pulls up to where I just had been. Determined that this trip will not end before it starts, I decide to catch a train on the fly just outside the yard. This proves to be difficult, as most trains are already moving too quickly by this point. At up to 6000 hp per engine, trains accelerate surprisingly quickly. I wait in the bushes for a train with a rideable car close to the front, ready to leap out just as the engine passes. An hour later I spot my ride, a grainer eight cars back from the engine. I sprint to catch it. Proper train mounting technique calls for throwing your pack up first, then jumping on. This assumes you've got a pack light enough for throwing, which I do not. I manage to catch the ladder and pull myself up. Happily hidden within the grainer's cubbyhole, I put in some earplugs and fall asleep.

430 km later I awake in Kamloops. Magic. Riding freight is a relatively stress-free method of travel. There is no fighting for survival on the freeway, no decision making, you go where the train goes. You only have to come to terms with hiding from people whose job it is to find you and arrest you, but would prefer to beat the shit out of you and leave you stranded 100 km from anywhere. In the cubbyhole of a grainer, however, you are safe.

The CN and CP lines diverge at Kamloops, with CN heading north to Jasper, and CP heading east Calgary. My train heads north to Jasper. Too bad. I rode this line a couple years ago, and have yet to ride the CP track. It is supposed to be one of the most beautiful rides in North America. But the ride to Jasper is no slouch either, and there’s no spiral tunnels to contend with. I move out onto the deck to enjoy the scenery and fresh air. 

The tracks parallel the North Thompson River, a pristine and largely uninhabited area of British Columbia. I spot the occasional car on nearby Highway 5. They look like tiny space pods. Passengers in their own separate universe.

Stretching my legs, I climb the ladders and poke my head up over the top of the grain car. I spot a worker in a reflective vest standing beside the tracks, and he spots me. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. There are many reasons why an experienced hobo will tell you to stay off the ladders -- being highly visible ranking near the top.

They knew. I did regardless. Jasper, Alberta. km 872.

When the worker calls it in, the cops will set up two police cars on either side of a road crossing, and stop the train at exactly my car number. That’s how they do. I consider moving back a few cars to throw them off. But no. The only way back is up and over the cars, and in the mountains an overhanging tree branch can knock you the fuck off or kill you. Not to mention there are tunnels.

The train pulls into Jasper and stops. No sign of police. I wait. A helicopter flies overhead and I panic. Paranoid perhaps, but I have hoboing friends who have been greeted by police cars, dogs, and a helicopter. Small town police forces really have nothing better to do. Granted the chopper didn’t arrive until after a failed foot pursuit, and the dogs didn’t arrive until after the chopper failed to spot them. The dogs found them though. They’re good at that sort of thing.

The chopper passes. It is probably one used for forest fires. I wait, then bolt to the rear of the train. Nobody sees or nobody cares. An hour later the train starts back up and we are on our way. Thank you Mr. Rail Worker.

I’m much happier to be riding at the rear of the train. It’s harder to be spotted by crews up front, and I’m less likely to have my section cut out. Trains are typically built with the front cars being the first to be left behind at intermediate stops, and the rear section in for the long haul. The only annoying thing about riding the rear is the jolts: slack in the couplings between the cars adds up, and a sudden acceleration or braking up front can jolt a rear car a good two feet.



It is dark and I sleep out on the deck. I wake up with the train stopped outside of Edmonton, a healthy 1230 km from Vancouver. The plan is to get off here, fuel up, recharge the camera batteries, and hit up the West Edmonton Mall. Seriously. I love that place. I want to stay in one of their hotel theme rooms, specifically the igloo room. They have one called “Canadian Rail,” but it looks gay. Instead of hobos and barrel fires and beans, the room looks like the inside of a passenger train sleeper car. Gay.

But it is 3 am and the train is a fair ways outside of town -- I can either sleep in a field until morning, or sleep on the train and make progress. I don't feel too stir crazy and still have two liters of water so I get back on the train. So much for taking my time and meeting the locals.