Freight Train Through the Tuscon Night

A double decker freight train running through the desert

The train continued through the Arizona desert. I was behind the tractor's loader on the flatbed, watching the engine's headlight illuminate the hills in the distance. Interstate 10 was off to our left as the train continued north toward Phoenix. The scattered shrubs filled the void between the tracks and the road. I figured it must be after midnight by now.

Jumping the freight train had been Waddy’s idea. We were in Tucson with the University of Wisconsin rugby team and had just finished our friendly against Arizona. The team was down to play UA and ASU as tune-up matches during spring break. Our hotel was just off a rail line where we had seen freight trains going slowly by during our few days there.

The team was preparing to leave the next morning for Tempe when Waddy asked if anyone wanted to jump a freight train rather than take the bus. After a few laughs, Duke indicated he’d give it a go, why not? Not sure what moved me to join in, but after just a few minutes, four of us, Duke, Waddy, Andy, and I, decided to go. We packed our gear and asked our teammates to load it on the bus as well as to tell the coach what we were up to. After a quick stop at a convenience store nearby, we headed down to where we noticed the trains moved the slowest.

It took about half an hour before a train came through, and without thinking about it, we all ran towards it. A long string of box cars passed. Duke and I ended up at a pair of facing cars, jumping up on the metal bar ladders at either end of the box car, he on the back of the first car and I on the front of the following. There was a small ledge, about ten inches wide, as well as a bar at waist height at the end of each. We swung into the middle, holding the bar and standing on the platform.

The train sped up as it left Tucson. Soon, the tracks beneath us rushed by at a dangerous speed. The cold March desert air chilled us, and our hands holding the metal bar grew numb.  Looking over my shoulder, I yelled above the roar of the wind, “How long do you think you can stand like this?”

“I don’t know, not too long,” Duke replied.

Duke shuffled around and, with one hand, fished out a rope from his knapsack. He tied it around the bar and then around his waist. He knelt down and sat on the shelf with his feet on the train hitch. After watching him, I slid down as well, and he handed me the rope. After tying myself off, I felt much safer, and while we both held on with one hand, we were much more relaxed. We had thought ahead and split up the supplies, but hadn’t really thought we would be separated. We didn’t have the food. We did have the beer. We had no idea if Andy and Waddy had made it on the train. But, Duke, being Duke, had bought a harmonica to truly play the part. At least we had noise other than the howl of the wind.

In truth, the rope was probably a bad idea, as had we fallen, all that would have happened is that we would have been dragged along to a grisly death. But it made us more comfortable, and I guess that is all that really mattered.

Now the train was speeding through the desert. We could see Interstate 10 in the distance linking Tucson and Phoenix. The train was moving just slightly slower than the few cars out on the highway. The noise was tremendous. No matter how loud Duke blew, I couldn’t hear him from just three feet away. But the stars up between the boxcars were beautiful. The world lay flat and empty with scrub brush to the distant hills.

After an hour, the train suddenly slowed to a stop in the middle of nowhere. The highway was off to the left about three or four hundred yards, but we could see no reason why the train would stop here. We got off and looked up and down the incredibly long line of cars, but saw no sign of life. Maybe they knew we were there and stopped to look for us? Worried, we started slinking along the line of cars looking for Waddy and Andy.

“Waddy, Andy,” we would stage whisper before ducking behind the wheels of a carriage. Eventually, we saw a shadow and heard, “Duke, Chaz”. We gathered and tried to figure out what to do. One idea was to hike out to the highway and hitch the rest of the way to Phoenix. But then, who was going to pick up four two-hundred pound twenty-something year-old men on a highway in the middle of the desert in the middle of the night. Only someone that we probably wouldn’t want to catch a ride with. So we decided we had to remain with the train but between box cars sucked, so we continued to walk down the line of cars looking for perhaps an open box car or another car better suited to our needs.

We came across a flatbed with two construction tractors on it. We could sit in the loaders or lie between the wheels. Plenty of room to stretch out. It turned out the two enclosed cabs were unlocked, so when we got really cold, we could hold up in there too. Shortly after we climbed aboard, a train passed in the opposite direction. We had stopped on a passing track. No one either cared or knew we were there after all. 

We began moving again, and Andy pulled out the cold hot dogs and Duke pulled out the beer. Mushrooms appeared from somewhere to augment the experience. As the train continued through the cold night air, we drank, laughed, pissed off the sides of the train and enjoyed the desert night air. Getting cold, I got behind the loader.

And then it got interesting. The train made a long bend and started heading west. We went over the highway and left it far behind. None of us really knew where the train was going to go when we got on, but we assumed it must go to the Phoenix area. We were wrong. We were on the tracks toward Yuma and the ports of either San Diego or Long Beach. 

We all kind of figured we would get where we were going and then grab a bus back. It was amusing in a nervous sort of way. But the trip made it all worthwhile. We continued across the southwest between the mesas under the blanket of stars, including a few shooting across the black dome above us. We weren’t really talking much anymore, just each lost in our own thoughts in the expansive southwest.

Around four in the morning, we rolled through Yuma. Flood lights lit the yard, and we hid under the tractors. The train slowed to not much more than a few miles an hour as we continued through town past the old run-down depot. Then we crossed the Colorado River into California. We were now officially way off course.

The sun rose over the Imperial Valley. What had been scrub brush gave way to sand. The black sky turned blue, devoid of any clouds whatsoever. And planted along the side of the track were signs about every mile or so stating:

“Warning: Naval Weapons Testing Area: Do not leave the train.” 

We had grown very cold and tired, and also wondered how the heck we were actually going to get back to the team. A few hours later, the train stopped on another passing track, and we decided to jump off and try to get on a train going the other direction.

Another southwest giant passed in the opposite direction. It was mostly flatbed cars with containers stacked on them. There was a small six-foot deep landing on the front of each car, plenty of space for us. We ran and jumped up as the train passed by. The containers filled the full width of the flatbed with perhaps an inch to spare. Each was eight feet high, and they were stacked two tall. The manner in which they stacked left an inch gap or so between. 

The train again started to speed up as it passed our old ride. We sat out as if on a patio, eating the last of our food and trying to warm up in the morning sun. As we approached Yuma, another train passed us heading west. A hobo crawled out from the wheel well of some tractor-trailers piggybacked on a flatbed.

“Better hide, they out looking for us in Yuma,” he yelled across to us.

But where? The containers were sealed shut.

We remembered the lights were all on the south side of the tracks, as were all the buildings and depot, when we went through the night before. We put on our knapsacks and decided to slide down the opposite side of the car. We were all tall enough to reach our fingers in the gap and have our toes on the edge of the car. We shuffled down the side of the train, hanging off over the embankment.

As the train crossed the Colorado River, we got a little nervous. Train trestles are not paved. As we looked down below our legs, we could see the river far below. While no longer the Grand Canyon, a sizable canyon, the river remained. The rocks on rapids were tossed some hundred feet or more below my feet.

You may also recall, the train moved slowly across this bridge. We found out later in the police station the reason for this. There had been a derailment the week prior, and the track was being fixed. A platform was cantilevered off the side of the bridge, and several workers stood as the train went by.

“Good morning, senior, how was your evening?” one of them asked, smiling.

“Cold,” Waddy replied, looking over his shoulder.

The train continued slowly into Yuma. We clung to the side, hoping to avoid detection from anyone important, or at least anyone who would care in any official capacity.

“Get off the train,” a bullhorn roared. Waddy peeked around the edge, hoping that they were calling someone else. I looked over my shoulder and saw a police officer with a bullhorn behind us.

“Get off the train,” he repeated.

We all took a giant step backward and rolled down the embankment. Getting up, he indicated he wanted us to put our hands against his Ford Bronco. It wasn’t the police but an immigration officer. After he checked our belongings and patted us down, he loaded us in his truck and took us to the sheriff's office. It was an odd juxtaposition. The immigration officer was clearly trying to put on a show, but the urbane sheriff couldn’t really be bothered. 

We all sat around as the sheriff took our statements. 

Duke, who had the most experience with police, asked if it was a felony or misdemeanor.

“Misdemeanor”

All of us breathed a sigh of relief, except Duke, who followed up with, “So what is the penalty?”

“A fine not to exceed $1000 and/or a jail term not to exceed two months”

All of us had a lot of different thoughts going through our heads. Waddy was in ROTC and was thinking about his scholarship and future evaporating. Andy was mostly worried about his dad’s reaction. I was thinking two months would get me out about a week before finals. All I would do is read in jail, so maybe I could get the best grades of my college career.

The officer was clearly used to hobos or illegal immigrants and not college kids. He asked why we jumped the train. Waddy related his story about his uncle having all these stories to tell about when he was young, and how we didn’t have any, so he wanted a story to tell.

“You gonna have a hell of a story about the Yuma county jail.”

The sheriff went on to ask why we were in Arizona in the first place, having already learned we were all down there from the Midwest. We explained that we played rugby for the University of Wisconsin and were down, playing UA and ASU. We just chose the train rather than the team bus to get between the cities.

“Rugby? You don’t wear no damn helmet do you?”

He continued to take our statements and addresses before he finally asked us to follow him. We walked out the door of the station, and we all started to walk to the waiting police car, assuming he was taking us to court or something. But he had other plans.

“Nah, nah, nah. I’m not taking you to court. You all play rugby. That is a dumb motherfuckin’ game. Putting you in jail won’t teach you anything. I’m going to let you go. But don’t ever get caught on the Southern Pacific again.”

Duke and Andy hitchhiked back to Phoenix, but Waddy and I headed to the Greyhound station and got ourselves to Tempe. The coach was pissed. But Waddy got his story, and we got to see the desert from the back of a flatbed in the middle of the night.

**Second Note**: I went to find a picture of the bridge over the Colorado River for this post using Google Street View. In the interest of truthfulness, the bridge is maybe only 20-30 feet above the river. Even in my journal at the time, I didn’t perceive it that way. Just an example of perception and reality.

This was originally published on Substack March 14, 2024