Rambling West

Silent Night, Quiet Morning

2011-12-16T17:33:00.000-08:00

It is the morning after Christmas. Overnight a light snow has silently fallen, covering the town of Skykomish in a pristine blanket of white. Devious in their beauty, the wet, heavy flakes stick to every surface, including the boughs of the community tree. However, when banded together this snow, long referred to as “Cascade Cement” represents a formable enemy to the railroad crossing Stevens Pass. Piling up quickly as Pacific storms slam into the Cascades, this is the snow that has a bad tendency to slide and is responsible for the deaths of nearly 100 people century ago at a town named Wellington, a mere 20 miles further up the pass.

Thankfully, no such dangers linger on this peaceful morning. Sans the passage of the Amtrak Empire Builder a quiet day and silent night have passed. Only the occasional hiss of escaping compressed air from a distant locomotive disturbs the dawn. For now, it is the only evidence that a mainline railroad even exists.

The solitude of the Christmas furlough continues, but not for long. To the west, a distant signal suddenly comes to life, its green light burning a hole in the darkness. Something is coming down the hill. Commerce can be denied only so long.

The railroad is waking up from a short winter nap. The silent night and quiet morning of another Christmas is about to end.

Three Generations

2011-12-12T18:38:00.001-08:00

Three Generations, Lombard, MT.

All through grade school and high school, Dad and I would go train chasing. Be it around our home in Tacoma, or a yearly fall camping trip to Stevens Pass, the Old Man and I spent many-a-hour along the tracks. Good people were met, good photos were taken, they were, well, good times. Of course time and diverging lives ended those outings and delivered them into fond memory status.

After Mom died a few years back from a long illness, and with eldest son Seth tucked away in Montana, it was past time to load the Old Man up and go train chasing again. This time under the Big Skies. So early in September Dad and I set sail from Eatonville,WA with the goal of meeting up with Seth and doing a little railfanning along the Montana Rail Link.

Now taking the Old Man to Montana was not exactly a logistical nightmare. We both travel light. I just didn’t realize HOW light Dad traveled. In fact we were well on our way early the first morning, east of the Columbia River as I recall, when Dad asked,

“How long we gonna be gone?”

Oh, I don’t know, Dad. It’s like I told ya, 4 days for sure, maybe 5. Why, you need to be back a certain time?”

“Well no, but I didn’t bring a change of clothes….”

“Jesus Christ, Pop, Mom’s rolling in her grave right now. Oh well, don’t worry. You’re lucky we’re just going to Montana. Hell over there half the people don’t change clothes all week either and the other half don’t give a shit if you do or not.”

Now that came after I had to derail his notion that he needed to bring a sleeping bag.

“Oh, I figured we’d be out in the brush under the stars.”

“No, Pop. It’s first class. We’re doing motels. If I put you out under the stars, your oldest daughter and youngest daughter would start with my ass and not quit until they had yours too.”

When I told Seth we were coming, his response was that this was going to be “epic.” We hadn’t even hit Spokane and we’d already by-passed “epic” and screaming towards “legendary.”

A little worried about an 89 year old man traveling 700 miles in a day, I asked Dad if he thought he could handle about a 10 -12 drive.

“Hell, I could go from here to New York. Well, ‘long as we could stop now and again to take a leak.”

Our first stop, (other than…well, you know…) was in Missoula where I delivered my usual bribe to the good folks at MRL headquarters…2 flats of fresh picked strawberries. The Assistant to the President, Lynda Frost came out and visited with us in her usual friendly manner. Dad, on his best behavior doffed his hat, bowed slightly as he carefully shook her hand and told her, “Pleased to meet you ma’am.”

But while I was bragging up the berries, the Old Man couldn’t hold himself back.

“Aaah, don’t believe a word he tells you, Lynda. I watched him go into Safeway five minutes ago and come out with those.”

Friggin’ Old Man. 89 years old and he still has the charm!

Oh the times we had over the next four days. Up and down Mullan Pass, chasing coal trains and helpers. After seeing the first train wrapped around the loops at Austin Pop got back in the car with a grin on his face.

“I don’t care if we don’t see another train. That right there was worth the trip.”

While at the Helena deopt, and Old Man and me joke with MRL engineer, Rich Curtis,

On the second day we stopped into the depot at Helena to greet the Helena Road Foreman Kern Kemmerer. A great guy, Kern was more than happy to take the time to explain helper operations over Mullan Pass to Dad and answer his questions. It was a great BS session but with trains getting ready to move, it was time to hit the road. Besides, we had a little pre-train business to take care of. It seems, worse than forgetting clean clothes, Dad didn’t bring enough film! Now THAT was an emergency!

Meeting up with Seth later that day, it was 3 generations of Burwashes versus the Great Divide! As Dad and I busied ourselves taking pictures of the trains, Seth busied himself taking pictures of Dad and I taking pictures…of trains.

Me and the Old Man, 50 years of taking train pictures together.

Saturday morning the three of us stopped off at the depot once again to get a feel for what was going on. Fulltime Trainmaster and fulltime farmer/rancher Jay Hart was on duty. When I told Pop that Jay was another one of these guys that has to work fulltime to support his farming addiction, Pop summed it up in his usual exact manner.

“Well Jay, they ain’t gonna hang blue ribbons on any of us for having any brains.”

Jay, laughing in his easy Montana manner couldn’t argue.

When we left Dad was shaking his head.

“You know, Mart. I don’t think I’ve ever met a nicer bunch of guys than the guys working out here.”

True that.

Now with Seth onboard, the stories really started to roll. One evening we were sitting out on the deck of a Belgrade pizza joint when the Old Man, mid-bite into his large steak pizza told us how much better it was than the wood pecker he and his brother Chet had tried to cook with a blow torch. Not trying to be funny, Dad had Seth and I in stitches as he recounted how he and Chet, when boys had killed a wood pecker, and with feathers and all, tried cooking it with a blow torch. The feathers melted, but that really didn’t phase them. They hadn’t cleaned or gutted it, but even that didn’t phase them. They’d rip some meat off, and if it didn’t look cooked enough, they just hold it in front of the torch a little longer. (I don’t think the couple on the other side of the deck, who were laughing as well, realized a comedy monologue was going to be part of their dining experience that evening.)

“I tell ya what. Back when we were kids if it swam, slithered, crawled, walked or flew, we killed it and tried eating it.”

Now added to that, the waitress was in awe. The three of us each devoured our personal large pizzas and had no issue destroying dessert as well.

“Wow!” she exclaimed when we paid up. “I’ve never seen 3 generations eat so much in one sitting. And you’re all so skinny.”

We upped her tip.

The weather was fantastic the whole time we were there. Unseasonably hot, but still comfortable for Dad and I to do some hiking. At one point, with the sun beating down on us in the Lombard Canyon I told the Old Man:

“You know why that sun’s beating down on us don’t ya, Pop? That’s Mom up there burning a hole in your back for not bringing a change of clothes.”

“Yeah, that was kinda a bonehead move. Your mother would be fit to be tied if I pulled a stunt like this when she was alive. Skin us both alive.”

Such great times and memories. Up on top of Winston Hill, looking into the sun down the Missouri River Valley towards Townsend, waiting for a train, that in true Burwash form, never showed up. Or watching and 89 year old man hop over a barbed wire fence like it wasn’t even there. Or the look of satisfaction on his face as he sat high above the Missouri River deep in the Lombard Canyon.

Great memories:

Skyline, Mullan Pass

Telling stories, Lombard, MT.

Doing what we came for, Lombard, MT.

The Great Divide, Blossburg, MT

“I could stay here the rest of my life,” he told Seth and me.

There was definitely some truth to that, but by and by he had to head back west and home.

I delivered Dad to my little sister’s house in Kent where she was going to take him on the final leg home to Eatonville. The Old Man gave be a big hug.

“You know, Mart, that was probably my last long trip, but it was the best one ever.”

You know, I hope he’s wrong.

Grandfather and grandson

(Thanks go to Seth for the color images.)

The Happy Family

2011-08-15T22:25:00.001-07:00

I can remember, not that long ago, it was a rare occasion when my family and those of both my sisters’ showed up at the folk’s place at the same time. With the exception of my elder sister and hubby, who spent some time in both Ephrata in eastern Washington, and California, all of us really haven’t ventured that far from home. My little sister, Mary and family live in Kent, and these days, Kathy, and her husband live in Tacoma. Both are only about an hour from the family farm. Janice and I are in the outpost, here in Burlington, about 100 miles away.

I know on those days when the planets were in alignment, and all of us arrived at the farm, my mother, (even when her health was sliding) would insist on “fixing a little something for lunch.” Of course, as was so often the case, “a little something” was a full fledged banquet of home cooked, often home raised, food.

We’d all sit at the table in the large farm house kitchen. Dad at the head would ask a blessing, using an interesting mix of his best King James and his own special lingo. His opening petition made no mention of the “little something” that was testing the strength of the stoutly built table. No, Pop would bow his head, and in an almost solemn tone say “Lord, I thank thee that thou hast brought all the kids home today.” “Thee,” “thou,” “hast” and “kids” all in the same sentence; that was the Old Man’s Revised King James Version.

When Dad used the term “kids,” to him it was all inclusive. Sure, he and Mom loved seeing me and my two sisters all at the same time, but when Dad prayed, “kids” included Kathy’s husband Bob, Mary’s husband, Randy, and of course, Janice. You see, to Pop, our spouses were as much his own flesh and blood as my sisters and I. It was pure joy for my folks, and sadly it might only happen once or twice a year, if that.

I never thought much about Dad and how he always thanked the Lord for bringing all of us together, but now that the shoe is on the other foot, I really do understand. Like most families these days, our kids have scattered to the four winds. Whereas we measured our distance from our folks in terms of miles, or hours, it seems with our kids distance is measured in states and time zones. For so many of you it’s even a case of oceans and continents separating your families. With Seth in Montana, Grant and Claire in Philly, the times they arrive at the same spot at the same time are precious few. When they do, it is pure pleasure.

Last week, when for one night the “kids” were all home for dinner, I refrained from a King James/Farmer style blessing, but we didn’t dare let the photo-op slip away. So here’s the happy family, eldest son Seth and his very significant girlfriend, Jess on my side, younger son Grant and wife Claire on Janice’s side.

The Pilgrimage

2010-05-20T22:28:00.000-07:00

As I headed west across Wisconsin, I was hoping to drive out of the back edge of the clouds and rain that had blown in the day before. Sadly, the seamless gray sky and the off and on showers draped over the endless horizon. A far cry from when I traveled this highway two days earlier going east.

That was a sunny, warm, Upper Midwest spring day. That was the day after I stood in front of 3 generations of the Meath family in a house built by James Jerome Hill. I told them of the exploits of their great, great-great, and in some instances, their great-great-great uncle John Robert Meath. Many learned for the first time of the part he played in the 1910 Wellington Avalanche disaster.

Harriet Meath, the unofficial matriarch of the family was there, of course. After the reading she made sure I was coming out to Hammond, WI the following day to visit “John Robert’s” grave. Apart from the reading, it was the principle reason for visiting the region. Well, that and a journey west to the prairie of Minnesota, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

In true Midwestern fashion, Harriet’s house in Hammond smelled of fresh baked cinnamon rolls and chocolate chip cookies. She had taken down the good cups, saucers and plates and served a “little morning coffee.” Along with the aforementioned treats there were various types of Wisconsin cheese, crackers and naturally, butter.

We talked for a good hour about many things. Harriet’s late husband James was a Meath. Like his great uncle, he was “a talker. All the Meaths are talkers,” Harriet says. “I think the only way you could make them stop talking is to tie up their hands. When you were giving you talk last night and using your hands so much, that was just like how a Meath would have told that story.”

I saw old photos of the original Meath farmhouse where Bobby and his family grew up.

“It’s tore down now,” Harriet laments. “It had nine bedrooms. Not sure why they had to tear it down.”

Then there was the studio portrait of John Robert and his wife, Elizabeth McCabe. Taken, what we think is shortly after they were married, shortly after the avalanche that killed so many of Bobby’s friends. John Robert, with wavy hair parted the left had ever so slight a smile. It was betrayed by the same sparkle in his eyes, the very same described by Basil Sherlock some 50 years later. Elizabeth was stately, an angular face, herself with a serious but pleasant expression.

“Do you think that’s the same person in the picture?” (the cover shot on Vis Major), Harriet asks.

“Oh, I’m sure it is,” I tell Harriet. “I’m certain that’s Elizabeth.”

Harriet takes another look. “I always thought Elizabeth was better looking than that.”

“Well I don’t think she’s bad looking,” I counter. “Just the styles back then and the photo don’t do her justice.” (I don’t think I convinced Harriet.)

Harriet herself is more than just a little interesting. At 87 she still drives. As her niece Linda,, (who was also over for “coffee) tells me, “She drives all of the ‘old people’ in town to their appointments. We caught her up on the roof last winter shoveling snow.”

Harriet tells me she knows little of her mother’s background.

“My mother came west on the orphan train not long after arriving from Ireland. A couple in the area took her and a boy.”

During WWII, Harriet and a gal friend answered a want-ad place in the local paper by the Boeing Aircraft Company. Packing up their bags, the two young women boarded a train and spent the next 3 years in the airplane assembly plant in Renton, WA.

“So you were a ‘Rosie the Riveter’?” I tease.

“Well, I soldered,” Harriet says. “And I worried about those planes. I worried that my solders wouldn’t hold.”

“Aunt Harriet is a worrier,” Linda adds.

“I am that,” Harriet confesses.

But time is slipping away and Harriet has appointments to keep starting at noon. I “convince” her that it would be easiest if I drive, and off to the cemetery behind the Immaculate Conception Parish we go.

Under a budding tree, on a gentle grassy slope is a large, gray marker with the name “MEATH.” Beneath that two names are engraved. To the left is “John Robert.” To the right, “Elizabeth McCabe.”

Bobby was born in 1870 and died in 1934. Elizabeth was born a year later, in 1871 and died two years before, 1932. Both were young, even for 1930’s standards.

“Interesting that Lizzie has her maiden name on the stone,” I comment.

“Well, there were lots of McCabes,” Harriet tells me.

And indeed there were. Directly behind Bobby and Lizzie’s graves is the grand “McCABE” marker, with small stones of the family placed in the ground, stretching far up the slope. Directly behind Lizzie is her sister, Nellie, the second woman in the cover shot. Nellie did not marry, and died well after her sister.

I thought I might get a little emotional standing there, but I didn’t. There was, however, a sense of accomplishment, a sense that a major goal had finally been attained, or at least well on the way to being attained.

At the base of the hill and beyond a row of scrub trees was the old Milwaukee Road mainline from the Twin Cities to Chicago.

“I’ll be darned, the tracks are right there,” I say.

“John Robert can hear the trains whistling through town,” Harriet adds.

And I bet he does.

I returned Harriet home in time for her to get ready for another busy afternoon. She filled a baggie with cookies, and another with a cinnamon roll. Before sending me on my way she gave me a hug and told me, “that’s for Janice.” (We didn’t just talk about the Meaths.) I was almost out the door when Harriet stopped me.

“I need to ask a personal question. How old are you?”

“Well, how old do you think I am?” I countered.

“All of us were talking about it last night. A couple think you’re in your 40’s. You know, farmers tend to age. And a couple think you’re about 60.”

“So what do you think?”

“I think you’re in your early 50’s.”

“57, Harriet.”

She then gave me a final “request.”

“That friend of John Robert…”

“Al Dougherty?” I ask.

“Yes. You need to find out more about him. When John Robert finds him in the snow, well, I liked how you wrote about that. If you find out more about him, I’d like to know.”

My marching orders given, I was on my way across lower Wisconsin to the CRPA conference in Lake Forest, IL.

And now I was driving back west under gloomy skies. Harriet is right, I kept thinking. I do need to find out more about Al. That is where I was now going, through the Twin Cities and out onto the two lane Highway 12. Through the towns made famous by David Plowden’s overnight ride on Train 28, the Fast Mail,…the eastbound version of the train in which Anthony John “Al” Dougherty was asleep at 1:43AM, March 1, 1910.

I had traced Al’s beginnings to Waverly, Minnesota, a town on the old GN mainline and US 12. That he ended up in the St. Mary’s cemetery was not a “for certain.” Three days earlier, Ted Benson had made a quick survey of the site and came up with one “Dougherty,” but the names and dates were all wrong. Still, there was hope. Ted felt there was plenty of cemetery yet to explore.

There was a definite sense of anxiety building as I drove over the mainline on County #8 and up the slight hill to the cemetery. The cemetery road looped in a “U” around the southern base of the knoll, then climbed to the top, with the graves on the northern half falling away towards the lake. At the top of the hill I stopped and got out.

On the south side was a large reddish pillar with “DOUGHERTY.” This was the wrong family Ted spotted earlier. On the north slope, near the road where I was parked, was yet another, but the wrong spelling, “DORERTY.”

I turned an wandered west about 50’. There was a newer stone, with the name “DALBEC” engraved. Directly behind it, barely two feet from the backside of that marker was another large, gray stone with the name “DOUGHERTY.”

I might have gasped. I know for sure my heart started to race. There were no markers in the ground in front, only the newer stone. Odd…I thought.

Immediately my eyes shifted to the left, to an open space well clear of the new stone. There, nearly covered by the spring growth of grass were two small, flat markers. I could see “ANTHO.” I brushed the grass away….and there it was, plain as day: ANTHONY J 1881 – 1910.

I straightened up and for a moment probably thought nothing at all. A great sense of relief come over me…and then it happened….a westbound BNSF freight whistled for Waverly. It was as if Al was telling me, “Yep, you found me.”

I knew I wanted to get a shot of Al’s last resting place with a train passing in the distance, so in spite of the dreary day and bad light, I sprinted for the car. I fired away as two Dash-9’s led a short mixed freight west. That bit of business done, I returned to the graves of Al and his younger brother Daniel, laying side by side.

I took shots of the markers as I found them, and then using my moustache trimming scissors clipped away the grass, exposing the full stones. So into the clean-up duties was I, I somehow failed to hear the eastbound approaching. It was blowing for the #8 road before I got situated, so I had to settle for shots of the grain and tank cars passing below. All the while I couldn’t help but wonder if Al was chuckling….”I could have told you there was an eastbound coming, dumbass. Didn’t you notice how slow that westbound was going?”

Pictures taken, I finally just stood and contemplated who and what I was seeing. Daniel was a year younger than Al, born in 1882 and died a the year before, 1909. And then there was Al, killed a year later. No other members of that Dougherty family were there, only the newer stone with a completely different name.

Were the losses of their two youngest sons in rapid succession more than they could bear? Did they stick out one more crop year after losing Al in the March of 1910, then move somewhere else? Someplace where the memories could be dampened by distance? Or do the two brothers lying side by side have nothing to do with the sudden departure of the remaining family from Waverly? Could it be something as simple as a sudden turn of fortune on the family farm? Maybe it was simple economics that forced them off their land.

Harriet was right. I need to learn more.

The next day, Mary, the pleasant and helpful secretary at the St. Mary’s Catholic Church office listened to my story about Al and his family. She searched the church records. John Dougherty was found, the “Dorerty” record was found, as was Dalbec. Nothing, however was recorded for Anthony J or Daniel. She concurred with my guess; the remaining Dougherty’s left town and the unused plots reverted back to the church to be resold at a later date.

And so I have been thinking what if….

What if I could locate the descendants of Al Dougherty?

And what if I take Harriet at her word and tell her what I find?

And what if, what if I tell Sara Scrimshaw at the Hill House Mansion of a vision I now have…a meeting of the two families at that grand monument built by men like Meath and Dougherty?

What is the point of a pilgrimage if something positive doesn’t come of it? And shouldn’t that positive go beyond just personal fulfillment?

I have a great sense of satisfaction that I was able to tell of the antics of Bob Meath and his friend Al Dougherty directly to the Meath family. I carry with me that same sense of satisfaction and even accomplishment having stood and looked at that simple stone nearly 100 miles west of Hammond, on a grassy slope above the tracks at Waverly. I thought this pilgrimage would bring me full circle, put the final period to this story I call “Vis Major.”

But it hasn’t.

The Dougherty family need to hear the “Turkey Tale” as well.

Harriet Meath gave me my marching orders.

Al Dougherty and Bobby Meath need to reunite one more time.

The Centennial

2010-02-28T08:02:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, February 27 I went up to Skykomish for the Wellington Centennial observance. The program was organized by the Skykomish Historical Society and was hosted by Bob Kelly, clearly the ultimate authority on the avalanche. Literally, were it not for Bob, "Vis Major" would not exist. It was amazing, nearly 450 people came to listen and talk, filling the gym at the Skykomish school to capacity and then some.

Gary Krist and I were asked to speak. Gary fled the snowbound east coast and did his presentation giving an overview of the event. I did my part by reading the infamous Wellington Turkey Caper, giving the boys their moment of glory.

In the end, there as a somber moment where Gary, Bob and myself read the names of the dead. With the subtle guitar playing Ashokan Farewell, (from Ken Burns' "Civil War" PBS documentary), the names were read. I felt honored to be able to read off the names of a few of the boys I've gotten to know, Anthony John, "Al" Dougherty, the brakeman that was always in on Bob Meath's schemes, Lou Ross, Benny Jarnagan's fireman, Archie Dupy, the southern, tabacco spitting brakeman, and Joe Pettit, the conductor on Train 25 that took his duties so seriously, he died performing them. It was a little hard to read a few of those names, certainly the recent loss of my mother was in the back of my mind.

At 1:43AM tomorrow morning, it will be the official centennial of the moment 96 people died.

Here's a few shots of me doing what I like to do best, tell the Wellington story through the eyes of those who knew best what happened, the rails themselves. Thanks to Bob Harbison for the great photography!

The Grand "Vis Major" Tour

2010-02-10T18:34:00.000-08:00

Me, on a book tour...can you believe THAT "es?" Well, I am..here's a few places where you can catch my combo one man side show/comedy/lecture/bs sessions:

Feb. 13 Northwest Railway Museum Awards Banquet, Snoqualmie Golf Club 11:00AM

Feb. 18 Monroe Public Library, Monroe, WA 7:00PM

Feb. 24 Lynnwood Public Library,Lynnwood, WA Snohomish County Historical Society 7:00PM

Feb. 26 The Author's Show webcast; http://www.theauthorsshow.com/

Feb. 27 Skykomish Historical Society, Skykomish, WA 11AM

March 16 Lynden Public Library, Lynden, WA 7:00PM

March 22 Bellevue Public Library, Bellevue, WA TVW Author's Hour taping, 7:00PM

March 31 Village Books, Fairhaven District, Bellingham, WA 7:00PM

April 22 James J Hill House, St. Paul MN, 7:00PM

Book your dates now, my calendar is fast filling!

Buy now,buy often!

Amazon.com

Barnes and Noble.com

Back When There Was Snow

2010-02-10T17:31:00.001-08:00

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Usually this time of year I like to post some shots of trains running through the snow on Stevens Pass. Not so this year...currently, there's no real snow to speak of. So instead I'll hearken back to years past and put up a few that have yet to see cyber space. Enjoy a little stroll through time and Cascade Cement. We'll begin down at Skykomish with the snow dozer crew getting the machine ready for a day of plowing up the westside of the hill.

I came very close to being destroyed getting this shot, but I knew I was. The second I clicked the shutter, I dove face first into the snow and behind a telephone pole. I got covered, but popped up no worse for wear.

Looking down into my viewfinder and seeing this coming at me at 35 mph is some seriously scary "es!"

Here's an oldy-moldy from about 1975. I'm up at West Scenic to catch a work train meeting a westbound with a C&S unit leading.

And here's the helper of the same train.

Hopping over to the eastside of the mountain, a westbound works up the last mile to the summit and the confines of the Cascade Tunnel.

The snow's still falling as this eastbound, just out from 8 miles of darkness, begins the long descent to Wenatchee.

Let me tell you, it's a long, cold walk up from Merritt to get one photo of a train on the Gaynor trestle in the winter, but looking back, well worth the effort.

Finally I'll end this little winter tour down at "the Slot" west of Merritt. It is a bitter cold day with the temps right around 0 but the sun is out, the sky is blue and Rocky Ridge never looked better.

Look Familiar?

2010-01-14T19:29:00.001-08:00

Take a look at this series of photos I took a few years back up at Blossburg, Montana, the summit of Mullan Pass:

Now take a look at the photos on the TRAINS magazine website:

http://www.trains.com/trn/default.aspx?c=a&id=6082

Click on the Mullan Tunnel icon and watch the series of photos.

Do they look similar?

Well look close at this photo...you'll see the TRAINS photo Dream Team in action!

Now you know why I never bother to send any of my MRL work to THEE Magazine....

Still Kicking

2009-12-28T09:01:00.000-08:00

Well, I'm still alive...even after downing at Cardiac Arrest Burger. Ever since seeing them on Diners, Drive-ins and Dives, I've wanted to take one on. With Seth home over Christmas, I had a willing partner and chef, so it was on! Here's the blueprint:

The Bun: Two complete toasted ham and cheese sandwiches w/ Jack Daniels Bar-b-q sauce. Make sure the bread is liberally buttered on all sides before toasting and there is plenty of cheese.

The Burger: In the initial run we settled on a 1/3lb patty, with an egg and dash of oatmeal to hold it together, along with a dash more of Jack's.

The Condiments: These include 6 pieces of fried bacon, a fried egg (fried in more butter), onions, (caramelized in the left over bacon grease), 1000 isle dressing, ketchup, mustard, pickles, etc to taste.

I ate mine in under 10 minutes in as much as once you pick it up, there's no way you can put it back down.

We think we can improve on this original. Being health conscious, we cooked the bun using 4 slices of whole wheat. This proved to be too flimsy. The next time around I'm thinking four slices of thick sour dough or some such. Also, I think the next time we'll top off the burger/fried egg/onions with a handful of french fries.

Still it was good business as the photographic proof below indicates:

The Gift of Railroad Art

2009-12-26T20:42:00.000-08:00

When you are the kind of guy that can hide his own Easter eggs, surprising me at Christmas really isn’t much of a challenge. Rendering me speechless, well, that is a little more difficult. Janice did both this year.

Off and on since about Thanksgiving, Janice would mention that not only she, but the staff at the Burlington Library couldn’t wait for my reaction to the gift she got me. Nice, all this while she would give me absolutely no help in trying to come up with something I could give her. Not too much pressure. (Hey, I came through in the clutch, however, thanks to a little help from new daughter-in-law, Bubbly Little Claire….silver cross necklace.)

Anyways….

So fast forward to yesterday morning. Tucked in behind the tree was a gift wrapped in brown butcher paper in the obvious shape of something that was mounted and framed. Now, I’m somewhat clueless about most of what goes on around the house. Alright, totally clueless, but even I had an idea or two at this point. Traditionally, Janice has done things with the covers of my books. We have two examples hanging in our living room right now, as a matter of fact. So yes, the thought crossed my mind that again, she did “something” with the cover of “Vis” to mark its publication.

Considering she did some of the design work for the cover, it wouldn’t have been hard for her to use some of the scans she had to fix-up a little something. We even had a spare cover or two floating around here that she could have incorporated, who knows?

So, Jr. F-up (Seth) is being “Santa” this year and hands me this large flat gift. Now I should set the scene a little. I’m in an overstuffed chair on one end of the room. To my immediate right is the couch occupied by #2 son Grant, and A #1 daughter-in-law, Bubbly Little Claire (BLC). To my right sits Janice and Jr. F-up is standing in front of me. You also have to remember, when the boys and I get together, our mentality drops from a mean of 39 to about 14.

Given that, being now 14 years old, I open it backwards…on purpose, just to be an idiot. I succeeded.

“Wow!” I exclaimed. “Just what I always wanted, a blank back of a picture frame and all the shit I need to hang it!”

Now, as I am looking at the blank back, everyone else in the room is looking at what it actually is. My first tip-off that this was something out of the ordinary came from BLC’s reaction; a slight gasp and a “Oh, that’s beautiful!” Next was Jr. F-up…”Ah, Dad, you might want to quit being a moron and look at what you got there…’frickin’ Old Man.”

I turned it around, and that’s when the mind and vocal chords went blank. I was staring at one of the most (to steal BLC’s adjective) beautiful works of railroad art I have ever seen. Janice commissioned a local artist to make a painting the photo used for the cover of “Vis Major.” What is amazing is how he did it. It is in sepia/brown tones such that it looks like the black and white/aged original photograph given to me by the Meath family. It is double matted with a narrow brown surrounding the painting, and a larger light yellow finishing the work. The frame is a simple design in a light colored hardwood. On the bottom is a gold colored metallic plaque that is engraved with “Wellington circa 1910.” It is a fairly large piece, the painting measures 9” x 15”, frame and all is 18” x 24”.

The artist, Bob Williams did a masterful job of turning the photo into a painting. It is not a bolt for bolt attempt at making it a clone of the photo, and yet it is realistic to the point I would not go so far as to say it is a stylized representation. Bob does railroad paintings and so threading that narrow line is something he does, and does well. He is not quite as detailed as Fogg or Danneman, but maybe little more so than the water colors of Rose.

What is truly amazing is how he worked the grey and brown tones to maintain the look of an aged black and white photo. I truly believe had he done it as a color painting, it would have been much easier. To even add brown tones to the steam and snow must have taken some real effort.

Well folks, I was speechless. I just stared at it for a couple of minutes. I finally looked at Janice and asked her, “How’d you come up with this idea?”

“Well, when you gave away that photo to the museum, I just thought you should have a copy for yourself.”

There is a little more to the story. Bob had a display of his railroad art at the library this past fall and I took time to go look at the paintings. Some I had seen, and as I wandered from canvas to canvas, I remember telling Janice how much I liked his style, realistic enough to please the eye of a railfan/photographer, and yet still maintaining the look of the medium of paint, not film. It was shortly after that, she put Bob to work. Sadly, he doesn’t have a website, otherwise I’d give him a major plug.

We’re still not 100% certain where to hang the painting; somewhere in the living room for sure. I’ll get Janice to pull out her little point-and-shoot digi and take a few shots of it and post them somewhere...probably Facebook so other folks can enjoy the work as well.

The gift of railroad art: it will certainly go down as one of my all-time favorites.

Moving a Mountain

2009-11-11T21:09:00.000-08:00

The Montana Rail Link is a regional line that tends to think big. Maybe it's the big skies of the Big Sky State. When you are having issues with a tunnel what do you do? Remove part of the tunnel, of course!

It's a long story, I am far from knowing all of the details. Essentially, the narrow smokey hole through the Great Divide west of Helena, known as the Mullan Tunnel needed an upgrade. With the arrival of the newer hi-tech locomotive, the SD 70 ACe to be exact, the narrow confines, high heat and thick carbon laden exhaust was more than the computers and circuitry of the new engines could handle. Unit after unit, the engines assigned to help trains over Mullan Pass were falling victim to the harsh interior of the tunnel.

The solution? Remove 400' of the west end of the tunnel and bore the remainder out to a larger size to allow better air flow. Implied in that is removing 400' of mountain! The project began as soon as the weather allowed in the Spring of 2009 with construction halted for the winter.

This past September I visited the site, and thanks to the good folks at the MRL was able to document some of the work being done. Here are a few of the photos taken.

Morning brings the daily crew meeting. Workers who are drilling and reinforcing the tunnel interior get orders for the day.

While the men get their orders, the real excitement is down at what is left of the west portal. With a 10 second countdown, the popping of blasting caps, and the low thud of the major concussion, a section of the south wall of the old tunnel is blown apart.

Time to go to work. Contractor Andy Weaver takes a last slurp of coffee before climbing on his track-hoe to clear away the tunnel wall rubble.

While Andy works the excavator, filling his off-road dump trucks, a large front-end loader has passed through the tunnel and attacks the pile from the east side.

Looking like some type of prehistoric dinosaur, the car mounted drill and grout rigs make ready for another day of work in the tunnel, while out on the main the helpers of a westbound grain heavy pass by.

Hi ho! Hi ho! Off to work we go!

While contractor crews work in and out of the tunnel, MRL railroaders Dave Cook and Fred Fessenden tend to the details of keeping the project "on track."

Moving a mountain implies taking it somewhere else. The tailings pile from the removal of 400' of tunnel stretches west for nearly 1/2 mile from the construction site.

Track and time up for the day, the last of the equipment exits the tunnel while inside the section house, tunnel crew foreman Nick Laviolette talks things over with project manager Dave Cook.

The reason for the need is illustrated by a westbound grain heavy slipping through the narrow confines of the daylighted portion of the tunnel. Improvements have already been made to for the mid-train manned helpers, while unmanned DPU still take the full brunt of the Mullan Tuunel smoke show!

I'll go back next summer to take a look at the project as it nears completion...more to come.

Historian?

2009-09-16T21:06:00.000-07:00

On the cover material for "Vis Major" the publisher refers to me as an "historian." Can you believe that? Look at this photo of yours truly proudly holding his first hardbound and first softbound editions of "Vis." Historian? They've lost their minds.

Would a real historian have a chunk missing from his left thumb and losing the nail on his right thumb, not to mention ground in grime under the nails of all ten digits? Obviously this "historian" digs up his facts the old fashioned way, grubbing in the dirt.

Then there's that gray fast going to white hair. Looks to me like this "historian" is writing from memory not research.

Now, in the background is "Vis Major" command central. (BTW...notice how many times I'm working the title "Vis Major" into this little essay. Product branding, folks...ef the art, it's all about the sales units from here on out.) Anyways, what you see is where the book was written. Looking close, you'll even see a couple of the binders holding the hard copy of one of the many rewrites. See that stain on the thicker of the two? That's evaporated milk spilled on the manuscript by none other than "White Cascade" author, Gary Krist. Gary read that very manuscript while doing the research for his book.

No folks, I'm no historian. If I honestly thought being one would sell more books, I'd be sitting in a a lot fancier chair, I'd have one those tweed sport coats with the big leather patches on the elbows and a close cropped goatee. No, "Vis" is a blue collar story, told about a bunch of blue collar boys. Historians just wouldn't get it.

Oh, and no, I don't "love" to sew.......

We're Official!

2009-09-01T21:40:00.000-07:00

Well, I got an interesting e-mail from a Facebook friend today. He had ordered two copies of "Vis Major" off of Amazon.com!

Huh? Today the publisher, iUniverse sent me my two printer's copies of the book for my final "oaky." I will probably receive them early next week. Once I give them the thumbs-up, then full production will begin. Still, I guess they aren't wasting any time. The title is listed and a little surfing around on the Amazon listing will reveal iUniverse's little promotional blurb on the book. Me, a historian? They gotta be joking!

And speaking of not wasting anytime. Amazon is already listing 2 "Used" copies of "Vis." Now whoever has those must be a serious speed reader. I mean, I haven't even SEEN the damned things yet!

Take a quick buzz over to Amazon and do a search for "Vis Major." Who knows? Maybe you can score one of those cheap "Used" copies.

A Little Teaser

2009-08-12T21:46:00.000-07:00

Well, here it is, folks...the cover for "Vis Major!" And yes, I'm pretty damned excited. There's been a small hold-up...the publisher is less than stellar in their communication skills and thus we're having "issues" getting the maps embedded in the text, but even at that, I'm still thinking the book will be in production my mid to late September. iUniverse is the publisher, they are a "print on demand" press. The title will eventually be listed on Amazon, Barnes and Nobel, and I believe Boarders as well, but you probably won't see it in your local independent bookstore anytime soon, unless it really takes off. Whether that happens is actually up to your folks.

Anyways...along with a glimpse of the cover, here's a little taste of the story itself.

Enjoy and put "Vis" on you Christmas wish list!

Dougherty’s nose and ears had grown numb, but he scarcely noticed. He sat on the roof of the plow, peering through the blizzard. The excitement he felt just prior to leaving Cascade Tunnel Station now consumed his mind and body. Lantern in hand, he knew it, he felt it, he truly believed it—all of the Great Northern Railway was depending on him at that moment.

Just clear of Snow Shed 2, his eyes squinting against the attacking snowflakes, Dougherty picked up a shadow of something large on the tracks. His heart leapt to his throat.

“Slide! Half a car length!” he hollered into the cab below.

THEE Weddin'

2009-04-19T19:40:00.000-07:00

Well, its been over a month since THEE weddin' between youngest son Grant and Bubbly Little Claire. They got hitched good and tight, so I'm thinking it's gonna stick. It was on helluva party, about 4 days worth. Just off the hook enough everyone took home some good stories, but not so bad the cops had to return. Certainly the highlight was the power going out before the ceremony, but coming on the instant Grant was serenading his bride during the service, and singing, very loudly, "Don't worry everything is gonna be alright." Aaah if only marriage was that easy.

Anyways, rather than bore you with written details, here, thanks to the photographs of wedding photog Steve Horn, is my take on the whole affair.

That's me, all dressed up and thanking God Grant is no longer my problem.

Eldest son Seth and my bride of 35 years, (our anniversary is 2 days after Grant and Claire's), anyways, that's Janice asking Seth why HE can't find a nice girl like Claire to marry.

The two fathers..one showing off the fresh coat of mink grease on his stompin' boots.

Father-in-law giving his daughter-in-law some last minute advice..."Don't you dare back out on me."

Great day for a wedding if you don't mind no electricity, wind, rain, and yes, snow.

Well Claire, you're a Burwash now, and all that comes with that name.

A tearful, last minute break-up between groom Grant and "close friend" Thee Drew Dahlstedt. "Drew, I don't know how to say this, but I've found another..."

Magoo being Magoo.

Brotherly love...their parents must be so proud.

Enough of this bullshit...time to get your ass to the church...Jesse "Jocko" Jenks does the honors.

Grant's singing, "Everything is going to be alright," but I'm not sure Claire is buying it.

So Claire, you hear the one about when Ole and Lina got married, and Lars....

Okay, all afternoon with the "Pimp Daddy" wing-tips, time to put on the stompin' boots.

Here I am convincing my older sister that all I've had is 5 beers.

Let the stompin' begin. Doing a little dosey-doe with Grant...

..and Seth

So Claire, I don't know about you, but I've had about enough of these idiots, what say we get the hell outta here.

Countdown to "W" Day

2009-03-10T20:56:00.000-07:00

Grant and Claire the day she said, "Sure, I'll take you off your folks' hands."

Well, the countdown has begun. Tomorrow wife Janice goes to the airport to pick-up eldest son, Seth. Friday, I'm taking the whole day off to prepare, load the rig, and get on the noon ferry for Orcas Island. Friday night, Janice and I are hosting the rehearsal dinner. Saturday is "W" Day..our youngest son Grant and his bride, Bubbly Little Claire will exchange vows and begin their life's adventures. (Well, actually, CONTINUE their life's adventures.) Sunday will be kind of a wind down day as guests leave with each ferry.

Janice and I will be staying an extra night, however. Saturday will be Grant and Claire's first day of marriage, Monday will mark me and Janice's 35th year. So what am I going to tell the young couple on Friday night when I ask the gathered guests to raise their glasses? I'm not 100% sure. Still, I think I'll ask all who have been married awhile to consider whether or not they have enjoyed an easy life with their spouse....and then ask if they are having a GOOD life with their spouse. That's the key. Life's not easy, but with a the right partner, it sure as hell can be good.

To Grant and Claire!

The Happy Family L to R: My bride of 35 years, Janice, Eldest son Seth, the Happy Couple, the Old Farmer in the back.

Anticipation

2009-03-02T19:29:00.000-08:00

I stopped by the Evergreen Cemetery in Everett today, like I do every year at this time. I was actually a day late. 99 years ago yesterday the boys gathered on the knoll on the north end took their last mortal breaths. First I cleaned off the marker I bought for Benny Jarnigan and then moved on to check on the others. Will Raycroft, Sid Jones, Frank Martin, Johnny Parzybok, Joe Pettit, Lewis Walker and Earl Longcoy were all paid a visit. On my way out I stopped over in the "new" section and paid my respects of "the Snow King" himself, Bill Harrington, resting with a shared headstone next to his beloved Lillian.

The mood wasn't all that somber. In fact, there was definitely a sense of anticipation. 99 years is a long time to be kept silent. I came away with a definite feeling the boys want me to knuckle down and get on with it. They definitely think it's time their story is told.

I promised them the next time I stopped by, sometime this summer, I'd have "Vis Major" in hand.

"Be patient," I told them. "A guy only has one shot at a deal like this. It's gotta be done right."

Anticipation; they feel it.

So do I.

Back At It....Already

2009-02-15T09:12:00.000-08:00

I did a little tractor work yesterday. It sure seems early.

We are going to do some early weed control in the berries. In order for Wilbur Ellis to spray, I needed to fill in most the surface ditches I all but killed myself digging 6 weeks ago.

I definitely have a few reservations concerning this whole process. Wilbur did the same thing last winter and succeeded only in rutting up the field. I can absolutely say in complete honesty they did not kill a single weed, but did kill a number of young strawberry plants because the un-trained ape they had running the spray rig kept running down the rows trampling in the berries with the wheels. I wasn't impressed. Still, my partner is buddies with the guy that oversees Wilbur's spraying operations, so I'm currently out voted when it comes to getting someone who will do a good job for us.

Beyond my suspicion that Wilbur Ellis doesn't know their asses from a hole in the ground, I'm not convinced this winter's bad weather is behind us. They are due to spray on Tuesday. I think next week-end I'll be back out in the field, putting the ditches back in.

Farming....one step forward, two steps back.

The Things I'll Do...

2009-02-11T19:24:00.000-08:00

The things I'll do to get attention. With the debut of "Vis Major" not that far off...(I hope), I've gone all out when it comes to firing up the ol' networking...network. I'm now on BOTH Face Book and My Space. Sad but true.

So far, I've found the Face Book to be the easiest to get established, although the My Space page has some fun applications. (The biggest issue with My Space is I had somehow listed myself as "Single". It took some serious surfing to get THAT changed.) Anyways..on My Space I set up a neat little slide show of what remains of the wreck in the canyon below Wellinigton as well as the Meath snow plow photo. You can take a gander at:

http://www.myspace.com/vismajornovel

"Vis Major" was already taken as a URL.. so I had to add the word "novel" It works.

Now over on Face Book I haven't really fired up the Vis Major whoring machine, but my home page is at:

http://www.facebook.com/home.php#/profile.php?id=1108565869&ref=name

There is a rail/farm photo gallery set up there and I think anyone can view it without signing up for Face Book.

It's the world of the net and networking is how the world seems to now work..so to speak.

A Winter Stroll

2009-02-08T20:54:00.000-08:00

A few weeks back I made what has become an annual winter trip to Stevens Pass. If you look back in the posts on this fine blog you will see the results of last year's treks through the snows of Stevens. This year the pass had a very different look. Not near the snowfall, I traveled over to the east side and hiked from the East Portal of the Cascade Tunnel down to the old station of Gaynor..about a 7 mile round trip. Coming and going I photographed the trains running across the pass that day and a few other sites, like this avalanche run on Rocky Ridge. It brings home why the Great Northern ended up drilling an 8-mile tunnel.

The first train that I saw was actually a westbound container train. When it arrived at the East Portal, I was still enjoying my last cup of coffee before embarking in the 16 degree F fog, so I just let her go on by. The first train I photographed was the westbound Empire Builder, stopped by a red light thanks to the fore mentioned stack train still occupying the tunnel.

My favorite spot along the siding at Berne is this little knoll that overlooks a set of "S-curves". A westbound trailer train works up the siding for a meet with an eastbound. I lucked out. The westbound stopped just far enough up the siding to give this view of the eastbound dropping downgrade. What looks like snow on the trees is actually a thick layer of frost generated by a week of freezing fog.

A long walk, and even longer wait in the cold produced this image of eastbound double stacked containers slipping through the "hole in the wall" near the old station of Gaynor.

As usual, as soon as I shot the train down at Gaynor, it was time to turn around and start the uphill hike to the car up at the tunnel. On the way I stopped off near the East Berne signal bridge to shoot as eastbound grain empty. The conductor was an old friend, Andy VanWagnen. Seconds after the first shot was taken, Andy was out on the locomotive's side catwalk waving.

Thanks to bits and pieces of scanner chatter that I picked up as well as a hunch on my part, I decided to hang tough at East Berne and set up for a possible westbound. For once I was actually right! A westbound freight came up the hill with a helper set assisting mid-train.

A good way to end a long day. Not the spectacular snow shots produced by last year's efforts, but far from a waste of time. Besides, nothing is better for the mind and soul than a little winter stroll down the tracks.

Stampede Before the Deluge

2009-02-08T08:32:00.000-08:00

Waaay back at the end of November I was invited to join railfans Brian Ambrose and John VanAmburg for a day of shooting up on Stampede Pass. The draw was the recent assignment of helpers out of Easton used to shove loaded grain trains over the mountain. Sadly..or in my case typically...it was a dark, foggy late fall day, and the BNSF opted not to send a grain train our way! Still all was not lost as it was very much a case of "your worst day of railfanning is still better than your best day at work."

So here's a few from that day:

I arrived at Easton before my two friends so I took advantage of the time to photograph the helper set in the foggy yard.

But we didn't drive all this way to walk around a static display of motive power. Time to do some railroading. Here the same helper set has coupled to the point of a westbound rail train and are hauling the whole mess up the grade where once stood the old Martin approach signal bridge.

Waiting for the helpers to return from the west, I used the backdrop of the east portal of the Stampede Tunnel and waterfall to pose two of the Northwest's best and brightest...Brian Ambrose to the right, John VanAmburg to the left.

The light in the tunnel materializes into the helper set returning to Easton. Engineering was friend, Greg Weirich. Nearly all the track and solid ground seen in these two photos is now washed away after the floods of January '09. Repairs are due to be completed in March.

The fog never really burned off. In fact, it seemed to be a little thicker when an empty grain train came rattling down the hill.

I shot the last train of the day, a helper train at...well where else?

Martin

Back to Blogging

2009-01-27T20:09:00.000-08:00

It's been awhile. No photos this time around..just no time to take very many photos, and even less time (and fresh chemical) to soup out any film. I guess if I want to keep up with this blogging gig, I should go digital.

Snow, flood, a field of strawberries going under water, December and January have been less than a good time. But such is the way. I did lots of ditch digging with my trusty #2 shovel and kept the berries above water. There was a stretch of time where I had a more intimate relationship with that damned shovel than I did with my wife.

But there is some big news. Last night I hit the "Send" icon on the iUniverse website. What this means is: "Vis Major", my novel about the Wellington slide, is now officially in the production phase. Depending on how the edits go and how quickly I can work my way through the remaining steps, I could have actual books in my hot little hands in about 90 days.

Stay tuned.......

The Family Farm

2008-11-18T20:20:00.000-08:00

Although I was technically raised in Tacoma, my grandparents on my mother's side had a small dairy farm in Eatonville, southeast of town. It was where the farming bug bit me so hard, I've never recovered.

As a kid, I'd spend every possible day, hour and minute on that farm. I remember packing my suitcase the night before the last day of school. Classes were usually let out at noon, and by that evening I was in the barn milking the cows. Usually in August my mother would drag me back into town, kicking and screaming for a day of school shopping. I'd get done with the evening milking, go back to Tacoma, shop the next day, and if all went well, was back on the farm that night. I wouldn't come home until the night before the first day of school at the end of summer.

The fall of my senior year at Lincoln High in Tacoma my grandfather got sick and ended up in the hospital. I don't think I was home for a week when I had to move back out to take care of the cows. It was great. I'd get up around 4:30 AM and do the morning milking, then catch a ride into school with a teacher that happened to live only 5 miles or so from the farm. After school I'd ride back out with him and do the evening chores, homework then go to bed. That lasted about 6 weeks and I loved every minute of it.

During the school year, most of the vacations were spent at the farm, and any week-end I could find a way out of town. I was definitely a farm boy stuck in the city.

These days, not much happens out at the farm. My folks still live there, but we all know those days are numbered. They quit milking cows 15 years or so ago, and just a few months back, Dad shipped off the last five beefers he was keeping. For the first time in over 100 years there aren't any bovines on the place.

The farm is too small for it to support any significant commercial operation. The fields flood each year, which in one respect is good, it can never be subdivided and developed. On the other hand, for me, a berry grower, the land won't support the kind of farming I've settled into.

Eventually the farm will be sold to a local land trust. They are going to let it slowly go back to nature. I have no real issue with that. Our family will see that land come full circle, from my great-grandfather clearing it, to my dad farming it to the very end.

Such is the way.

Anyways...I was scanning a few of the shots I took out at the family farm over the years. Here's a few:

Grandpa wheeling a load of manure up the ramp

Mowing oat hay. Grandpa on the tractor, Dad on the mower

Dad tedding grass hay

Me riding the mower and getting splattered with grease from the spinning pitman

Dad milking

A young me, milking

Back in the Day

2008-10-26T08:34:00.000-07:00

I went high school in Tacoma, Washington during hte late 60's and early 70's. No rural, small classes where you knew everyone, FFA, 4-H clubbing for me. At Lincoln High there were over 650 kids in my class alone. We all found our group of 15-20 buddies, had nodding acquaintances with maybe 50 more and beyond that you had no clue who the rest of those kids were.

In my senior year, I began taking my camera to school everyday. That actually took a little effort considering my camera was an old Yashica twin lens box camera, but she took good photos. Most of the shots were of girls in short skirts and hot pants, and my buddies just being, well, my buddies. Most of the shots went no further than a click of the shutter release and a session developing the film. Very few of the resulting negatives were ever printed.

Stuffed into sleeves those old negatives went long forgotten. I'd stumble across a strip or two now and again when searching for another shot, but they would quickly become buried in my ever increasing, totally uncatalogued landslide of railroad and farm images. And then I bought a scanner....

I've rediscovered these old images. Photos that have never seen the light of day have been brought to life through the wonder of the digital world. More than once a negative is scanned, the image pops up on this very screen, I lean forward for a closer look and then utter a "well I'll be damned."

But photos are meant to be shared, are they not? And, armed with these old images, I've been slowly, very slowly, tracking down some whose faces you see below. It's been fun. These days all the old high school insecurities, the cliques, everything that made high school a traumatic experience for us all have long since faded. These days, all who I've contacted are glad to know we are still alive.

So here's a quick look at us...back in the day.

(Photographer's self portrait)

Defiance with Dignity

2008-10-01T22:27:00.000-07:00

While traveling a Montana back road I spotted this one lone railroad telegraph pole. There was a time in the not so distant past these poles were as much a part of the railroad infrastructure as the ties and rails themselves. Tall, tight grained poles with their bottoms treated with creosote lined the right of ways. On their stretched out arms were glass insulators all of which supported the multiple wires required to keep a railroad running. Miles of poles and wires connected the smallest station in the middle of nowhere to the largest metropolis mountain ranges away. There was a degree of dignity associated with those poles and wire. They were as important to a railroad as the trains themselves.

Like so much of what was a part of past operations, modern systems of communications and train control have taken away the need for the pole lines. The majority of the poles have been chopped down, the miles and miles of copper wire long since salvaged. Even the string line of small town stations, once linked by those wires have long ago vanished from the landscape. And yet, out in the nothingness of Montana stands this one solitary pole.

Still strong and straight, its arms outstretched true to form I saw the dignity that pole once had was still there. But there was something else as well. With that dignity I saw a hint of defiance. Where all others had fallen, this one pole, somehow, someway has defied the onslaught of the modern world and remains in place along the old Northern Pacific mainline.

There is a degree of dignity in that pole's defiance. Defiance with dignity..maybe the world has stripped the pole of its original purpose, but it has not taken its dignity.

Our dignity...maybe like that pole, it's one of the few things we still can control. Maybe we too should against all odds try and defiantly hold to our own sense of dignity.

Montana May

2008-09-09T21:47:00.000-07:00

With no cucumbers this year, I decided the time I'd normally be putting those seeds in the ground would be beter spent in Montana. So long about Memorial Day Janice and I made a quick run over to Bozeman to check in on eldest son. This really wasn't a railfanning trip, but with the early morning hours mine to spend...I thought it only right to spend them along the MRL and Bozeman Hill. So here's a little sampling of what I saw.

The morning local drops downgrade towards Bozeman at Trail Creek. With still pletny of snow and sudden warm temps, the creeks were really roaring.

No trip is complete without some early morning glint on the eastside of Bozeman Hill. Here a westbound pops into view....

With a 3-set of ACe's shoving on the rear.

With the advent of DPU's on the "heavies" (grain and coal) the Livingston Helper is now cut-in as opposed to the old system of pushing on the rear. Rather than cut on the fly at the summit, (Muir) the helpers now make the trip all the way to Bozeman where they are cut out. In a predawn scene, a westbound coal train, with a 3 set cut-in ACe helper a a 2 set DP on the rear rolls into Bozeman.

Cutitng helpers into the DP trains requires extra switching in Livingston. A westbound coal train has split its train east of the yard. While the head-end pulls the upper cut clear of the road crossing, a 3-set ACe helper moves onto the main where it will pull the lower cut of cars west to rejoin the train. The coupling complete, the switchman double checks the connections.

Loaded and cocked, the manned cut-in helpers and the two rear DPU's each wait for the command from the head-end engineer to continue west.

A sign of better days in for the shops at Livingston.

A little predawn action: eastbound grain MT's slip downgrade as the sun just begins to kiss the hills in the background.

It wasn't all trains by any stretch of the imagination. A day spent at Yellowstone allowed for some nice images of the park still under a fair mantle of snow.

So once again, the Big Skies did not disappoint.

Spring Sampler

2008-09-08T22:20:00.001-07:00

A few BTW's before the good stuff. In our family the saying was always "pudding". This dates back to the pre-Jello Instant Pudding days when Mom would cook pudding over the stove. It was never a guarantee. If she did it right, the mixture would cool and "set-up" into pudding. If done wrong, it would just stay a soupy mess and Mom would be pissed. So you see, the proof whether or not it was done right was in the "pudding". We're farm folk...not golfers.

Here's another old saying that is coming true..."womb to tomb". I'm combining a barley crop that I planted last spring. I'm filling a truck that I take each morning to my main employer, Conway Feed where I off load the grain. I then go inside the mill and turn that barley into cow feed which I pellet. About mid morning I hit the road to gather in grain orders...orders for feed that I made and will be delivered to those customers. Feed containing that barley. Womb to tomb...I'm really getting sick to seeing that barley!

Anyways...time for some train photos. If you look a few posts back, you'll see some shots taken during this past winter up on Stevens Pass. Here's a few taken this spring during the thaw.

Morning starts with the usual clouds hanging over Cowboy Mountain and a westbound "Z" popping out of the Cascade Tunnel.

Damaged goods left over from the snow battles; the ladder from one of the East Scenic signal masts, the the crossing sign at Merritt.

Here's two of an eastbound stack train. First we see it topping the pass at Berne, and then topping the final little climb out of the Merritt basin.

This was definitely the winter that would not go away. Westbound contains bask in the spring sun as they thread the "slot" west of Merritt with a two set DPU helper. A few miles up the hill....the same train is nearly invisible behind the thick flakes of a late spring snow squall.

The final shot of a good day is of the conductor of our westbound stacker giving eastbound grain MT's a roll-by down at Skykomish.

Stay tuned..next up are the results of a quickie spring trip to Bozeman.

No Different than the Ancients

2008-09-03T21:44:00.000-07:00

I think we have all seen the images of third world people harvesting wheat. Bundles, or even just loose stocks of grain are brought in from the field, usually by hand. The cut plants are spread out on the ground where some local form of domesticated four legged animal is tethered to a crude home build swivel and walks on top of the grain in an endless circle. As the animal passes by, a person with a wood rake pulls away the straw. Next, women with large shallow baskets scoop up what remains and toss it into the air, catching the heavier grain and allowing the lighter chaff to blow away. It is an ongoing process, more grain stocks are thrown under the hooves of the animal, more straw is raked away, more of the separated heads are tossed in the air and caught.

This is one of the earliest documented agricultural process, the harvesting of wheat.

What is absolutely amazing is that the modern day giants of farm equipment, the combine is nothing more than a mechanical version of that same process. The mechanics have improved, yes, but the theory, the actual how it gets done has not changed in thousands of years.

A combine got its name simply because that is just what is does, it "combines" all of those ancient process I just described into one mobile machine.

On the front, the header, with its tell tale turning reel cuts the grain stock and feeds it into the machine, just like the native men hauling bundles from their field. The stocks, straw and grain head are then fed into a rotor surrounded by a concave. The spinning rotor rubs the material against the bars of the concave causing the grain heads to separate from the straw and the actual kernels to pop out from the protective chaff. High capacity, but it is no different than a mule or ox walking across the grain endless times.

Falling from the rotor and concave, the longer straw is shook loose as it and the kernels "walk across" the first of two screens. Like a man raking away the long stocks. All the while, a powerful fan is blowing air across these screens, causing the lighter straw and chaff to exit out the back of the machine and the heavier grain to fall through the oscillating screens. This is exact same theory as women with woven baskets "winnowing" the wheat in the hot afternoon breeze. Finally, the cleaned grain is elevated to a holding tank at the top of the machine where it is periodically augured into trucks. Just as the women empty their baskets of the precious grain.

We think we are so smart and advanced. In a combine, there are no new ideas.

I've been doing some custom wheat cutting over the past two weeks. The whole time I kept thinking, what I'm doing is etched in stone in Egypt and in caves here in the US. I'm no different than the ancients.

The proof is in the pudding. A landowner inspects a load of wheat I just combined to make sure the ancient principles are being closely followed.

Ground Zero

2008-08-20T21:56:00.000-07:00

It was on the cover of this month's National Geographic. They call it where the food chain begins. I call it ground zero...soil/plant/water.

The last three weeks are the toughest weeks for me. In a word, "irrigation". The food chain starts with soil, plants and water. During the dry weeks of late July and August, I supply the water.

It is tough work for an old man. Every evening after putting in my day at the feed mill, I'd head out to the berry field to change lines. 65 lengths of 40' pipe had to be moved each evening. It's the job I love to hate, or better yet, hate myself because deep down inside, I love doing it.

Step one was to strip down to my jeans. I pity the poor folks out on Highway 20, seeing an old man, shirtless moving pipe. Not the best of visuals!

Step two was getting the mainline changed for the next set. On one end of the field I would pull off two lengths of 4" main and hook in the 4" to 3" reducing elbow to which the actual sprinkler pipes would be connected. I was running two lines, so midway down the main, I would have to pull the line apart, remove a 4" "T" with a 4-3 reducer, move it down two lengths and hook it back in.

With the mainline back together, I was ready for the real work. One by one, each 40' sprinkler pipe had to be detached. Like a tight rope artist, I would find the balance point and then carry the pipe across 16 rows of berries, making sure the sprinkler head remained upright, not dragging in the dirt or ripping through the strawberry plants, then in one smooth move, latch it into the preceding pipe, lay it down in the row and pull it tight. Never breaking stride, I'd be walking back across the 16 rows of berries angling towards the next pipe. Two lines, each about 1/4 mile long were moved in around 2 hours. (You will note, no mention is made of a helper..this is a solo mission.)

When each line is laid, I walk its length, making sure the latches are properly secured. Nothing pisses me off more than to blow a line just as they come up to pressure due to a pipe I didn't get latched correctly.

The lines ready to go it's time to start the pump. We have a 6 cylinder Chevy on a two wheeled trailer. It is direct driven to the pump, also on the trailer. Our water source is a shallow well, pulling the water up only about 40'. With a pipe wrench I unscrew the primer, stuff a funnel in the pipe and fill the pump and throat with water until it boils over the top of the funnel. Quickly I pull off the funnel and thread the cap back on. Pulling out the choke and setting the throttle I press the button that overrides the "Murphy switch" and fire up the motor. Water flies out of the pump packing, telling she is primed. Carefully I open the main valve, being careful not to loose prime. Life giving water starts filling the lines.

Bit by bit I open up the throttle and main valve as the lines fill. As the sun sets lower, the temptation is to really let her rip and get the lines up and going. It is a temptation I quickly squash. Too much pressure too quick will cause a major hammer that will blow out the end plugs on one or both of my lines producing a very muddy ordeal.

Patience pays. Within 10 minutes water is sputtering out of all 65 sprinkler heads. That's when I give her the gas and open up the main valve. With the lines up to pressure, I take one more walk down each line making sure the sprinkler heads are standing upright. This requires a bit of timing and a willingness to get wet. If a sprinkler pipe is laying a bit on one side, there will not be even coverage. Waiting for the head to turn away from me, I swoop in and immediately grab the interrupter so as not to get too much spray in the face. Stopping the spinning of the head, I can then straighten the pipe, letting go of the interrupter only after I have directed the nozzle away from me and am a couple of steps into my escape. The only issue is, the sprinklers on either side of me are merrily coming around on their circle routes, wetting me down.

Hooked in one of my belt loops on my jeans is a piece of wire..sure sign of a man working hand lines. Any sprinkler that might be plugged gets the wire treatment. Using the same technique as straightening a line, I swoop in on the the offending sprinkler head. With wire in hand, I ream out the plugged nozzle, always getting a good face full of cold water when the combo of my jill poking wire and the pressure behind the blockage breaks it loose and sends it flying out somewhere into the field.

The lines up and running, I double check the pump, set the pressure shut-off and call it good. I'll be back out around midnight or so to check on things before turning in for the night. And so it goes for 3 weeks or more.

There is nothing that I know of that matches the feeling I get watching the sun set behind the veils of water produced by 65 irrigation nozzles. I complain. I tell folks how irrigation is a complete pain in the ass. I even talk about how I can't wait for the day when I finally admit I'm too old to be packing pipes across a field.

That's all bullshit.

Deep down inside I take a real pride in setting a straight line. I like the idea that at 55 I can still do a 1/2 mile line change start to finish, by myself in a little over two hours.

This is ground zero...where our food starts. It begins with soil, plants and someone willing to put in the effort to make sure the life giving water gets delivered.

Yeah, it's a pride thing.

Game's On

2008-06-23T20:45:00.000-07:00

It's been a long while since I've posted, and for good reason. It has been a lousy spring here in the Pacific Northwest, cold and wet. It has been, without a doubt, the most challenging spring I've ever farmed. Just about the time I'd get the water drained from the berry field and the ground starting to dry, another deluge would blow through, pounding the soil with rain and sending the temperatures 15 degrees or more below normal. In a year where diesel was going through the roof, I just didn't need a season where I had to keep the tractors running to keep the berries from rotting.

Still, you have to keep at it. Up and down the rows, inching along with any number of combos of sweeps, Lewiston hoes, shanks, you name it, I drug it along the rows wringing out the soggy ground. So far, we've hit the plants twice with spray, keeping the mildew at bay. No, we definitely do not farm "organically". I want a paying crop.

Safe on high hills thankfully, the plants did not give up. The blossoms popped, the berries formed. A good 2 - 3 weeks later than usual, but the berries did come.

It is the World Poker Tour, but for real. With the crop coming, our money on the table, the processors began their yearly two step. A few underhanded moves, sorry attempts at price fixing were found out. Never did we directly accuse anyone of such things...that's not how the game is played. Still, we made sure THEY knew, WE knew. As the berries formed up and began to show red, a low ball offer was made. We said nothing. I just kept tilling the rows, fluffing up the ground to warm it up and bring the crop on.

The sun finally came out this past week and shades of green and white began to glow redder by the day. The processors kept their cards close to the table waiting for the flop. It came last week when the Oregon growers settled for $.57/pound, a few cents under last year. (Too bad our costs aren't a few cents under last year!) We knew we were holding a good hand, the fruit was developing nicely. Hard work kept the green rot away. The berries began to shape up beautifully. Although our local processor maintained their poker faces, their actions gave them away. I kept seeing their fieldmen driving by looking over the field. For being uninterested, they were obviously very interested.

This week they finally made an offer on our crop. A fair offer, the same as Oregon. The big question was dockage. We hammered that out tonight. They could not argue our quality, we definitely could argue their dockage rate. We went all in and called them at the big table. They cut their normal dockage in half...we settled.

Berry farming is not for the weak of heart...

I think back to this winter, and the hours spent on the #2 shovel keeping the water off the field. Then there were the sore back hours spent pulling weeds, the hours of monotony going back and forth up down those rows in first gear. It's all part of this game, this version of the World Poker Tour.

So now is the easy part; waiting another week or so for the Mother Nature to finish her work so we can turn the pickers loose on the field. The poker game is over...now the fun game's on!

BTW....as I'm typing this there is juice from bright red Puget Reliance dripping off my chin and there is whipped cream and crumbs of a fresh baked Bisquick shortcake hanging from my moustache.

Tomorrow morining I'll be up a 4:30 to personally pick the first flats destined for a steakhouse in Montana..a little pet project of mine.

Oh yeah...the game's on....

No more California crap. It's great to have REAL strawberries.

Battle Weary Soldiers

2008-04-25T21:13:00.000-07:00

When locomotive 10217A emerged from General Electric’s shops in Erie, Pennsylvania, men from the United States were preparing to march through the streets of their hometowns, bound for Europe to fight “Kaiser Bill”. The world hoped it would be “the war to end all wars”. The year was 1916. Over the next year, as the bloody stalemate continued in the trenches of France and “no man’s land”, additional sets of G.E. box cab electrics were built and delivered to the then Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul, or simply, the Milwaukee Road. Among them were 10109A, the 10102A, and 10209A.

As soldiers went east to the battle fronts “over there” the GE Box Cabs headed west to the theaters of the Rocky Mountains and Cascades. Grinding through the wind and snow of winter, humidity and heat of summer, these electric motors lugged across the divides of the west the supplies that supported the men suffering in the muddy trenches to the east, across the Atlantic. At times the men themselves were carried off to battle with power provided by “white coal”.

When the soldiers returned home in 1919, victorious, their tour of duty fulfilled, the box cabs had hardly begun theirs. Sadly, the lessons learned from that vicious war did not prevent yet another global conflict. Even with a quarter of a century of service behind them and suffering from the constraints of two bankruptcy’s the electric units of the Milwaukee once again found themselves joining in a new battle, transporting yet another generation of men off to another world war. Renumbered and reconfigured, the battle tested units faithfully answered the call and carried the men and machines needed to meet and defeat enemies on two fronts separated by the North American continent.

Despite having fought yet another war, this time in Korea, to an uneasy political resolution a third generation of men found themselves being taken to the killing fields. This time in a country called Viet Nam. Still the motors of the Milwaukee rolled on. Weary from the strain of constant warfare with the mountains of the west, they were now being helped with their chores by the legions of new diesel/electrics. Over sixty years of frontline service had diminished their ranks. Of a battalion that once boasted 90 units, by 1971, less than 20 remained. Combined in odd matchings to make up for those gone, motors 10109A, 10102A and 10209A eventually became the E 39 A,C, and D. Completing the four unit set was the former 10217A, now sporting E 47A on her number board. Still, whenever the pantographs of these survivors were raised and the controllers notched out, the motors knew that duty had again called and they responded just as they did 60 years prior.

Two generations had gone to war and returned battle hardened when the E 47A posed for her photograph, basking in the warm September sun at Tideflats Yard in 1970. A third generation was enduring the same horrors as the previous two when six months later, these motors made their way westward through the snows of a familiar battlefield, the line over Snoqualmie Pass. Dressed in their fatigues, carrying no metals honoring their heroics, possessing no citations for their devotion to service, the weary soldiers simply carried out their duties.

After sixty six years, three generations, two world wars and two “policing actions”, peace finally came to the 10109A, to the 10102A, to the 10209A and the 10217A. The longest day on the western front, the Coast electrification, came in November of 1972.On that day rest came for the class of locomotive known to the Milwaukee Road as the EF-5’s, having been finally relieved of their command. It came nearly 63 years to the day that marked the end of the “war to end all wars”, the day we now know as Veteran’s Day.

Weary soldiers, veterans all too familiar with warfare, they are gone now. Their fields of honor have been long removed from the landscape, defiled to the point of becoming simple hiking trails. Yet just as the ghosts of the soldiers who gave to their last measure linger above the soil of distant lands, their exploits becoming a part of our history, so too remain the spirits of the warriors of the Milwaukee Road. Caught up in the wind that sweeps across the irrigated fields of Othello and the Royal Slope, the souls of the box cabs are carried across the Columbia River and across the barren sage brush of the Saddle Mountains. Lifted high into the clouds that shroud the Cascades they pass over towns with names like Cle Elum, Hyak and Cedar Falls. They finish their journey along the protected waters of Puget Sound only to make a crisp about face and return. They are sentries, forever keeping their watch over the land they served. They are battle weary soldiers destined never to die.

Turning the Good Earth...Not A Product of India

2008-04-03T21:42:00.000-07:00

Spring is still slow in coming. A slight break in the weather this past week allowed the snow to melt from the 'daff's" and put me in the field working a little ground.

It won't be the highball kind of year I'm used to, what with the cucumber production being taken from us. In an interesting note, we have been doing a bit of a media blitz to try and get the word out to the consumer about the pickles they eat. Dean Foods and their spin off pickle/relish division, Big Valley are up to their old tricks. Their labels are very misleading....big surprise there! The standard for pickles here in the northwest was "Nalley's". This was the company absorbed and destroyed by Dean Foods. Although they still market under that label, the product is very different. But here's the kicker....right now the Nalley's label
reads "Northwest Grown" ...as it has for many years. On the bottom, in very small print you will read, "Product of India". We are pressing Big Valley to show us what part of "Northwestern" India produces Nalley's products. Needless to say, if you see Nalley's/Big Valley products in your store or fast food restaurant, boycott them.

But onto better things. I am at a loss to think of something that smells better than fresh turned dirt. If there were a smell associated with the word optimism, it would be the aroma produced by the disk ripping through winter fallow ground, or the plow turning over the rich dirt. It is the smell of the good earth that keeps me believing that "this will be the year." This will be the year of good prices for the berries to match good production and quality. This will be the year the plants placed in this good ground will grow disease free and give reason for the same optimism next year.

We live in a very pessimistic age, or so it seems to me. I know I get bogged down in this world of endless bad news. The smell of freshly turned soil, the growl of the diesel engine pulling the plow, the hypnotic motion of the dirt rolling off the moldboards never fails to put me in a better frame of mind.

I think all of us could learn from what the plow accomplishes as it glides along. In one smooth motion it takes the old weeds and worn soil laying on the surface and buries it deep, to be rotted down and replenished. In it's place fresh, good earth is placed to the top where strong, new growth can take place. Couldn't we all use a little burying of the old and a new seedbed put in its place?

Don't you sometimes wish that was your hand on the steering wheel of that John Deere? Don't you wish it was you dragging that chisel plow behind, deep tilling a piece of ground that will yield food? Don't you wish you too could say that you produce not a mere bauble, but a necessity of life?

I can say that, and India still has not stripped that from me.

I'm still one lucky son-of-a-bitch. I can go out and turn the good earth.

Global Warming: Positive Proof

2008-03-27T08:59:00.000-07:00

It's spring here in the Skagit Valley, and it's snowing. The daffodils are doing their best to look spring-like but are having a hard time competing with the frozen slush that is falling from the sky. What was once a sea of yellow is now a sea. Like low tide, there is standing water, mud and drooping flowers. And they want me to believe in global warming? I think for the sake of getting into the fields to get going on spring work, I'd take a little global warming right now.

Only a fool doesn't believe in global warming. All I have to do is walk into the Cascade Mountains and I will find fossil evidence that this area was once a tropical forest with palm trees. Obviously there was a time it was much warmer, it cooled off, and now the cycle is turning the other direction. Such is the planet on which we live.

As a farmer, I also believe only a fool doesn't take seriously the practice of conservation. Farmers have done it for years, long before there were environmentalists and the giant bureaucracies they create. We learned the hard way. The Dust Bowl, the continual planting of cotton in the Deep South before that, hard lessons learned.

Today, the really good farmers, the really successful farmers are conservationists and environmentalists. We do it not out of a media generated fear, or because a washed up politician has taken on the "cause" to gain notoriety. No, we do it because care for the land is ultimately profitable and that it is the right thing to do.

You see, most of us farmers don't actually consider ourselves environmentalists. Such "buzz words" really carry very little meaning.

We are stewards. We understand we have to put back what we take out. We understand, the land is ours to use but it is also our call to pass it on.

Nuggets From Pay Dirt

2008-03-08T07:09:00.000-08:00

When you look at this old photo, pay special attention to the man standing next to the fan of that rotary plow. That man is one of the main characters in my book "Vis Major." That man is Great Northern engineer, John Robert Meath. Next to him is his wife, Elizabeth.

There is a message written on the back of the photo. It simply states:

"This is the picture of the rotary Robert works on. The other picture is where it is working. This was taken one day when we were at Wellington."

Sadly, no date is included, and "the other picture" mentioned is long gone. A little detective work has helped narrow down the date. The overhead wires and the location of the mountain in the background tell me it is definitely "Wellington" (Although was probably renamed "Tye" when the photo was taken). It also indicates the photo was taken on the flat area that was once the "upper yard". This is where most of the railroad buildings were move after the 1910 avalanche. The big headlight a top the plow and the fact it is still numbered X-800 narrows the time frame even more. I believe it was taken between 1911 and 1914.

Wife Elizabeth remains a bit of a mystery at this point. In the 1910 US Census Meath is listed as single and living in a boarding house in Leavenworth. A few years later, along comes this photo of Robert and the very stately Elizabeth, herself a native of Robert's hometown in Wisconsin. Was the old prankster holding out on us, with a sweetheart tucked away in Wisconsin all the while he is railroading out west? Did the trauma caused by the death of so many of his friends in the avalanche give cause for the Robert to seize the moment, go back home and finally marry Miss McCabe?

The mind of the novelist wonders about such things. Rest assured some rewriting will be done as more is learned.

And here is Robert, later in life. It looks as if Elizabeth has been taking good care of him. The curled up eyebrow, the casual look, it all fits. You are looking at a man that was known for his sense of humor, sharp wit and yet never showing any undo emotion. You are looking at one of the very real heroes of the 1910 storm.

Out Sourced

2008-03-03T22:20:00.000-08:00

From now on, no cucumbers for pickles and relish will be grown in Washington and Oregon. For anyone reading this west of the Mississippi River, when you go to your favorite fast food chain, or buy any pickle and relish product produced by Dean Foods or Big Valley, the cucumbers they are made from will be coming from India or Chile.

Big Valley (spin off corporation under the Dean Foods umbrella) abruptly terminated (broke) the contract they had with all the growers in Washington and Oregon last week. With one phone call I lost 65% of the income I made working the farm with no clear hope of replacing it this year. The word came too late.

I'm not the big loser, however. You are. Just remember, to keep the Costcos, Wal-Marts, Safeways and Krogers going strong, you will now be eating products fertilized with human waste, picked by slave labor making less than $1/day and sprayed with DDT. I'd think twice before eating those pickles in your next Big Mac as Dean and its spin off companies supply pickling products to most of the fast food chains in America.

What can you do? Well, there is one thing. The next time you go shopping, look close at the fresh produce. If your store does not plainly show point of origin, (where the produce was grown, NOT just where it was repacked for distribution), if that information is not marked above all produce, demand to know why it isn't and where your fresh produce is coming from.

Stores that do not plainly display point of origin of their produce do so for one very important reason: they know, given the choice, consumers will buy American quality. When you run on the cheap like the big chains, the last thing produce managers want is an informed consumer asking questions.

Our cucumber business has been out sourced to India. So has your health. You will do well to start asking your grocery store some very tough questions about where they are buying your food.

A Few Quiet Moments with the Boys

2008-02-28T18:57:00.000-08:00

I spent a few minutes with a few of the boys today. With it being a
leap year it throws the days off a bit, but one thing is for sure,
for guys like Frank Martin, Lewis Walker, Sydney Jones, John
Parzybok, John Kelley, Joe Pettit, Earl Longcoy and Ben Jarnigan, 98
years ago, this was the their last day on this earth.

I cleaned the moss off the headstone I bought for Benny. It's been
less than a year since it was installed and yet the Western
Washington winter was already making itself known. I did the same
for Sid Jones. Birds had done their deeds on stones of Johnny
Parzybok and "Pattie" Kelley, so I took care of that too.

Strangely, there was a 2005 penny sitting atop Joe Pettit's marker.
Maybe, like me, someone was asking Joe "a penny for your thoughts?"

Lewis was where I guess the times of the day dictated, to the rear of
the rest. His marker proclaims him to be a "Man of God". No one
would argue that. Beyond that, he was a man among men. Even his
boss, James O'Neill would say as much.

Earl Longcoy rests alongside his mother Lucy. Sadly, she carried the
burden of out living her son for another 70 years. With that sadness
was the torment knowing that Earl died trying to free himself from
the grip of the snow. No one knew where he was under that tragic
sheet of white. No one knew he was alive, fighting the ultimate
battle between living and dying. A battle he lost.

I ended up out towards the front of the cemetery, talking things over
with Bill Harrington. The old "Snow King" shares a common marker
with his beloved Lil.

I told all of them about finding the old prankster himself, Bob
Meath. Bobby and Elizabeth are themselves resting in peace in their
home parish of St. Mary's in Hammond, WI. I even told them the tale
of Bobby sneaking into a wake and boosting the coffin out the window.

It is good to go and see the boys every so often. I always come away
with a feeling that I have been given a great responsibility. It is
the task of telling their story; not the railroad's story, not the
lawyer's story, not even the story of the passengers on Train 25.
No, for whatever reason those boys have tapped my shoulder and asked
me to tell their story.

This comes at a good time. I'm doing yet another edit of "Vis
Major", trying to walk that fine line between keeping the story
moving so our attention deficit society will keep reading, and not
once again putting the gags on the voices of men whose story has been
suppressed for far too long.

It is good to remember. It is good to visit the boys.

Pay Dirt!

2008-02-16T20:11:00.001-08:00

I hit pay dirt today with an actual hand penned letter sent to me through the US Postal Service. It was in answer to a letter I had word processed, but sent snail mail as well. The letter is from a Mrs. Harriet Meath. Her husband, sadly now passed on was the nephew of a man named John Robert Meath. Robert "Bobby" Meath is one of the main characters in "Vis Major".

In this letter, Mrs. Meath corraborated much of what I knew and some of what I had assumed about "Bobby". Robert, as he was known back in his home country of Wisconsin married late, and he and his wife had no children.

I had some documented evidence that Meath was the instigator of any number of elaborate schemes and pratical jokes the men of Wellington would play on themselves and strangers in town. Mrs. Meath also said that Robert was known in the family as a real prankster. She told me of a time Robert and a few of his friends snuck into a home just prior to a wake and boosted the coffin out the window! According to the family story, he didn't bring the body back until the next morning.

One of the things I worry about when writing historical fiction is to be as accurate as is possible when it comes to bringing real people back to life. This direct connectiion to a main character in my book is indeed a case of hitting pay dirt. But it gets better...

Mrs. Meath has a photo of Robert standing alongside a snow plow. She is not certain of the number but appears to her as 1800. That number does not figure. What I am hoping is the number is actually X-800. If that is the case, that number would date that photo right at the time of the Wellington Slide, within a few years. I now have an identified photo of a main character in the very envirornment of which I am writing. For me, this is exciting news!

So the saga of "Vis Major" continues. This book has taken me down some very interesting paths, ones I doubt I would have ever thought I would travel. All this and it isn't even in print yet.

Digging Out

2008-02-04T19:20:00.000-08:00

The Total Mounts
The snow pole at Scenic tells the story: 8 1/2' on the level ground. By Sierra standards that is a good average, but at a mere 2400' above sea level, that is a lot of snow....and the traditonal heavy snowfall month of February is just beginning.

Heavy stroms have whipped in off the Pacific and stalled over the Washington Cascades. Rather than moving thourgh quickly as is often the case, the snow ladden clouds linger for days, dumping a water heavy white blanket on the mountains known as Cascade Cement. It sticks to every surface and has a bad tendency to slide.

Clearing the Line

Initially, a ballast regulator equipped with an oversized nose plow can handle the snow removal chores. Flying down the tracks the little machine sends snow flying from between the rails well off the right-of-way.

But when the banks get too close to the rail and too tall, when the storms are to strong and the snowfall too rapid, the big gun is brought to the front. The snow dozer, powered by two big locomotives and with its large wings can move tons of snow in a matter of minutes. Having been out all night pushing the snow away from the tracks, the dozer is seen here making a final clean-up run west.

Even as the dozer works the mainline, commerce contintues to roll. A empty grain train works up the siding having just passed the plow working around the bend.

While the plow train waits in the distance, an eastbound container train arrives, close on the heels of the grain train.

Clear to procede, the crew carefully guides the large wing around the West Scenic signal mast. Once past, they duscuss plowing over the switch machine located just beyond the plow.

Free of all obsticles, the plow train begins pushing the piles of snow over the bank....

...and is soon nearly swallowed up by the mass of snow.

Keeping "Em Rolling

The line clean, the plow's work done until the next storms blow in, the trains begin to roll in earnest. A wind whip cloud of snow engulfs a container train. Later, under a brightening sky, an eastbound trailer train makes an easy passage over the hill.

Already late, and getting later, the westbound Empire Builder, already nearly 8 hours behind schedule waits at Scenic for a slow to arrive eastbound container train struggling up the grade. Bored, one of the crew members takes a stroll through the winter landscape.

"You're going in for two", the dispatcher tells the crew of the eastbound as it takes the siding. Not wishing to waste a moment, as soon as the last car of the freight is clear, the Builder resumes it's trip to the west.

The mini-drama ends nearly an hour later when the second train, a westbound vehicle train slips downgrade.

Meanwhile...

....a Petitbone loader works to clear maintenance of way access roads at Scenic.

Even down at Skykomish the snow is piling up around the old depot.

Out in the yard, anythingl that doesn't move on a regular basis, is soon snowed in until the spring thaw.

Digging out the Scenic Sub.....the way this winter has been progressing, the worst might be yet to come.

Death on the Hartford

2008-01-26T18:08:00.000-08:00

In the days of the Northern Pacific Railroad, it was called the Hartford Branch. It was a line that skirted the eastern edge Seattle and Lake Washington and ran through the northwestern Washington interior all the way to the Canadian boarder at Sumas. The formation of the Burlington Northern made large portions of the line redundant and thus they were abandonned. One reminant survived however, the two mile stretch that ran from the junction of the Burlington Northern east-west mainline, up into the town of Snohomish.

Central Feed, a longtime provider of milled grain for the dairies in the Snohomish Valley is what kept the Hartford alive. Twice a week in the late afternoon, one of the Burlington Northern locals would cross the old Snohomish River swing bridge and switch the mill. It's work done, the train would back down they way it came and continue into Everett.

Then came 1998. With the local dairy economy crumbling, rumors began to circualte about the fate of Central Feed. The longtime family ownership dissolved and the facility was taekn over by Co-op giant Harvest States/Land-O-Lakes. In as much as they already had a mill in the area, we all knew it was just a matter of time for Central.

The time clock ticked down to zero on May 7, 1999. The mill used the last of its inventory and closed their doors forever.

Two days later, the last train on the Harford made it's way into Snohomish and picked up the final empty car from Central Feed. The Hartford Branch saw its last train.

Through the winter of 1999 and into the new millenium, the mill sat vacant. Those of us in the feed business hurried from farm to farm like a group of vultures, trying to pick up what little business Central left behind. All of us were thinking,"better them than us", but all of us knew, Central would not be the last mill to close its doors.

Sitting on valuable real estate, it wasn't long before the property was bought. The mill had to come down. The talk in the Red Barn Tavern now turned to how long would it be before even that watering hole would see the same fate as the mill. It lasted the summer...

With the old machinery having little value beyond scrap, the mill came down without even the dignity of a part by part dismantling. Cranes with wrecking balls tore at the structure, exposing it's inner workings and scattering it like road kill.

As the mill came down, the weeds grew up around the now useless rails of the Hartford Branch.

The last step was the paving over of the rail crossing. The sections of rail were lifted out, ties and all and cast aside so the black toppers could insure a smooth road where once cars bumped across the tracks. It was finished. The last of the Hartford Branch was left to be forgotten.

There's a new library and shops where the old once stood. Whenever I pass by I wonder, when will the last car be pulled from the spur behind my employer, Conway Feed? We all know it's not a matter of if, but when. I have a feeling I'll be there to record the last of the siding at Fir as well.

Make Mine Regular Coffee,....Black

2008-01-22T20:12:00.000-08:00

It is not exactly news that where I live is no longer considered a rural, or farming area. Some time back Skagit County, Washington "progressed" into a suburban life style. We are now a bedroom community for the Seattle/Everett metropolitan sprawl. We still farm some, and always will, but nothing like it was even as recently as 20 years ago.

On the corner of Avon Allen and Highway 20, the Country Cafe, (Now called the "Valley") sits empty. The old gravel parking lot that was once jammed with farm pick-ups during the week and yuppie transplants during the week-ends is vacant. The last of the farmer coffee shops is about to fall victim to suburban growth. There are just too many cars on Highway 20 for two lanes. The road is about to be widened to 4 lanes and the Country is in the way....it must go.

The farmer coffee shop was about like the local livestock sale barn. It was where you met your neighbors, did business, swapped lies about how well your crops were doing and gossiped about whoever wasn't present to defend himself. Politicin' was conducted with local elections won and lost depending on the whims of the coffee shop constituents.

But that has all changed. The Midway House, a long time hang out for the farmers in the north county is now an antique store. And now the Country is going to be bulldozed to the point nothing will remain. I even have to wonder, how long will the feed mill and fertilizer plant across the highway be able to hang on. Reflected in the dirty windows of the Country, like so much of ag here in the county, when will they have to be removed for the sake of the increase in population.

So where do we get our coffee these days? Well, it's not at a sit down counter where breakfast was served all day. No, these days you'll see our pick-ups, farm trucks and even the occasional tractor at any number of local latte stands. With so many of them scattered about, no single establishment attracts the numbers of farmers as did two or three coffee shops. In this world where being "connected" is paramount, the end of the local coffee shop has definitely disrupted what was once a vital form of rural communication.

Back at the latte stand, I still hold to the old ways, I'm proud to say. When it's my turn at the window, I hand the cute young thing inside my dirty, greasy tanker and proudly say,

"Make mine regular coffee, black."

Winter Fallow

2008-01-17T19:35:00.000-08:00

Winter. The land sits fallow, last year's crops long harvested, this year's crops still in my mind. Like the land, it seems the older I get, the more I want to just wait out winter. Fallow just like the soil. I put in my required 5 days a week at the feed mill, but to tackle the list of winter jobs during my evenings and week-ends, time when during spring, summer and fall I devote to working the land, requires more effort than to farm.

Winter. Occasionally snow covers the mud. Occasionally breaks in the overcast brighten my mood for a moment.

Winter. It seems even my mind goes fallow.

Winter. It is when I have the time to pursue personal goals yet it is the time I have the least energy to put forth the effort.

Winter. I need a dose of spring to make it through.

The Stump and The Log

2008-01-13T17:09:00.000-08:00

If I ask those who regularly explore the canyon below old Wellington if they walked by "the stump", they immediately know what I am talking about. "The stump" is probably the most recognized image taken at the time of the Wellington slide. Featured on the front page of the Seattle Times only a few days after the avalanche, it was widely claimed that the pipes wrapped around its circumference held captive the lifeless body of a small child. Historians to this day argue the validity of that claim. I don't believe a word of it as there is no evidence of the pipes being cut, or the stump chopped away to release the poor soul. I also take into account, this same newspaper was reporting as fact that the local wolf population was feasting on the remains of those killed. Public outcry to that claim became so vocal, the Times quickly had to print a retraction.

To this day, "the stump" looks much as it did nearly 100 years ago. That is what makes it so fascinating to me. Here is one spot where a close study can reveal just what happened at 1:43 AM March 1, 1910. Yet, it is not just the stump that tells the story.

Laying alongside the stump is "the log". It was the remains of a huge old growth fir tree. Its bark is still black from the forest fires that burned the hillside above the siding at Wellington the previous summers. Under its mass is part of the underframe of a rail car known as the queen pin. Queen pins are specific in design for specific cars. By looking close and comparing this model to old photos it becomes clear this example came from one of the short express mail cars used by the Great Northern.

And so, thanks to the stump and the log, the picture takes form. High above, where the tracks once were, Train 27, the Fast Mail was parked on the outer siding, next to the drop off. On the next track over was Train 25, the Spokane-Seattle overnight passenger. When the slide came down from the mountain above, it first hit the cars of the passenger train, tipping them onto the adjacent mail train. The relentless force of the snow slid the coaches over the mail cars and carried them on down the slope.

Now flipped on its top the remains of this mail car was spun 90 degrees as it too was being carried down into the canyon. Somewhere in that rolling wall of snow a log log was propelled across the bottom of the car like a battering ram, shearing off the steam pipes, air lines and one of the queen pin assemblies. Only when the entire mass slammed against a tree snapped off by the avalanche did it come to rest, but not until the pipes were wrapped around the stump like a set of logging cables.

That is mechanics of what happened, but that is not story. The story is much more disturbing. You see, inside that car were not just sacks of first class mail. Inside that mail car, and all the mail cars of Train 27 were the railroaders who had so desperately tried to open the line. For the first night in over a week men, real people, Lou Ross, Al Dougherty, Milt Hicks and Benny Jarnigan to name a few, were finally able to catch a nap somewhere other than in the cabs of their engines and snowplows.

If the vision of the destruction of this car seems violent, how much more appalling was the death of the men sleeping inside? Wood car decking exploding into splinter's, giant logs crashing down through the snow, and yes the snow, the unmerciful weight and suffocating cold of the snow battered the bodies of these men.

I think too of those railroaders that survived. I think of them as they had the grim task of digging out the shredded remains of men that were their friends.

This is the story the stump and the log tell me.

If the coupler jutting out of Tye Creek speaks of the defiant nature of the men of the Great Northern, the stump and the log tell me of the violence and death brought upon them that terrible night.

Lest We Forget

2008-01-10T19:52:00.000-08:00

A heavy snow was falling from a dark, gray sky. Cascade cement is what the old heads on the Great Northern called it. The over sized flakes stick to everything and have a bad tendency to slide. A person gets far wetter out in this snow than they will in the rain so well known on the western slopes of the Cascades.

Off of US 2, at Scenic, Washington, on Stevens Pass, sits a refurbished Great Northern caboose. In the summer, it dominates a parking lot that marks the beginnings of the Iron Goat Trail. This trail is built on the old Great Northern rail line over the pass. A line that passes through a town once named Wellington.

During the summer the parking lot is clear, full of cars. In the winter it is buried under the white cement that falls from the sky. In the winter, the caboose is no longer a dominate fixture. In the winter, it sits alone, nearly buried, forlorn and forgotten.

Well, maybe forlorn, but not completely forgotten.

Last Saturday I headed up to the pass. As much as I wanted to photograph the trains of the BNSF working their way through the storm, what I really came to capture was a visible artifact of the Great Northern in the deep snow of winter. For it was winter and the Great Northern's efforts to conquer it that ultimately defined Stevens Pass. An 8 mile tunnel was constructed as a result of the snow that was now falling on that old crummy.

So there, proud as ever, was Rocky the Mountain Goat. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, it seemed even the drifts of snow parted to make sure the mascot and spirit of the Great Northern would not be covered, not be forgotten.

A short distance away, out on the mainline the trains ran not in the least bit inhibited by the elements. The Empire Builder emerged from the safe confines of the Cascade Tunnel and had but a half hour of running before reaching the more temperate lower levels of the pass. Even the heavy freight trains crossed the pass as if it were a warm summer day.

Do they know? Have they forgotten how this all came about?

Rocky stands guard at Scenic, near the old line up Windy Mountain. He stands there, lest we forget.

Rails Along the Greasy Grass

2008-01-03T20:35:00.000-08:00

Charles Kuralt called it "the saddest place I know." Even in these post 9-11 times, I would agree with his assessment. The valley of the Greasy Grass is a pleasant spot. Running north and south, the wandering river is marked by groves of elm and cottonwoods, providing shade from the midday heat and shelter from the wandering thunder cells dropping off the Bear Tooth Range far to the west. The eastern side of the valley rises abrupt, the ground broken with deep ravines, parallel ridges and cresting sidehills.

Standing on the east flank of the valley, on the first ridge running southward, I looked down on the flat floor. Green alfalfa fields were being irrigated. The sprinklers sent out their interrupted streams of water, always turning, never traveling. Through the middle ran the modern commerce of I-90 and the BNSF main stretching north from Sheridan and the Powder River. Behind me on the hills to the east, horses grazed the green, but short grass. Still it was quiet, a pleasant wind blowing.

But this is a sad place. Stretched out south of me, for nearly five miles are sporadic clusters of white markers. Not gravestones, not really, but markers of the dead to be sure. Nearly all had the same engraved inscription, "A soldier of the US 7th Calvary fell here June 25, 1876".

There was so much death that day. Not just the soldiers of Custer's command, not just warriors of the non-treaty Plains Tribes. Certainly the death toll, from both sides pales in comparison to the bloody battles of the Civil War, or even the attack on the World Trade Centers. Yet this is the saddest place I know.

What was lost that hot afternoon in June was an entire culture. For the nomadic tribes of the Plains, the fight on the hills above the Greasy Grass was a clear case of winning the battle and losing the war. Public outcries lead to the final push that forever took the plains away. Not to judge good or bad, the final conquest of the native people's of our country began that sad afternoon.

It is a sad place. Looking down the grassy slope towards the Greasy Grass, known now as the Little Big Horn, past the white stone markers of the men of the 7th, cut down that day, and across the flat valley,I see the nation's commerce rumbling north out of the Powder River country. I wonder if the crews on the trains know they are rolling unharmed through the middle of what once was an encampment of nearly 7000 Indians? Indians, under the direction of such historic names as Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse,who butchered the troopers of the 7th Calvary. Do they feel a slight sense of sadness as their loud horns echo above the panicked calls of a dying Calvary bugler? I wonder if they realize the pony soldiers dotting the hillside above them failed to do what their Iron Horse so quickly accomplished?

Rambling West

2007-12-28T20:36:00.000-08:00

The first inhabitants of this land understood. Rooted deep in their culture, their legends, their religion was the belief that Spirits kept a close guard of their world. These were strong Spirits, seen in the sun, the moon and the animals. They lived deep within the mountains and watched over the changing of the seasons. The return of the salmon each year to the rivers, the wanderings of the herds of buffalo across the open plains, all were guided by the benevolent wills of the Spirits. To the Spirits and the order over which they ruled, the Native Americans owed and derived their existence.

The early pathfinders understood. The spirit of the West indwelled each of them and called them back with an irresistible siren’s song. John Colter heard its notes and succumbed to its pull. As a member of the Corps of Discovery he had journeyed from St. Louis, west to the Pacific Ocean. Away from civilization for over two years, he and the rest of the expedition were nearly home when he asked his superiors, Captain Meriwether Lewis and Captain William Clark to be relieved of his duties. His request granted, Colter immediately turned back west. He eventually made his way to the Yellowstone country. When he finally did return to the east, he came back with such outrageous tales of entire valleys spewing steam, and geysers shooting hundreds of feet into the air, most thought him mad. The spirit of the West lead John Colter to what would become Yellowstone National Park.

The trailblazers understood. Men with names like Bridger and Bozeman became caught up in the western spirit of renewal. Here was a place where a man could start fresh and provide others a route so they could do likewise. This was a land of hope and promise, not bound with the rules and traditions of the east. Birthright meant nothing in a land governed only by the spirit of individual effort. Crowded off small farms or out of family businesses merely by the fact a man was born a younger child, it was the spirit of the West that gave him a chance to make something of himself.

The road builders understood. When Captain John Mullan was ordered to build a military road linking Fort Walla Walla in the Oregon Territory to Fort Benton in the Montana country, it was not wooden wagon wheels rolling west that occupied his mind, but flanged wheels of steel. All the while his men roughed out a crude road, Mullan set his mind to surveying routes for a northern transcontinental railroad. Driven by the spirit of challenge and of a vision commerce, men like Mullan, Judah, and in later years Bogue and Stevens, transits and barometers in hand located the routes that would push steel rails west through the untamed land. Forsaking the spirits long honored by the native tribes, it was the spirit of profit that pushed the railroad men onward and eventually conquered, if nothing else, a centuries old social structure that derived its order by being in tuned with the nature of the land.

The railroads complete, a sense of finality settled across the West. Those who refused to acquiesce to the forces of change were soon enough absorbed by the spirit of progress. Even the iron horse itself feel victim to this spirit of never ending change. Paved highways paralleled the iron roads with trucks hauling cargoes once the sole property of the trains. High above, the western skies became crisscrossed with the trails left by airliners carrying the passengers that once filled the opulent coaches of trains with names like the Oriental Limited, the North Coast Limited and the Olympian Hiawatha. It seemed the spirit of the West had finally been tamed.

But spirits have a way of lingering. Despite all of its civilization there are still places where the beckoning of the western spirit still lives, even flourishes. For the West is big. The West is where all the clichés like, wide open spaces, never ending plains, and majestic mountains become reality.

The West, it is a place where cities sprawl across the landscape for miles, and yet the “intelligent design” has yet to be finalized.

The West, it is a place where the wills of men routinely battle the landforms that brand this region. It is a place where the railroad men came with the idea of subduing this land, but ultimately settled for working as best they could with the spirits that rule this part of the world. It is a battle that has yet end. The West is where steel and nature collide.

If the East is tall, the West is wide. To this day, when a person feels the need to stretch his legs and feel the spirit of challenge, he will pack his bags and travel towards the sunset. So follow the glistening rails reflecting the final rays of the sun, out towards the Pacific. Shed the confines of the day to day struggles that keep you corralled. Follow those ribbons of steel west, out to a place where the spirit has room to ramble.

My Secret Life Revealed

2007-12-25T12:59:00.000-08:00

I love black and white film photography. It is the peg where I have hung my photographic hat. Begrudgingly I have entered the digital world, now scanning my negatives for posting on the net, and yes, my most recent published articles were illustrated with photos not taken from prints, but scans.

The days of hours being spent in the darkroom trying to produce publishable scans are over for me. I still like the smell of the chemicals and watching under the glow of the safe lights a blank sheet of paper turn into a memory, but there is the practical issue of what publishers actually want. Scans they want, so scans they get.

My secret life, however is not my turning to the digital world to produce images. No, it is far more disturbing. All the while I have been vocally touting the glories of black and white negative photography, I've been shooting color slides.

I have always "justified" this double standard with the weak excuse that my "serious" photography was always done in black and white. And true, these days I very seldom do shoot a scene in color, still, the evidence is all around me in slide trays and plastic sheets. Color photos taken of serious subjects, not just family vacations.

My hobby is rail photography, shot in black and white. My business is farming, and that I have shot in color. I still believe I am a far better monochrome photographer than "Kodachrome", but here are a few taken over the years. All are with a 5 mile radius of where I live.

Lucky me........

The view ahead.....

....... and the view behind.

Turning the good earth...plowing down ground that has been limed.

I live in Skagit County in northwestern Washington State. Our is one of the last areas west of the Cascades where agriculture is still a dominate industry. But it is fading fast. As population increases so does the pressure on land use. It is far more profitable to farm houses than cows.

Combining spinach seed.

Spouted freezer peas.

The amber waves of grain.

Sunset in God's Country

The Story of "Vis Major".

2007-12-24T14:29:00.000-08:00

"Vis Major" has been an ongoing journey that began with an article in a 1961 issue of TRAINS magazine. In a two part series about the history of the Great Northern's struggles over Stevens Pass in Washington State there was a single paragraph mention of an avalanche that destroyed two Great Northern trains, killing nearly 100 people. It happened in a little town, now long abandoned, named Wellington. I was 8 years old when I read that. It has been my mission ever since.

My interest in the Wellington Slide has ebbed and flowed over all of this time. I would go for years without giving the event a single thought. Often times out of the blue, something would connect, and once again I felt the urge to visit the sight, or continue the search for information on the event. Whenever I would go up to Steven Pass to photograph the railroad, Wellington would force its way into my mind set and influence the photographs I would be taking.

As time passed and I learned the great skill of "net working" I started to amass a fair amount of information on the disaster. A close friend, who was also on the Wellington trail came forth with a number of old documents, including telegrams sent at the time, and various court papers stemming from the aftermath. From these papers, a vision of what "really" happened up there the last week of February, 1910 began to take form in my head.

At some point in time, probably 10 years or more ago, I decided I want to write a book about Wellington. I had no idea in what form the book would take other than a nonfiction narrative talking of the day to day progression of events. There were three or four attempts to begin this great work. All got no further than an opening paragraph. All fell flat on their faces.

And then I watched a TNT production called "Gettysburg". I'm not a Civil War buff by any stretch of the imagination, but for some reason that movie spoke to me. Finding out it was based on a novel titled "The Killer Angels" I read the book. I wasn't three chapters into this work when the bolt of inspiration hit...this is how I was going to tell the Wellington story.

Still, it was not simply a matter of sitting at the computer and cranking out an historical novel. Writing fiction, even fiction based on fact, was new to me. I found that fiction was infinitely harder to pen than nonfiction. Characters, long dead had to be brought back life and in a way that was true to history. Beyond just writing down a list of facts like in a nonfiction work, in this book I had to apply human motivation and thought showing why things happened as they did.

What I also learned, a work of fiction takes on a life of its own. The more I studied and wrote, looking at the event from the perspective of the railroad men that lived it, I found that they began to speak to me in clear voices. Facts that on the onset did not make sense, suddenly plausible explanations came to mind as the "boys" as I began to call them lead my hands across the keyboard. Many times I'd sit down to write after work and wonder where I would end up. I knew the time line of events I was going to write about, I knew through which character these events would be viewed, and yet many times I would end the session, producing a text far from what I might have predicted.

After 4 winters, (I farm so my writing is limited to when I'm not cropping) "Vis Major" was complete. That was 2004. So where is it, you might ask? Just try to get a literary agent or major publisher interested in a book penned by a farmer in Washington State!

During this period a writer from back east contacted me. He too was writing a book on the Wellington disaster. I, along with a number of others, helped him understand what happened and offered to him our research. He even read over my manuscript. When his book was published, "The White Cascade" he actually listed "Vis Major" as one of his sources. What a shot in the arm. Unpublished, yet "Vis" was recognized as a legitimate historical reference.

"The White Cascade" is an excellent recounting of the story. Still, I don't know why, but the boys, men like William "Snow King" Harrington, or Johnny Parzybok, or "Patty" Kelly tapped me on the shoulder and asked that I tell their story. Not the "official" story, not the safe nonfiction presentation of accepted "facts", but what it was really like for those men.

Thanks to technology, writer like myself no longer needs agents or the big east coast publishers. Publish on demand companies like iUniverse offer internet marketing and affordable printing. Keep your eye and ears open. "Vis Major" is about to become a reality.

John Parzybok, rotary plow conductor killed at Wellington.

Brakeman John "Patty" Kelly, killed at Wellington

William "Snow King" Harrington Wellington survivor next to his beloved Lil.

The Year in Review

2007-12-23T14:57:00.000-08:00

I guess the best way to start out a blog is to take a look back at what I did this past year with my old cameras. Really, the answer is, "Not much." What photos I did take were ones that did fill in some weak layers in my collection. Things I've long wanted to shoot, but never had the opportunity.

It began with a stormy Saturday shooting the BNSF snow dozer working on Stevens Pass. I've shot the dozer at work a couple of times previous, but never had the opportunity to get any photos of the crew preparing the machine for use. Here we see the guys getting the various electric and airlines required to operate the plow connected and in good order.

This shot has been floating around the internet a bit, so you might have already viewed it. It is the most dramatic of the group, and yes, I got covered.

No year is complete without a trip or two to Montana. This year I was able to get away twice and head for the Big Skies. The first journey was strictly a family affair with very little railfanning involved.

I did sneak away one morning and caught a westbound coal train climbing Bozeman Hill. For once a nice little herd of cows appeared just at the right moment and positioned themselves perfectly to add a little accent to the scene.

Returning in September, I was allowed to hi-rail over Mullan Pass with a track inspector. Of all the photos taken that day, this is my favorite as it shows to what degree these men go to insure the track is safe.

The "highlight" of the day was removing the greasy, smelly remains of "Yogi", a bear struck earlier by a light helper.

A certain amount of time was spent track side. I love Austin. The open country and the double horse shoes offer an unlimited number of camera angles. Here an eastbound rounds the lower loop with the ties for the siding extension project to the left.

I like this shot because there is so much wrong with it. Backlit, no engines, it is a different look at the lower Austin horse shoe.

A productive morning was spent out on vast nothingness of Winston Hill. The plains between Helena and Townsend are wide open, but they are anything but flat. Here loaded coal train grinds up the hill with a two unit helper pushing on the rear.

Nearly at the top of the grade, a two-set ACe helper shoves through the East Winston switch.

On my last day, I spent a few somber moments with the Livingston dead-line. I realize the Montana Rail Link is operated for profit and not for the benefit of railfans, but I really do miss those old SD 45's.

The year ended on a sad note with an e-mail telling me of the sudden death of MRL engineer Sam Sutton. I had the privilege of riding with Sam on two helper shoves over Mullan Pass. Although I can't say that I knew Sam well, he was a good sport and a good story teller.

So a toast to you, Sam. May you pass through that dark portal and into the light you deserve.