They say all good things come in threes…here are a trio of white-line adventures straight out of our travel journals.

An Impromptu Ride East

After a few days in San Francisco back in ’79, Neville and I, two lads short on cash and wheels, figured it was high time to keep our cross-country adventure rolling.

Now, Neville, had read in his trusty copy of ‘A Moneywise Guide to North America‘ that hopping a freight train could be an expedient opportunity to move us on our way. So, off we went on BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) to the bustling Oakland Rail Yard, hoping to snag a Union Pacific freight train heading east towards the Colorado Rockies. The rail yard was a proper racket—noisy and confusing as all get-out.

As we stood there, two mangy teens with backpacks plastered to our backs, a rail yard worker with a benevolent soul, moseyed on over. “You boys lookin’ to hop a train?” he asked, a knowing grin spreading across his face when we furtively nodded.

When we told him our destination, he chuckled and pointed out a late-night train, due for departure around 3 AM. Seeing our bewildered faces, he kindly offered up the camper shell in his pickup for a bit of kip.

We, being rather impressionable youths, didn’t question his good nature one bit. Later, he even brought us sandwiches and water—a true godsend! Sleep didn’t come easy, mind you, but when the knock finally came, our guardian angel led us to an empty freight car. “Don’t be hangin’ out in the doorway,” he advised, “folks might see ya.”

And just like that, Neville and I were off, rattling through the High Sierras towards Utah and Colorado, all thanks to one of the many angels who watched over us on our grand adventures.

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A Chilly Ride Over Monarch Pass

It seemed our penchant for unconventional transport followed us wherever we roamed. After that memorable freight train ride, another equally unique journey took us through the heart of the Rockies.

Heading east from Gunnison, Colorado, Neville and I, ever the resourceful vagabonds, hitched a ride in a pickup truck absolutely brimming with household odds and ends, bicycles, and what I can only describe as general “scrap detritus.” We were unceremoniously deposited amongst it all in the truck bed, comfort clearly not on the menu for this leg of our journey.

Our path? Over Monarch Pass, a rather lofty eleven thousand feet.

Now, this was early October in the Rockies, so not only was a metal junk-filled truck bed less than plush, but it was also chillingly cold in the exposed airflow. We bundled up in our jackets as best we could, but the wind whipped through that rumbling old pickup, biting right to the bone.

Just when we thought our teeth might chatter clean out of our heads, a State Trooper pulled the truck over. He had a quick word with the driver about our well-being back there, even suggesting he toss us a couple of blankets.

A kindly nod, and off we went again, shivering but otherwise shipshape, safely crossing the Great Divide that night. We were mighty grateful for that diligent trooper, who clearly had a soft spot for two slightly frozen, adventure-seeking lads.

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An Alaskan Culinary Conundrum

Not all our travels were land-based, of course. Our spirit of adventure led us to some truly spectacular places, and sometimes, those journeys came with their own unique challenges, especially when it came to keeping ourselves fed.

In the summer of ’80, Neville and I cooked up a plan to take the M.V. Malaspina, one of those grand Alaskan Ferries, northwest from Prince Rupert, British Columbia, all the way to Skagway, Alaska. We’d opted for coach, a good 48-hour stretch of breathtaking Inside Passage scenery. Eagles, dolphins, whales, even bears—the views were simply unbelievable from our seats.

Now, our change purses weren’t exactly bulging, so the ferry’s fancy dining rrom was not on our menu. We’d prudently packed some provisions and our trusty single-burner camp stove, figuring we’d whip up our own meals.

Imagine our surprise, then, when a ferry deckhand, with a polite but firm demeanor, confiscated our stove. A “fire hazard,” he declared! Sometimes angels chose to protect us from our own bad judgements.

Of course, with the wisdom of hindsight, it seems rather obvious now, but back then, the notion of our little white gas stove causing a kerfuffle hadn’t even crossed our minds. The deckhand assured us we could collect it from the Ferry Master upon disembarking.

True to his word, 48 hours later, there we were, knocking on the Ferry Master’s door, asking for our stove back. He handed it over with a smile, though he seemed a tad puzzled when we then asked him to sign our well-traveled Rand McNally roadmap.

You see, we’d been collecting signatures from all our hitchhiking drivers, and the Master was now officially logged in as part of our grand adventure.

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It’s rather amusing, isn’t it, how many helpful souls we encountered during our youthful ramblings. It amazes me how many angels took a hand in seeing Neville and I safely navigating through all of our adventures. I think there may be a ‘patron’ saint assigned specifically to guiding youth through their natural misadventures.

I tried my hand at penning the following poem dedicated to angels whom watched over my shoulder as a rambling youth:

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Road Angels

Shielded in camoflage ponchos,
under fledgling chrome caps,
we ate up the miles like a forgotten meal—
reckless, radical, an bent for the road.

We were ghosts with gasoline in our veins,
fading out of one town and into the next.
Invincible.
Immortal.
Untouchable.
Or so it seemed.

We didn’t see them, not then—
the angels.
Roadside souls who stitched our scrapes
from borrowed time and kind words,
from a tank of gas we didn’t pay for,
a bunk offered without questions,
a sandwich split in silence.

They weren’t sent by gods.
The gods too were passengers,
belted in the backseat, watching,
aroused by our bulging youth,
benign,
like moths circling the tail-lights of boys
too restless to save.

The immortals envied our brief, burning flash,
but they never lifted a hand.
It was the angels who did the work—
wiping blood from our rib cages
and gravel from our knees,
then pointing down the road
like it might still go somewhere.

Perhaps we were worthy.
Or could’ve been.
But only the angels retain a say.
The bored gods, long drifted on—
drawn toward wheels burning up blacktop

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Please enjoy some music from the time depicted in these three tales to help invoke the period mood for this post. Bob Seger, ‘Roll Me Away”.

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Cheers, nca