On Former PanAm Tracks

I wake to the sound of trickling water and pines whispering in the wind. 

My body is sore as I uncurl myself from the fetal position I had slept in. My limbs groan as I drag myself out of the small section sandwiched between the steel wall and the steel mechanical arm that shifts whenever the train turns. For now, the train is still and silent. 

We're sided out on a single track flanked by a ledge that tumbles down into a river that's mostly obscured from my view by pine trees.


With a sudden creak and groan of its own, the train inches forward. 

It pulls onto a bridge, where we creep over a wide, rich emerald green river dotted with sandbars. Once we're on the other side of the bridge, the train stops again.


The sky is a powdery blue; the sun's beginning to light up the world.


This general manifest train, made up of mostly closed boxcars, along with a sparse number of hopper cars and hazmat tankers strung together, had departed north just after dark. 

Upon checking maps on the cheap department store phone Obe and I share, I found that we've only gone fifty miles in six hours.

But I don't mind. Both Obe and I fully expected it to be a slow ride, neither of us are new to the line. We'd taken that ride years prior, before CSX had taken over the small class three railroad, PanAm.

We suspect the take over will bring more changes in future years. The much awaited change for efficiency and increased profits. A perfect future for corporate bigwigs, and longer, unpredictable hours for rail workers.


Obe sits up, wrapped head to toe in his dark blue department store sleeping. "What time is it?" His voice is thick with sleep.


"Almost five."

The train knocks.


Eventually, the wood houses, brick shops, and parked car-lined streets of civilization give way to Maine's countryside. 


Conifers dip and dive with the hills running along the bent and bumpy tracks. 

The trees thin out, the hills stretching further away until we're soaring beside a dew-coated meadow. It glistens in the hazy morning sun that's now peeking over the golden sun-soaked treetops covering the now distant hills in the background. 


Flowing along the train's route, a stream cuts through the meadow's muddy beds of limp grasses and wildflowers. The water's surface is crowded with lily pads and purple aquatic flowers; cattails dance along the edges.

The stream seeps out into a shallow swamp, clotted with the rotting logs of fallen trees and covered in thick brush.

Cattails, pinkish flowers, and fat ferns protrude from the gray ballast rocks. 


We then roll into the shade of oak, birch, and pine woods on brown bedded ground.

We cross dirt roads. Quiet, excepting the dinging of the railroad crossing signals.

The few houses tucked among the fields and trees by these roads are as undisturbed as their still waking inhabitants.


The train continues click-clacking down the still unwelded, former, PanAm tracks.


We cut through a hill. On either side, ancient boulders are embedded in moss padded walls of earth. Ferns spill from the ledges and cracks while thorny raspberry vines cling to the side.


Leafy branches brush the empty baby blue sky, my head feeling light as I trace the branches with my gaze.

My eyes grow heavy, my seldom slept night quickly catching up to me.


With Obe being a whole foot taller than myself, giving him the empty side of the hopper porch we'd have to share was only logical. It was the only viable ride we could snag.


I shift in my spot on the cold steel, my bedroll was lost on the last ride. Stretching my legs out over the steel arm, I let out another dizzying yawn. A bush of glossy bright red berries passes by.


In one moment, I feel ready to sink into the hopper's dust-coated steel. In the next, I am invigorated, enraptured by the shimmering lake we're suddenly gliding beside.


I peer over the side of the hopper porch. It's a straight drop down the ballast to a thin strip of a pebble shore. The pebbles continue into the water. The water, so glassy, I can see the muted colours of the pebbled bottom. 

Every inch of my skin tingles, as though I were submerged in the lake; I can almost feel the water gently lapping against me.


I feel untethered from time and reality. I am as powerful as the towering heads of the mountains whose feet dip into the water's edge.

I revel in the pure ecstasy of it all. I could be swallowed by the world.


But I am plucked from my high when Obe calls to me over the roar of the train, "We're here."


Our lakeside scenery is exchanged with industrial buildings and broken down junk cars.

My skin will never feel the rush of that lake.


The train knocks. We gradually slow down, creaking until we come to a complete stop right in front of a railroad crossing in the downtown area.


The road is filled with spectators in cars and on bikes who observe us as we hit the ground with our gear. They don't pay us much mind though.


I feel a bubbling dread in my gut. I certainly don't feel the promise of food.


I've no place here, just as I had no place on that train car. I can only take what I may, and then keep moving.


. . .


I've been sitting on this one for a few months now. That was one of the rare instances that I actually wrote down notes for such prose during a ride. I've been told on several occasions that I'm doing something people can only dream of. But honestly, for the most part, I don't like hopping trains; it's equivalent to getting a ride somewhere you need to go, you know?

Though, there is a beauty to it. Gotta romanticize your life whenever you can, right?


Anyhow, based on recent events (if you haven't heard, there was going to be a massive railroad strike), and this being on topic anyway, I'd like to share a bit about working on the railroad. I'm not personally qualified, but I've interacted with workers plenty, and I would like to help bring more light to what they deal with.


For starters, railroad workers get laid off, a lot. It's a way to hold onto employees without paying them a cent.

Here's a snippet from an article in 2019 (though furloughing goes further back in the railroad industry) from Freight Waves (Joanna Marsh):


"Furloughing employees is a long-standing practice of the freight railroads and serves as a means of adjusting staffing levels to meet demand. Furloughs, which typically involve unionized workers, can occur seasonally, such as maintenance-of-way employees working in larger numbers in the non-winter months. For instance, furloughs typically increase right before Christmas every year because the railroads pare down their operations after the fall peak shipping period. Employees expect to be furloughed at certain points throughout the year and adjust their budgets accordingly.

Furloughs can also occur if a freight railroad experiences lower rail volumes, as the Class I railroads have in 2019. 

From a railroad’s perspective, furloughing employees enables the railroad to bring back employees should volume return, instead of having to find employees and having them undergo a training program that can last at least six months if not more. In contrast, layoffs typically occur to non-agreement staff, such as those working at headquarters or in management.

But furloughs and layoffs have increased as almost all of the Class I railroads have adopted PSR. PSR seeks to streamline a railroad’s operations by running longer trains on a fixed schedule. Another goal of PSR is to cut a railroad’s costs."


"Fucking PSR" has become a common phrase my road dog utters. Typically when our train gets tied down in middle of nowhere Kansas during a tornado.

But seriously, furloughing may be logical for business, however, it really goes to show just how expendable worker's are viewed as by the company's pencil pushers; and how unpredictable the job is. That's not exactly a steady source of income.


Furthermore, according to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics:

"Railroad conductors and yardmasters have one of the highest rates of injuries and illnesses of all occupations. Common injuries include sprains, strains, and bruises."

Because trains operate 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, railroad workers’ schedules may vary to include nights, weekends, and holidays. Most work full time, and some work more than 40 hours per week. Federal regulations require a minimum number of rest hours for train operators."


Anyone who has ever witnessed and felt the force of a train might be able to tell you how dangerous they are (some are simply dumbasses who think they know everything and then proceed to stand on the knuckle). But even if you've been taught well and are highly experienced with trains, accidents can and do happen. Especially with such heavy machinery. 


Conductors are pretty much always on call. That's exactly why a friend of mine working for CN passed up the opportunity to become one. You always gotta be ready to clock into work on short notice. 


Rail workers deal with fairly uncomfortable and dangerous conditions, and are worked to the bone, subjected to inflexible schedules. On top of all that, they're also constantly at risk of being laid off.

They're people too. In fact, workers are some of the coolest individuals I've ever met who've treated me with such kindness and kept me from going hungry. And I always feel so useless; because aside from keeping them from getting in trouble, there's not much more I can do to thank them for all they do.


Now, there're probably still people who would jump to call workers "soft" for wanting better conditions and schedules, and would even tell them to quit the job if they can't handle it. But to the folks who live comfortably in their slice of this capitalist empire: do you really want to see what happens to your lifestyle when rail workers don't show up to work?


If you're interested in supporting rail workers, check out Railroad Workers United to see ways in which you can help. Or you can simply peruse the website; they have weekly rail and labor news letters, and interesting railroad and union related information and history.



Works Cited

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