Jumping Freight Trains to go Bouldering

Book Cover

I am constantly throwing around ideas for trips, and though most of the time my friends don’t bite, but every so often they will.

March 2004: it was already hot. The climbing season in Bishop, California, had finished abruptly, jumping straight to sizzling summertime highs. Climbing was impossible. Sitting inside the Kava Coffee shop with two of my best friends, Todd and Johnny, I brought up a few places we could go to escape the heat. As a youth, I remember sitting in the passenger seat of my dad’s yellow pick-up, driving south along the I-5. I remember watching the huge freight trains cruising beside the highway, matching our speed; I wondered what it would be like to jump on for a ride, or just where I could ride the rails to.

“Lets do a hobo trip to Arizona!” I exclaimed. Just outside Flagstaff, Arizona, at a much higher elevation (thus cooler) and hidden by a shady pine forest, you’ll find a bouldering destination called the Priest Draw. To my surprise, the boys didn’t scoff at the idea — instead, I noticed a strange glint in their eyes.

A few days later, we set off early with light packs that contained only the necessary climbing gear. The nearest train station was 100 miles south in the town of Mojave. We hitchhiked in the 100-plus-degree temperatures, arriving in the afternoon. Home to a few fast-food joints, a couple cheap hotels and a massive train yard, Mojave is nothing more than a hole in the desert. No fences blocked our passage from the sidewalk to row upon row of tracks. We saw a large freight train parked on one of the first tracks. We decided to inspect it, to see if it was comfortable enough or not, when off in the distance Todd spotted the bright light of an inbound engine car.

The train entered the yard, slowing down to the pace of a light jog. Still unsure of any plan, we started to run beside the train, seeing if it was going to stop or keep on moving.

Then, it was speeding up. My adrenaline kicked in and I shouted, “Lets get on!” And just like that, the three of us were on a train headed east! We crammed as tightly as we could into a cavity between cars, but were unable to pass undetected. As the train crossed a main street in Mojave, I linked eyes with an old lady through her windshield. Her mouth dropped, but there was nothing either of us could do at that point except look at each other dumbfounded.

After traveling for a few hours, our train pulled into a massive station at the town of Barstow. There, we had to switch trains, an all-night affair that involved running from train-station security, known in hobo terminology as “the Bull.” A yard worker who had spotted us jumping off the train quickly tipped off the Bull. Using the mile-wide yard formed by row upon row of parked trains to our advantage, we stayed out of sight of the Bull, who was seemingly confined to his white pick-up.

After two hours of cat and mouse, we noticed one of the parked trains starting to move. The Bull, assuming we’d jump the moving train, positioned himself along the tracks at the end of the yard with a flashlight. But we had a plan: we climbed atop the train and lay flat on the roof, passing the Bull undetected and exiting the yard. A few minutes later, the train stopped at the edge of town. Too exhausted to celebrate our little victory, we curled up in an empty car and quickly fell asleep. What felt like minutes later, I was shaken from my deep sleep by the movement of the train. It was midday, and the train was speeding through a barren Arizona landscape.

Unfortunately, we had not packed enough food and water for the journey. By the time we arrived at the outskirts of Flagstaff, we were thoroughly beat down from being in a loud, jolting train without food or water for 10 uncomfortable hours.

With the lights of the town approaching, we grew excited by the prospect of a warm meal. But then, the train passed on through town in the blink of an eye, without slowing down, leaving us drooling as we whipped past a couple restaurants.

The temperature had dropped below freezing, and it felt like we were in meat a locker. The severity of the situation was escalating quickly — we discussed our options. Because the train was traveling at 60 mph, jumping off would cause death or serious injury. Without supplies and with the temperature still dropping, we were concerned we wouldn’t last the night. Calling for help would not only land us in jail but, more importantly, would mean we’d failed. (Failing to be responsible for your own choices is almost the worst thing that can happen on any adventure, second only to dying, of course.) Fortunately, the train stopped an hour down the tracks in Winslow. One more day on that train and we would have been in serious trouble!

Aaron Black is an adventure writer and photographer. Find more stories like this plus learn how to take professional photographs and sell them in the complete book; Adventure and Travel Photography available through Aaron's website, aaronblack.com.