Youthful Exuberance and Railroad Tracks

A couple of days ago, I saw a video on Facebook shot down a train track toward a tunnel.

A heavy snow blanketed the ground, and the tree limbs and dormant blackberry vines sagged under the weight of what fell overnight. 

By contrast, the rails were silver, shiny and slick.

As the video began a train had just entered the far end, headlights flashing in the dark.

It looked like a Hallmark card come to life.

I know the person who posted the video. I know he lives close to the land that used to be our family farm, though we never lived there.

And I instantly recognized the tunnel as the one that burrowed through a hill along the eastern border of the property.

I’ve been there hundreds of times, sometimes to hunt arrowheads or squirrels. Sometimes just to explore.

Occasionally, friends and I would drive to the farm and hike up the steep wooded hill to the tunnel.

Those were good times.

But one experience involving the tunnel wasn’t.

One summer day, some of us decided to walk from our neighborhood to the tracks, down to the tunnel, and then walk back on the road.

I spent an unsuccessful half hour just now trying to coax Google Maps into letting me create a path on the tracks to estimate the distance. Regardless of where I dragged that little pin on the screen, it always jumped back to the road.

I guess the internet has enough sense to know you don’t walk down a railroad track.

We, on the other hand, didn’t.

We took off, without packing water or telling anyone what we were doing.

Via the road, it’s about 5 miles. The track seems to be about the same distance.

That may not sound like a long way, especially for active 14-year-old boys. But given that it was hot, and we didn’t have anything to drink, combined with the fact that we were walking down a railroad track, the trip became considerably difficult.

We started out merrily enough, trying to teeter on the rails. You obviously know how that turned out.

After that quickly got old, one crosstie was too close to step, and two were too far. And the gravel between them were relentless.

After a couple of hours, we arrived at the tunnel, weary and cranky, as it began to dawn on us what lay ahead.

I guess we rested awhile before hiking down the hillside, across the field — which had never looked bigger — and onto the road.

The road home included a steep, long hill. We decided to take a shortcut, which involved crossing someone’s property and climbing that same long, steep hill — just not on the road.

We were dead tired by the time we got to the top.

And I don’t remember how we got back to the road, but we did.

Then a miracle happened.

A man who we all knew happened by. He looked at us in disbelief as we dragged into view.

With the last ounce of energy we had, we climbed into the back of his El Camino and he took us home.

We didn’t exactly receive a hero’s welcome from our parents, as I recall.

It wasn’t the smartest endeavor ever undertaken, but it ended well.

But it was my last trip down the tracks.