The Switching Station (2001)
It was always a sprint, getting past the slaughterhouse, the “bat-****-crazies” in the Poor Farm, across the Great Northern Railroad (GNR) switching station, around Hobo Jungle, and finally to Joyce’s house without incident. I couldn’t know when I left home for the three-quarters mile walk, that today would be different.
***
Hollywood, my cousin’s golden Palomino stallion with a white mane and tail, snickered over the fence, watching. Bronco and Tangles, our Shetland ponies, put their heads through the fence, waiting. The horses roamed seven acres, eating the grass and weeds that grew wild within the fenced farmland. They always knew when someone was leaving, and came running with a whinny and switching tails.
“Come on, be nice and share,” I told them. Bronco was sassy, nudging Tangles out of the way as he rushed for the apples I tossed over the fence. They had fallen from one of the four trees that lined our sloping dirt driveway. It was common to see deer and moose eating the apples and plums that shed from heavy branches. Sitting at the end of the drive, Trixie, our aged German Shepherd, looked at me hopefully. I mouthed an apology with a pat on the head and a scratch under the chin, “I’m sorry, girl, but you can’t go this time.” I felt bad leaving her, seeing her liquid brown eyes cloud over. More troubling was knowing she would be in the same spot until I returned home.
Turning to look at the little gray house on the hill before stepping out onto graveled Mountain View Road, I breathed deep in the warm morning air. I stood next to Trixie for a few moments taking in the sounds of my environment: chickens clucking and scratching in the yard, neighboring dogs chasing one another, distant tractors wheezing in their efforts to till new soil, an ax felling a tree, and Old Joe the crow slamming his latest shiny find against a wooden post before hiding it. This was my new home of just a few months—woods and farmland at the base of Schweitzer Mountain, overlooking meadows across the road. Down below was a line of trees that edged along the curving of a small creek, especially great for ice-skating in winter, according to neighboring locals.
It was my turn to walk to Joyce’s home to work on our sixth grade science project. Joyce and I had met during the haying season, and it was all hands in the fields to help harvest the hay and oats. The locals had been worried that rain would ruin the harvest, but luckily every bale had been covered or put in the barns before the rain made its appearance. We were two eleven-year-old girls who enjoyed chatting and giggling about inconsequential things, exploring the mountain trails, reading and crafting.
Clutching the bag that held my workbook and a pencil, I looked toward the GNR switching station as a freight train, honking its loud horn to alert its presence, moved slowly over the Boyer and Mountain View crossing. Forty or so trains passed this way every day, with good reason. Sandpoint is a “funnel” for trains throughout the northern tier states, with a railroading history that goes back to the town’s very beginnings. Waiting for the east-west trains to switch direction, dependent on their load of lumber, pulp or grain, and the destination of the mile-long train, Valley residents complained and cussed as they waited for the trains to pass, eager to get beyond before the next 35 to 50 miles-per-hour train blocked the crossing.
To amuse myself during the walk, I thought about the neighboring farms as I walked past them. Next to our property were empty-nesters, the Oldstroms. Mr. Oldstrom knocked on our door, his face red from too much sun, “Miz Rogers, I’m going to shoot that damned dog next time she digs up my garden!”
“Why, Mr. Oldstroms, you go right ahead and do that next time she’s up there on your hill.” Not long after that exchange, after dinner we heard a shotgun blast—he had shot his own dog, while Trixie lay licking her paws under the plum tree.
Next was the Thompson farm. Tomboy Cheryl, a year ahead of me, rode the school bus only when her mother wasn’t too befuddled to drive her. Cheryl missed a lot of class time, caring for her intoxicated mother. More than once, we observed Cheryl’s slight frame, shoulders slumped, her chestnut hair pulled into a pony tail, sitting alone under a lodgepole pine—a silhouette of loneliness and depression. She ran away from attempts to engage her.
Half way to my destination and now along the fence line across the road, I observed Doc Miranda’s wife riding one of her show horses in the ring that he had built for her. The Miranda family had the most property with beautiful everything: home, guest house, employees, barn, vehicles, and champion horses. She had all the adornment and won many ribbons and trophies in showjumping competitions. On the other hand, Doc was a known womanizer, whatever that was, and he wasn’t home much. Overhearing Mom and my Aunt Lila talking about him, I caught the line “. . . a self delusional addiction to a cheap thrill.” Whatever that meant.
The old green, rusted pickup sputtered toward me, bumping up and over the small gravel mounds that dotted the road. I waved to “Moonie,” the local whiskey peddler who lived up the mountain where the road ended. On one of our expeditions, Joyce, my brother Danny and I found Moonie’s whiskey still—actually, an oversized, blackened kettle—in a clearing behind his cabin. We told no one about our find. Mostly because we had been cautioned about going near that end of the mountain road, and certainly not around “that old coot.” Telling would be an invitation to an I-told-you-not-to-go-there-whipping with the German belt Mom kept on a hook at eye level, a constant reminder for my brother and me.
Approaching the Hunt Family’s County Poor Farm, a slowly disintegrating two-story brick building that sat a football field length from both the road and the tracks among trees and vegetable gardens, I heard the klink-klink of hoes working through limestone and clay. Over time with vibration from trains, the bricks and mortar began to separate, leaving yawning holes in the once imposing building.
A sad story had made the rounds about a coyote trying to get the Farm’s chickens, and one night, after hearing a noise, the oldest son Clarence went outside to investigate without his father’s knowledge. Mr. Hunt grabbed his shotgun and went to check on the chickens. He saw a movement and not able to see clearly, he shot his son in the face. Clarence didn’t die, but he had poor eyesight for the rest of his life and Mr. Hunt never got over the accident. And that’s when rumor was that the crazies lived there, and to eat they worked daylight to dawn, screeching for their food and drink. Sound carried through our valley, and I never heard screaming. I never heard sound coming from the Farm, just the klink-klink of the hoes.
On the other side of the road, 20 yards from the tracks, was Gooby’s slaughterhouse. Trucks and trains brought cattle, pigs, horses, moose and deer to the plant for slaying, packaging and sale. Averting my eyes from the open pens of cattle squeezed into the holding pens, I practiced shallow breathing to prevent inhaling the stench. Abe and Andy, the dark haired, stocky Gooby boys, also went to school with me. When they jumped on the school bus an odor of something metallic, of decay, followed them. They never talked about what their Dad and older brothers did, knowing it would gross the other kids out. Since I was on the bus before them, I made sure to sit right behind the driver, saving the seat next to me for Joyce, the next student picked up.
***
Ready to dash the last few yards to cross the tracks, I was happy there were no sounds of a train coming. I could see the engine stalled, which meant boards, logs and poles from the surrounding woods to the mill were being loaded to be transported to all parts of the country. If I were to speed up, I might be able to cross before the timber train arrived with its shipment from less than a half mile away. The switching station had no flashing lights or cross-bars to notify the community a train was coming. Just the loud honks. Two short and one long honk meant trains would be switching on the rails. Honks that reverberated through the Valley. Midnight honks would wake me from an eerie quiet, as if nature were casting a new spell upon the soul.
Of course, I knew to be cautious approaching the Great Northern rails after hearing about a man pushing his wheel barrow and meeting a freight train head-on, and more than once seeing the carcass of a family pet that died on the tracks. I had a healthy respect for the ever-present danger that lurked for anyone or anything that failed to respect the power of tons of heavy metal pushing down the steel rails.
Hobos had the reputation of being fearless. Many times I watched in awe as men of all ages came out of Hobo Jungle to run alongside a moving train, a satchel slung over a shoulder, grabbing onto a ladder that lead to the top of the boxcar, or grasping a waiting hand inside an empty open car during a rail switch. I wondered how those without a limb—and there were several—could run with a single crutch, or limp so fast to get on the train unless it was standing still.
Once, while waiting for the train on my way home, I stood only yards from the camp surrounded by dense trees. I had glimpsed makeshift shanties, men huddled around a campfire talking or laughing, stirring a pot of stew or brewing coffee in a tin can that hung from a vee-shaped contraption to capture the heat, but not direct fire.
A deep, gravelly voice spoke to someone named Slim Tim, “Yeah, I lost this when a load shifted inside the car, leaving me with this stump.”
A younger voice responded to the story, “Well, Half Track, it could have been worse. Doors closed and locked on my friend Jumpoff, and he starved and died of thirst before he was found.”
It was that same day I learned two new tidbits of information. First, there was a difference between a hobo and a bum. Hobos were migratory workers, the rails their only means of traveling long distances. Of course, bums just didn’t work. Second, the hobos were always on the lookout for the “Bulls” or railroad police, who made attempts at catching the train hoppers. They could be brutal, terrorizing those who rode the rails by bouncing them out of a car, throwing stones and even shooting them.
***
Then I heard the rhythmic click-click of the wheels passing over rail joints. Darn. I would have to wait. Two short honks and one long, just as a small truck with open panels and a load of pigs came around the corner.
***
Everything happened at once. Joyce poked her head from behind the truck, now at the tracks. She smiled, waved. We often met one another at the tracks to walk together to our homes. The loud kerthunk of the operating rod of the rail switch mechanism, enabled the train to be guided from one track to another. The rumble of the train, now closer, honking longer and longer. Sparks flew every which way as the train applied its brakes, reducing speed. The truck wheels turned inward, causing it to tumble onto its side, rolling and sliding. Wood panels broke and splintered. Pigs squealed from fear and shrieked in pain as they hit the rails and the roadway in front of me. I back-peddled instinctively, tripping over my feet, landing hard into the ditch at the side of the road.
Hoboes, faces flushed with disbelief, rushed from the trees. One took hold of Joyce, moving her backward, clear of the chaos playing out in front of us. Men came running from the Poor Farm, hoes flung over their shoulders, shouting to one another to check the truck driver, help corral unhurt porkers. Workers dashed from Gooby’s slaughterhouse with “Oh my gawds,” and “Get back inside. Find rope and sleds. Gather these swine up!”
My brain stuttered for a moment, my eyes taking in more light than I expected, every part of me going on pause while my thoughts caught up, and in that moment there was only silence—my own. I felt heaviness across my legs. Sitting up on my elbows, I looked into the wet eyes of a sow, blood pooling from a gash in her head and from her ears. She gave soft painful snorts, with heavy breathing. Foul odor now dominated the air.
I had thought myself awake but I can’t be. This is a nightmare of sorts, more vicious, more lucid. Time to get out from under this poor soul. Every movement cost more energy than it should, like someone just turned gravity way up. I’m on a red river that doesn’t flow. I want to stand but for the moment I’m unable to get from beneath the weight of the animal.
***
Post note:
The following day Mom came to take me from the hospital. I had suffered a few bruises and gone into shock. Doc Miranda wanted to keep an overnight check on me, assuring Mom I would be just fine. Crossing the Switching Station rails, everything appeared normal. Rolling down the pickup window, the aroma of coffee from Hobo Jungle filled the air. I heard the klink-klink of the hoes at the Poor Farm. The outside pens at the slaughterhouse were empty.
Abe and Andy Gooby stood at the side of the road, giggling and shouting in unison, “Who said pigs couldn’t fly!” Little dumb-asses.
***
The truck driver was critical from being pinned under his vehicle and succumbed from his injuries three days after hospitalization; 68 pigs were severely hurt or killed outright; the switching station to this day does not have barrier guards—only the 45” high red signal mechanism at the side of the tracks. The train horns still reverberate through the valley.
Most of Hobo Jungle has been cleared. The Poor Farm has been abandoned and reduced to partial rubble. A farmer purchased the land to grow crops. On occasion, if we listen closely, we can almost hear the klink-klink of hoes behind the hum of a distant tractor. The slaughterhouse is now a one story apartment complex, and our valley is filling up with wealthy, California home-buyers. Each week we get an offer for our seven acres of farmland with the little gray house on the hill. When Mom answers the inquiry, her response is always the same, “Only when pigs fly!”
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