Railroad Trestle

He told me of this event a number of times, each had a different bent but the circumstances never altered regardless how many times Billy Boy told this, or for that matter, other stories. He was good at it, now let's hope I get this right!

 

Whenever he told me, my friends or others of events now gone passed as he was often asked to do, Billy Boy wore a sly grin which shone cross his slender face, his bright blue eyes sparkling with such shining lite you'd swear he could change 'em out of sheer delite! Yup, he could tell a story or two... well actually lots more if you had a mind to stay and listen some.

 

Well I reckon it was in the mid-twenties or so, some time before the Seaside disaster as I have told about, when Billy Boy was on the Yquina Bay working as gang boss building the big north jetty out where river meets the mighty roar of the crashing Pacific waves, the seventh always the larger. Billy Boy taught me this, that the seventh wave-one was always the biggest as it smashed thunderously onto the seashore sands. I did not know until years later how to spy the number one, so then how was I to know which was the roaring seventh big one! But Billy Boy did! He would say, "Here it comes", and sure enough, a mighty wave quickly rose, crested, then rushed swiftly head long into the hanging cliffs found in the coves and cut-outs along the shore's way! Amazing! I've gotten splashed by some of them salty giants, but later I learned the secret of the seventh one and passed it on.

 

Billy Boy and his crew of six men were working a hand car down the rails from back up in the gullies, valleys and hills of the coastal range, all were returning from loading rail trucks, those oversized cars with huge boulders later to be pulled by the steam engine old number oh, oh nine

down the twisting, steeped sloped mountain side, the load then to be dumped into the cold Pacific taming the thrashing, crashing waves and protecting the shallow harbor waters. The day's work for this work crew gang now done, and for some...well, the story continues on.

 

The mood of these seven young sturdy men was exuberant, filled with high expectation of wine, whiskey and fun, a night out on Newport town, the central Oregon coastal village whose bay was being sheltered this day, these fellows hired by the W.P.A. to build this mighty rock barrier out along the flowing Yaquina Bay.

 

Billy Boy had chosen his crew from those he knew, friends from the logging camps spread from the timber lands and cross the one hundred miles or more inland to the lush greens and sunlight yellow-golds of the fertile farm fields dotting the Willamette Valley, that vast region planted with alpha, wheat, oats and barely as it reaches into Portland a bustling, booming timber and river shipping town.

 

The work crew Billy Boy gathered included his best friend Bob, later called "Cannery" when he went up Alaska way, worked in land and boat based fish canneries as he did there for awhile. Then Tom Tiller the faller was there to, he came from Rockaway further up the coastal way. "Whistle" Pete, his name taken from the sound he made when speaking through front missing teeth, was the biggest of the group, at six foot eight an one-half, he had a weight to match, I've seen pictures of him and he was quite an impressive man to sight! Terry the fiery fighting "Irishman" and "Spike" from down the Yaquina river dike were the youngest, the youthful facial fuzz not yet taken to the barber's sharp razor strap . "Jens" Jensen was there. He came over from old Sweden town up in northern county land just where the majestic Columbia river flows along in ever widening shores. "Jens" had kids spread from there to here, or so the rumors were told. "Skitter" was the last to join, no faster loader could be found! Some of the fellers were married, most were not, wives and sweet hearts left back in home towns to await return of these hard toiling jetty men.

 

Well, these seven riding on hand pump rail car were speeding along down the twenty mile rail run to the tracks town's end. The rails dipped, twisted and turned cross creeks, cuts and steep slopes winding the way through tall and majestic evergreens, cross fields and meadows of forest grasses and flowering wild columbine, false Solomon's Seal and bright blooms of all varying kinds. Along the route white tail deer, their slender bodies poised in careful alert could be spied, red tailed hawks circled in the clean fresh clear air, their sharp eye spying marmots and tiny field mice to snatch from earth's carpeted forest floor, the sights all mingled with the fresh washed fragrances of natures subtle and gentle perfumes. Yes siree, serene, scenic, quiet and quite beautiful!

 

The rails crossed deep canyons carved millenniums ago by ice glaciers now gone past and by fast running mountain streams and slower creeks damned here and there by beavers, and where otters, muskrats and others who live at water's edge play in the cool sparkling water pools, occasionally a black bear sow and baby cubs would wonder down to snatch a rainbow or try to snare a beaver pup. Those scenes rarely seen in today's civilized times, its a crying shame I think.

 

So it was across these back woods and fields that Billy Boy was leading his men, down from the big boulder and rock quarry mines, the rails passing over these canyon cuts on wooden built trestles as though they were suspended in mid-air hundreds of feet above the canyon floor below. Now you need to know in these times, time tables, rail signals and flashing lites were not in place. Folks kinda knew, and counted too on sort of a set pattern of "going to and coming from", the routine of these things rarely different on any given day...well, mostly this was true. At least as far as Billy Boy and the others really knew!

 

The last creek canyon, old "Blory Hole", the deepest of all, was just ahead, oh maybe one-half or three-quarter mile to go, just where the rail road curved out of the big cut and made its run through the side banked straight pass, then like a sling shot drive, down the slope three hundred yards to the train trestle track and cross old "Blory Hole". By golly that was a thrilling ride on any day, or so Billy Boy told! I've never rode it, so I wouldn't know.

 

The boys were now beginning their exhilarating whoop calls, hard held hand gripes now holding strongly to car rails, legs tight, knees bend to give brace against gravity throw, its force wanting to dump them all as they sped faster to the trestle's first wooden tie. The shouted sounds and the roaring rail wheels dimming a distant warning signal sound.

 

Billy Boy always alert to places and spaces, specially those where work took place, turned his head down wind, let loose his grip and held a hand cupped to his right ear to catch the air born sound waves, he shouted, "Quiet, quiet now!...be still!, Something is afoul!" He knew he heard it. Billy Boy could not believe it. The whistle of old number oh, oh, nine coming up the hill!

 

Bill Boy, his mind now speeding, his heart pounding, knew the hand brake on that old pump rail car could not stop the downward racing run...the car and engine would meet head on! No time to stop! No place to turn! No siding to be found!

 

The others, now turned quiet, faces grown ashen taught, could hear but not see the empty train roaring fast up the drawheading, just before the trestle crossed over old "Blory Hole"! Panic and fear overriding the once excited surrounding sphere...the trestle now close, the end very near!

 

Billy Boy hollered his command, "hold on tight, pump like hell, we'll cross over old "Blory" and beat the meeting with oh, oh nine!" With fear rapidly raising, sweat filming the eyes, muscles straining on pump, some could not stop the awful thought, death only but a moment away!

 

Onto "Blory" canyon trestle they roared, the top of old number oh, oh nine now rising over the opposite cut, cloudy steam seen surging from its monstrous angry smoke funnel. Time now gone, "Jump, jump!", someone cried out. "No, dont!", came Billy Boy's anguished and loud reply, "you'll hit old "Blory" and surely die!" He pleaded to be heard, "hang on till we take the trestle run, then jump, you'll hit brush and brambles on the other side, no one need die!" To late, to late, his voice not heard!

 

Three overcome by fear took the leep, flying off the car, soaring in the air, bodies bouncing, crashing and smashing against sturdy timbers and rock of old "Blory". Four who rode the ride, their time not yet come, jumped as the hand pump car crossed the last rail tie. Landing in thick black berry brush and other such stuff, all beat old number oh, oh nine by just a breath's rush!

 

I heard this tale told many a time, but I cant recall just now who all stayed to ride the way, but you can tell with careful read two who did live to work another day. Yup, this was some ride Billy Boy had! Dont think he ever told me of another quite so bold.

 

I always stop, look, and think about that time whenever I journey to the Yquina Bay there where the massive north jetty protects the harbor...three good men died, but four survived working to calm these mighty waves...the seventh always the larger. Billy Boy taught me that and he was usually right.

T.Condon, Sept.'98