Rails and Rocks
What else is there to do in the early morning except catch a freight train in the mountains?
On Dec. 19, 2022, an eastbound train descends from the Cascades alongside snow-choked Nason Creek on the east side of Stevens Pass.
Story & photos by Ben Stainbook
The early bird gets the worm, as they say. In this case, the worm is a 17,000-ton freight train battling a steep uphill grade deep in the Cascade Mountains. It’s late May, and I’m driving east on Highway 2 toward Stevens Pass. Having awoken at 5 a.m., the day so far has been a blur, and my friend Nate riding shotgun has already fallen back asleep. I always think of what my high school jazz director would say during our 6 a.m. rehearsals, “You can sleep when you’re dead.”
The Great Northern Railroad completed the Stevens Pass line in 1893, beating the last major obstacle on the journey west from St. Paul, Minnesota., to Seattle. In 1910, a massive avalanche crashed into two trapped trains and the small town of Wellington, killing about 100 people. One of the worst rail disasters in U.S. history would lead to the creation of a new 7.8-mile-long Cascade tunnel. Completed in 1929, it is the longest in the U.S. Stevens Pass is a legendary piece in railroad history. I always wonder what it was like during its heyday, back when the railroad was the sole means of transportation across state and country. For some, it’s an integral part of family history.
“My grandma, my uncle, and my grandpa traveled that same route 70 or something years ago, when they came over from Germany after World War II,” my friend Nathaniel Nagel told me. “I can go to those tracks and think about that. My family was at this exact spot 70-something years ago.”
My friends and I consider it our backyard. A typical day in the mountains for us starts early with the morning Z-Train carrying high-priority mail from Seattle to Chicago. It’s a reliable eastbound catch and is usually east of Everett by 6 a.m. We follow it over the pass to the east side of the mountains, or until it meets westbound Amtrak #7 the Empire Builder, unless we decide to hike in on the west side like this particular day.
The Z is running late, so we head for Bonneville Cut on the western slope. It’s a massive rock cut in the middle of the 2.2% climb, the steepest section for eastbound trains. I pull off the highway and wake Nate. As I grab my camera bag and tripod, Peyton and David hop out and start walking up the mountain toward the cut. It’s about a 20-minute hike from the highway to the tracks at this spot, and once we’re there, we’ll be cut off from cell service. Knowing this, I check the train’s location before heading up. It’s in Gold Bar, about an hour away — we’ve got plenty of time.
The hike is easygoing, as long as there’s no snow on the ground. Every so often, a break in the trees reveals a glimpse of the mountains extending to the north. At the top, it’s eerily quiet; the only sound is our boots crunching the ballast. The noise echoes off the rock walls growing higher and higher the farther we get into the cut. I find my spot, pull out a box of Mike and Ike candies, and wait.
Fifteen minutes, 30 minutes. I see a Steller’s Jay float down toward the rail. It sits long enough for me to snap a couple of photos before flying toward the top of the cut. An hour, hour and 15 minutes. I pick up a rock and throw it into the cut, missing the rail so it splats onto the ballast. I throw another, and this one hits, creating a ringing throughout the cut. The sun starts to peek over the evergreens into the cut, so I recheck my angle, pushing my f-stop up a couple of notches. Hour and 30 minutes. Do I actually have service? Yes, but nothing is loading. I’m instantly disappointed in myself for trying. Can’t I just enjoy being in nature without my phone? I know the train is coming so why do I have to check? I constantly have moments like this, not just here. All the time I’m checking. It’s a problem, honestly. Hour and wait…
I start to hear it, or at least I think so. It’s hard to tell if I’m hearing the muffled sound of passing trucks on the highway or the rhythmic rumble of General Electric locomotives. My scanner chirps, “BNSF Detector, Milepost 1728.2,” confirming that it’s the train, but they’re still a good five to 10 minutes away.
This is my favorite part of it all, the anticipation. The sound gets louder and louder, echoing off the distant mountains. Soon enough, it’s right there. The sound is deafening, but luckily I have my earbuds for protection. They muffle the sound, but not enough to take away from its ferocity. I hold down the shutter, firing off 10 shots back to back. I wave to the conductor and receive a wave back. The ground is shaking viciously, and smoke billows from the locomotives. The intense diesel smell envelopes the surrounding environment. I place a hand on my tripod, for fear of my video camera tumbling down into the cut and getting obliterated by the train.
After a couple of minutes, it’s over. After about an hour and a half of waiting, I got a five-second window for the shot, and just like that, it’s done. I take out my earbuds and listen to the GEs continue battling the mountain. I check my phone, the clock reads 9 a.m. Really? I’ve only been up for four hours? It feels like I’ve lived a full day already, and we still have 10 hours until sunset.
After an hour of waiting, an eastbound train finally heads up the mountain, crossing the frozen Foss River Bridge just east of Skykomish, Wash., on Dec. 19, 2022.