Angels Along the River

As Gordon’s truck pulled to a stop at an isolated intersection, Debbie, Phyllis, and I climbed out. Again, Gordon reminded us of the dangers from vehicles and described the mangled bodies he’d picked up along this stretch of road. Casually, and softly sarcastic, he mentioned that he’d really rather not be called out to scrape us off the pavement. While waving good-bye, his last words were: “I really think you’d be better off down on the railroad tracks. There are trains, but I’d feel better if you were not on this road.” There was not a doubt in my mind that walking the railroad tracks was the thing to do. However, Debbie frowned.

She was unhappy. You don’t spend two-and-a-half weeks, 24 hours a day, in someone’s company without becoming aware of their moods. I tried reasoning. “We’ve come through pretty well listening to local experts. He’s the local EMS director. He knows this area. He knows what’s best. If we wait until the fog clears, it might be noon. We have to cover twenty miles today. We can’t wait.” Debbie fell in behind Phyllis and me as we walked down the middle of the railroad tracks, but her dejected countenance and silence left no doubt that she was not convinced.

An eight-foot embankment and a “keep-the-riffraff-out” fence separated the railroad from the road. We knew the road was only a few yards above us, by the sounds of speeding cars and roaring trucks that floated down. But a solid, engulfing, gray wall was all we saw.

After walking only a few yards, Debbie began acting totally out of character. Like a spoiled two-year old, she hung back, dragged her feet, kicked at stones, and pouted. “I don’t like these railroad tracks. I don’t want to walk on these railroad tracks.” Again I tried reasoning. “Gordon is the local expert. He said it is best. It’s only until the fog lifts.” It didn’t work. She became sullen, and silent, and dropped further behind.

We’d walked maybe a block when, at a break in the fence, Debbie suddenly charged past me. Through the fence and up the embankment she flung angry words at me, “I don’t like these railroad tracks! I don’t want to walk on these railroad tracks! I’m taking my chances with the cars!”

My stomach sank. This person I’d grown to love as a companion, buddy, and dear friend was putting herself in grave danger. Pleadingly, I called after her, “Gordon is the local expert. He said the tracks are safer. We should listen to him.” Her back disappeared into the fog.

Now the dilemma was on my back. Debbie and I had spent 18 days as hiking companions. Healing broken blisters and strained muscles, sharing laughter and food, and searching for safe routes. We were never separated. My first inclination was to go after her and leave Phyllis to walk the tracks by herself, for it was obvious that Phyllis was as determined to not walk on the road as Debbie was to not walk on the tracks.

Phyllis was strong willed, but not a strong hiker. The day before she’d walked only a short way and she made it clear that her preference was to walk the railroad alone, rather than join Debbie and me on the “path.”

Whether Phyllis was frustrated, disappointed, unhappy with me or The Walk, or something else, I couldn’t tell. But as leader, I felt it was my job to help her feel comfortable and part of the experience, and also to have fun the way Brenda and Patti had.

Conversation with me seemed difficult for Phyllis. I wondered if it was because Debbie and I were so close, that Phyllis somehow felt left out. (Brenda and Patti hadn’t had a problem with me, but this was a different individual.) Perhaps if I stayed on the tracks and it was just the two of us, Phyllis would relax. If we got to know each other, perhaps the invisible strain would melt away. So, feeling as though something were being torn out of my gut, I stayed with Phyllis and watched Debbie walk away. Then I set to work to engage Phyllis in conversation. I asked about her job as a grade-school teacher (she was having personality problems with her principal) and her training for this hike (a weekly Jazzercise class.)

Meanwhile up on the road, Debbie intended to hike speedily ahead to the first road/railroad crossing. She planned to sit down, have a cigarette, and wait for us. (Because railroad ties have such awkward spacing, railroad walking tends to be slow and laborious. You can always walk faster on the road.) However, every time Debbie glanced back, there we were, faint figures walking just below her. She was frustrated and could not understand why she could not outwalk us.

After a few minutes, Debbie again looked back. This time she saw Phyllis and me walking, side by side, down the center of the tracks, talking amiably, the way people do when they don’t have a care in the world, while silently bearing down on us, came the single headlight of an oncoming train. Debbie screamed at the top of her voice, “Train! Train! Train!”

Down on the tracks, I heard one faint word drifting through the fog, “t r a i n.” Looking up, I saw Debbie’s wild face mouthing words and jabbing her walking stick in the air. I looked ahead. Nothing. Looking behind, a huge, silent beast with a glowing white eye was almost on top of us.

I shouted one word at Phyllis, “TRAIN!” Then, with every ounce of strength in my body, I made one giant leap, hit the near vertical embankment, and the train thundered past. I clutched at tiny blades of grass in a desperate attempt to hold myself close to the vibrating ground and away from the roaring, pulling force. My only thoughts were, “Hang on. Hold tight. And, grass, please, please don’t break.”