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Suicide Run
By Mark McLaughlin
“A storm in the Sierra means toil
and danger to hundreds of poor fellows. The engineers and
firemen, the conductors and brakemen, the operators, train
dispatchers, foremen and superintendents all have multiplied
toil and exposure. The warfare between these men and the
elements is worthy of being better understood. It is a warfare
wherein brain and muscle are arrayed against cold, darkness and
avalanches, against death in a thousand forms.” So wrote Charles
McGlashan for the Truckee Republican newspaper,
whose legs were still shaking after his hair-raising ride on top
of a snowplow during a mid-winter blizzard in January 1880.
One hundred and twenty five years
later, Union Pacific’s modern snow removal equipment is highly
effective and state-of –the-art, but little else has changed
when it comes to battling a wintry tempest on “the hill.” When
the Storm King assaults the Sierra with relentless snowfall, an
army of trained men and women go to war for hours, days or
weeks, until the battle for control is won.
Construction of the nation’s first
transcontinental railroad line over storm-wracked Donner Pass in
 the late 1860s put the responsibility for maintaining train
traffic through the mountains squarely on the burly shoulders of
those grizzled 19th century railroad men. These
heroes of the iron rails were true frontiersmen and
extraordinary feats that would break ordinary men were their
daily bread and butter.
In the heat of summer they battled
forest fires or smokestack sparks that often threatened to burn
down the extensive wooden snow sheds that protected the track
for 40 miles. In the frigid winter months they fought avalanches
and shifting drifts with every weapon in their arsenal. Much of
Central Pacific’s line over the Sierra was tough to keep clear,
but the stretch of track in the heavy snow belt between Truckee
and Blue Canyon is the worst on the line. In the early days, the
only way to remove the snow was with a wedged-shaped snowplow.
The editors of Thompson & West’s “History
of Nevada County” describe an early snow removal effort: “In
1874, one of the most daring feats of snowplowing was
successfully accomplished between Emigrant Gap and Blue Cañon.
While the plow, propelled by five engines was within [almost
three] miles of Blue Cañon, the four rear engines ran off the
tracks, as did also the tender of the forward locomotive No. 75.
It was storming at a fearful rate and snow lay on the track to
the depth of from two to three feet. No help could be expected
from the passenger engines at Blue Cañon to pull the ditched
engines on the track again, unless the snowplow could be forced
through first to clear the track. The only ray of hope to
speedily raise the blockade was to get the tender of locomotive
No. 75 on the rails again and use the full power of the single
engine to make an opening to Blue Cañon in order to get the
assistance of three passenger engines.”
Although this determined railroad
crew was anxious to tap the locomotive power of the nearby
passenger train engines being held up by the snow blockade, it
was common practice for ticket-holding passengers to be
conscripted into hand-shoveling the snow. Despite being totally
unprepared for the arduous job of digging heavy snow in the
rarefied air at upper elevations, adult men and older teenage
boys had no choice but to help dig out the derailed equipment.
Fortunately for the poor passengers caught in this serious
blockade, they weren’t “asked” to lend a hand.
The story from 1874 continues: “By
dint of almost superhuman exertions and a crew of nearly 100
men, Nate Webb, superintendent of the snowplow department, soon
had the unlucky tender on the rails again. [Cranes were not
available — derailed locomotives and railroad cars were lifted
back on the tracks with human muscle and sweat, crowbars and
hand jacks.] Steam on the engine had been nursed up in the
meantime, until the pressure indicated 130 pounds to the square
inch. When all was ready for the trial, Webb told engineer
Thomas Forsythe that he must make Blue Cañon or land his
snowplow, engine and tender at the bottom of the American River
cañon. The throttle valve was thrown wide open, and the engine
and 40-ton plow in front shot forward on the steep downgrade as
if impelled by gunpowder. Fortunately, immediately in front of
the plow for 100 yards or so the track was comparatively free
from snow, and the
 locomotive was under considerable headway
when it struck the first drifts.”
Railroad men called a job like
this a suicide run because ramming a snow bank was like hitting
a stone wall; they were never sure they would survive the
impact. Imagine bracing yourself inside the locomotive’s cab in
preparation for smashing into a pile of snow at 45 miles per
hour. Because snow thrown over the plow frequently broke the
windshield of the lead locomotive, planks of wood were placed in
front of the glass for protection. It effectively “blinded” the
engineers and they could not see when they would hit the
obstruction of snow.
“On it flew with irresistible
force at a rate of nearly a mile a minute, dashing the snow
fifty feet in the air as if it had been the lightest spray.
Around the steep curves it circled and swept with a full head of
steam and crowded to its utmost speed. Superintendent Webb had
telegraphed the Blue Cañon station in advance to have the switch
turned so to throw the plow on a side track, and thus avoid a
collision with the passenger trains.”
Superintendent Webb was lucky that
the telegraph wire was still intact. During severe Sierra
snowstorms, this vital communication link between stations was
often one of the first casualties from falling trees or
avalanches. “The result of the trial was watched by the force of
men who remained with the ditched engines and by the stranded
passengers who were advised as to the dangerous situation. All
seemed to understand the extreme peril of the ride and that if
the engine or snowplow jumped the track, certain death at the
bottom of a cañon awaited the daring men on board. In just three
minutes from the time Forsythe received the command to ‘Go!’ a
dispatch came back to Webb — ‘No. 75 has arrived all right!’”
By racing nearly three miles in
three minutes, Engineer Forsythe had averaged 60 mph in his mad
dash along the snow-covered cliffs high above the American River
— no job for the weak-hearted.
“Webb communicated the glad
tidings to his men, and all united in three rousing cheers for
Forsythe and the daring feat he had accomplished. The enthusiasm
of the moment was so catching, that even the 75 stolid Mongolian
laborers present mingled their shrill yells in the general
chorus of cheers. Walter Robb, during that lightning ride of
three minutes, was at his post on the high platform of the
snowplow. But it made little difference where a man rode on that
train. It was certain death in front or rear in case of
accident.”
Another notable suicide run
occurred along the snow-covered track between Truckee and Reno
in late January 1890. This spectacular train route runs through
the Truckee River Canyon, a section that includes steep
embankments and hairpin turns. The railroad men of the Truckee
Division were anxious to get this section of track cleared after
a two week long blockade on the line.
Charlie Garcia, chief engineer of
the Truckee Division, was chosen to supervise the run. He
carefully hitched up eight locomotives behind a massive 19-ton
plow known as “Bucker #9.” Garcia and his firemen then climbed
aboard the first engine and stoked-up the boiler pressure. From
their perch high in the cab, the men could see the miles of
shifting snowdrifts that loomed before them. Garcia backed up
the string of locomotives about half a mile and then barreled
into the first drift at 40 miles per hour. The plow’s
iron-sheathed wedge penetrated the frozen white wall with
tremendous force, but huge chunks of snow shattered the glass
windshield and poured into the lead engine cab. The thick wall
of snow stopped the train dead and pinned Garcia and his fireman
helplessly to the rear firewall.
Chief Garcia could not reach the
reverse lever so he gave a long pull on the brake whistle and
waited for the other engineers to cut their power and back up.
But Garcia underestimated the enthusiasm his men had to make
this death-defying run. Long-time conductor “Old Blaney” was in
command of the second engine. Blaney laughed when he saw his
boss frozen to the wall and shouted, “Garcia has got his cab
window smashed and he’s squealing for brakes; let’s give him
hell!” He backed the train up again and then shoved the throttle
forward.
 Blaney ordered the train to full
speed, which sent them careening recklessly down the steep
Truckee River Canyon. The train’s shrill whistle pierced the air
in dire warning as Bucker #9 shredded through the snowdrifts.
With Blaney at the helm, they blasted the 35 miles to Reno in a
record time of 67 minutes. The townspeople of Reno ran cheering
to the snow-streaked train, ready to welcome the brave railroad
men who had broken the blockade. But “Old Blaney” had no time to
receive kisses and praise. He was last seen running for his life
in the other direction, chased by his frozen boss Garcia, who
was ready to give Blaney his own version of hell.
Mark McLaughlin’s award-winning
books, “Western Train Adventures” and “Sierra Stories: True
Tales of Tahoe, Vol. 1 & 2” are available at local bookstores or
at his website:
www.thestormking.com .
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