Shit. It was a damn good thing that we'd remembered the radio channel for Canadian Pacific, otherwise we would've been screwed. The voice of the conductor crippled our excitement, battering it down into a frenzy of hyped emotion. We had to get off before we pulled into the train yard for refueling, lest the refueler check the unit that we were camped out in and blow our cover.
The only problem with this was that the train was still ripping down the tracks, each second bringing us closer to inevitable incarceration.
We gaped at the speedometer until it reached 11mp/h steady. Once we realized that it wasn't going to slow down any more, we hoisted our bags on, hustled down the steps of the unit, and tore open the back door.
Debilitating anxiety crashed over all of us in an instant. We closed the door just as soon as we opened it because we realized we were staring into the eyes of a railway worker, standing on the tracks. We crouched back down, waited a few minutes until we were sure he was out of sight, then peeked back out. We were good, now - it was just us, the tracks, and a fuckload of bushes on either side. We didn't seem too terribly close to civilization, or a fueling station, but we sure didn't want to take the risk.
A train always seems to be going too fast before you hop off. Hanging from the railing of the unit, I reconsidered for only a second as I tried to pick out a single rock on the blurred terrain flying by beneath me. There was no such luck; but there was no other choice.
First off was Fernweh. With nothing near a majestic step, he flailed himself from the train, dropping the two didgeridoos and biffing shit onto the rocks. Next up was Scrib, who disappeared in a flash. When I saw him from a distance, he was realigning himself with an awkward looking barrel roll in an attempt to get back onto his feet. Aids took the third jump, hanging from the handrail facing the wrong direction. She jumped against the direction of the train, and I watched her hit the rocks hard, flipping herself over and landing on her backpack (probably saving herself from a concussion.)
Curious as to why the fuck none of them took their backpacks off before they jumped (and concerned more for the safety of my guitar than any cuts, bruises, or limbs I might lose,) I tossed my bag off along with a prayer for the safety of the bottle of whiskey within. I hung off the rail, running alongside the train for a moment, holding onto it as if it were an old companion supporting me for dear life, before I let go and came to a stop.
The others were brushing off their wounds as I made my way up, and as we regrouped, we hustled off into a dry marsh to hide from any potential railworkers.
The first order of business was to check on the 60 pounder. I tore open my backpack, threw my sleeping bag from within, and pulled out the glass bottle. It was fine! I held it to my chest as if it were an gleaming, glass infant saved from a miscarriage.
We took a celebratory round of 9 AM shots before we stumbled around in the marsh for a while, trying to figure out how the fuck to get back to the highway. Eventually, we ended up trailing back along the traintracks, surreptitious in ensuring that the bushes shielded us from any potential workers.
Eventually, we wound up at some rustic road, dotted with a few trailers and horses alongside what was supposed to be a sidewalk. We walked for a few minutes before we heard a truck rumbling behind us, and we all turned around and stuck out our thumbs. Might as well give it a try, eh?
Just as we didn't expect, the truck pulled over beside us. The driver beckoned us in, asked us what the hell we were doing so far out here, and then drove us the few miles into Golden. Once we'd arrived, we began to formulate our plan for escape.
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