#Cajon Pass

[20th-century-railroading]

FlanaryRon-ATSF WB-below Summit-CajonPassCA-7-14-92 by Ron Flanary

[collinthenychudson]

It had been five years since the Cajon Pass Runaway of May 12th, 1989. Many people have feared if another train would spiral out of control again while descending down the steep grade. Unfortunately, their fears would end up becoming a reality.

In the early morning hours of December 14th 1994, Union Pacific coal train CUWLA-10 had descended Cajon Pass and was tied down at Milepost 61.55 at a red signal while waiting for another train to clear the line. Three locomotives were pulling the train while two additional locomotives were at the end as helpers. The lead locomotive was C41-8W No. 9450 while the two helper locomotives were SD40-2s No. 3341 and 3354.

Meanwhile, Santa Fe intermodal train PBHLA1-10 was proceeding onward through Cajon Pass on the same line. The train was being pulled by B40-8W No. 576, FP45 No. 96, F45 No. 5976, and GP60M No. 144. Things seemed as if they would carry on as usual, but that wouldn't be the case however.

As the UP coal train sat idling at MP 61.55, the crew recieves a message on the radio from the Santa Fe crew that makes their blood run cold.

ATSF PBHLA1-10: "Come in UP helpers, come in UP helpers!"

Cajon Dispatcher: "Santa Fe Cajon Dispater to Santa Fe 576, over."

ATSF PBHLA1-10: "UP helpers, get off your train! Helpers, get off your train, you got a train coming your way!"

Cajon Dispatcher: "Santa Fe Cajon Dispater to Santa Fe 576, over!"

ATSF PBHLA1-10: "576 west!"

Cajon Dispatcher: "Are you the one that is in emergency? Over."

ATSF PBHLA1-10: "Yes, we are!"

Cajon Dispatcher: "What is your speed now? Over."

ATSF PBHLA1-10: "40, 40, 50!"

The brakes of the Santa Fe train were malfunctioning as it goes through the pass, not even its emergency brakes are being of much use either. The Santa Fe engineer contacts the dispatcher to order the UP train to go past the red signal and get out of the way of the speeding ATSF train.

UP CUWLA-10: "We're coming on out. Let us get some speed! Let's go!"

The Union Pacific engineer on the head end radios the crew of the helpers about the Santa Fe Train barreling towards them.

UP CUWLA-10: "Coal train helpers, get off the power! GET OFF THE POWER! Coal train is in emergency at Cajon!"

The helper crew got off and got away from the helper locomotives, there was no time to avoid the runaway Santa Fe Intermodal. The crew of the Santa Fe train jumped off the locomotives about 1500ft from the UP coal train, and then it happened.

UP CUWLA-10: "EMERGENCY, THERE'S A BIG BALL OF FIRE!"

Cajon Dispatcher: "Go ahead, over."

UP CUWLA-10: "GET AN EMERGENCY PERSON, AS SOON AS YOU CAN! THEY JUST HIT THE REAR END OF THIS TRAIN!"

Cajon Dispatcher: "Is this the head end of 9450?"

UP CUWLA-10: "IT'S THE HEAD END OF '50, AND WE SEE A BALL OF FIRE! GET SOME EMERGENCY PERSONEL OUT HERE!"

Cajon Dispatcher: "Ok, we have emergency on the way now."

The Santa Fe intermodal train slammed into the back of the Union Pacific coal train at 5:12 AM. The two UP helpers were buried in the dirt while fuel from the Santa Fe locomotives burned into a huge raging fire, both the wreckage and the flames were seen from a portion of I-15 about 18 miles North of San Bernardino.

The UP helper crew were uninjured while the Santa Fe crew recieved minor injuries from jumping off their train but had otherwise survived. At 5:56 AM, emergency crews arrived in five fire trucks at the scene after recieving word from the dispatcher. The fire would eventually be brought into control several hours later.

After investigating, the NTSB (NTSB = National Transpotation Safety Board) concluded that the train spiraled out of control due to blockage in the air hose used for triggering the brakes. Cars 4-8, 10, and 11 had their brakes functioning properly, but cars 5-7 had soft application while car 9 had defective brake shoes. Cars 12-14 had limited brakes and one leaking hose with cars 16-22 having limited braking power with some of the wheelsets not responding.

Cars 23-29 didn't respond at all due to their failure to keep air pressure, there fore the blockage was occuring somewhere in the middle of the train. The dynamic and emergency brakes were functioning on the Santa Fe locomotives, but without enough air for the entire train, it wouldn't be enough to slow the train down, let alone from preventing the wreck from happening.

All the Santa Fe Locomotives, the two UP helper locomotives, and three articulated five-pack double-stack container cars were scrapped due to irreparable damage. As for the head end locomotives of the UP coal train, including No. 9450, they were left undamaged. No. 9450 would continue to serve Union Pacific until it was eventually sold to GECX in the late 2010s.

It has been 30 years since this incident took place but one more runaway train incident would take place in Cajon Pass on February 1st, 1996.

Models and Route by: Jointed Rail, Auran and Download Station

[aryburn-trains]

The California Limited pauses at the summit of Cajon Pass in 1908.

[pcttrailsidereader]

I Thought It Would Never Happen

The spring of 2017 was the beginning of the end in terms of my quest to complete the PCT. I had recently left my teaching job, retiring after forty years in the classroom. My career had afforded me a fair amount of flexibility with summers pretty open to go after sections of the PCT with my long time hiking partners Jim ('Pierre') and Rees ('Boris'). The desert sections had alluded me since they were best attempted in the spring. Not an easy time to leave the classroom! With 're-wiring' the next phase of my life beginning to finish the PCT was at the top of my 'to do' list.

Of course I was nervous about my grand undertaking. This was THE DESERT! So many questions...could I do it? How hard was it going to be? How hot was it going to be? And the list went on and on in my head... mostly. Sometimes I would share my fears/anxieties with my family and friends. They were very reassuring. It really helped my psyche when Rees agreed to accompany me for part of my hike and another friend agreed to join me for a another stretch. I would, however, finish the hike between I-10 to Cajon Pass on my own.

I said goodbye to my wife as I caught a bus to Seattle so I could fly to San Diego where I was met by a couple I had known from college days. The next day Rees arrived and the day after that we headed out to Campo. I really couldn't believe I was finally doing this. Giddy is the word that comes to mind.

Rees had previously walked from Campo so he gave me an insider's edge. His prior experience shaped how we approached this new undertaking. Honestly that prior knowledge was extremely reassuring for me. As we prepared to launch ourselves from the southern terminus marker the imposing border wall stretched out behind us. It felt surreal to say the least. And with a hearty farewell to our friend Jack who got us there we were off. Wow!

The next few weeks left me with many profound memories and experiences I will always hold close. First of all the cherished time walking with Rees and my friend Billie were precious. The time by my self was scary at first and soon became inspiring not to mention very empowering. The trail was hard in places. The trail was hot in places too. My pack was heavy at times. The trail was my home away from home. I embraced it more and more the longer I was hiking.

Apple pie in Julian

My days started early and sleep times began before the darkness had fully enveloped my surroundings. I had some big mileage days, for me, walking in the high teens to even the low twenties a few times. When I arrived at Cajon my feelings were all over the place. I was elated, enthused for the future, and a little sad too. I knew I would be back next spring and that would leave a couple of pieces left to put in the puzzle that was my PCT experience. I put those last parts of the puzzle in place in 2019.

There were many times when I thought this would never happen. Going to the desert to hike the PCT...no way! Hiking those last 900 miles or so...I wasn't so sure. There were just too many 'what ifs'. In thinking about starting out in 2017 and revisiting those experiences reminds me of the staying power walking all or part of the Pacific Crest Trail can have on a person. Thinking something will happen is the first obstacle to get past. Believe it can happen and any obstacle will shrink in your shadow.

[rodpower78]

Santa Fe's Fast Mail Express exits a tunnel at Cajon Pass on February 27, 1967. Photo by William Mills.

[autotrails]

American Auto Trail-National Old Trails Road (Route 66) (Cajon Pass to San Bernardino CA)

American Auto Trail-National Old Trails Road (Route 66) (Cajon Pass to San Bernardino CA) https://youtu.be/ZPKGAy7CHfw This American auto trail explores Route 66, between Cajon and San Bernardino, California.

[eachadventure]

Riding Dual Sport Motorcycles Through the Cajon Pass... The FUN Way!

[rachel-blue]

May 7th, 2023.

I know the growth will dry out and disappear come fire season, but the California blooms this year have made for some pretty drives.

[vintagelasvegas]

“City of Las Vegas” Aerotrain arriving in Las Vegas on its inaugural run from Los Angeles, December 16, 1956

“The newly designed Aerotrain will arrive at Union Depot at 3:40 p.m. and will be greeted by city and county officials, the Rhythmettes and the high spirited Jaycees in a typical Las Vegas welcome … The daily shuttle service of the streamlined train is the result of two and a half years planning by Union Pacific executives, representatives of the resort hotels, and the chamber of commerce” - New Vegas Train Due, Review-Journal, 12/16/56

“It was popular with riders, partly because it offered a free buffet meal and bar service. The Aerotrain, among other inconveniences, was underpowered and required a GP7 helper locomotive over Cajon Pass. Union Pacific gave up its lease on the Aerotrain and replaced it with a conventional train in Sep. ‘57” - Union Pacific City of Las Vegas Aerotrain, Trainweb.com

Photo: Junior League of Las Vegas Collection (PH-00097), UNLV Special Collections

[20th-century-railroading]

Late afternoon in the summer of 1981, and Union Pacific SD40-2's 3806, 3720, and 3675 lead a westbound train of trailers on flatcars down from Cajon Pass toward their destination in the Los Angeles basin.

[collinthenychudson]

"Mayday! Mayday! 7551, West Colton-AGYM Saugus Dispatcher, we're doing 90 miles per hour' nine zero, out of control, won't be able to stop till we hit Colton!" - Lawrence Hill

On May 11th, 1989 at Mojave California, a three-man train crew was called into duty at 9:00 PM. The crew consisted of 33 year old engineer Frank Holland, 35 year old conductor Everett Crown, and 43 year old brakeman Allan Riess. Their assignment is to take Southern Pacific train MJLBP-11, better known as 7551 East, through Cajon Pass to West Colton Yard in Bloomington, California.

The train was to be originally powered by three locomotives at the front, two SD45Rs No. 7551 and 7549 as well as SD45T-2 No. 9340. However, No. 7551 was dead and couldn't be started with no explanation why, let alone if the said locomotive could be fixed. As a result, SD40T-2 No. 8278 would be selected as the lead locomotive although the train would still be called 7551 East. Behind the four locomotives were 69 100-ton hopper cars loaded with Trona.

Due to concerns with the three operable locomotives being overwhelmed on Cajon Pass, it was decided that the train would meet up with two helper locomotives at Oban, California. Those locomotives were SD40T-2 No. 8713 and SD45R No. 7443 which were being operated by 42 year old engineer Lawrence Hill and 57 year old brakeman Robert Waterbury. The paperwork suggested that the train was to have five operable locomotives (three on the front, two on the back), 69 loads, 0 empties, and an estimated weight of 6,151 tons. But in reality, the weight was actually 8,900 tons, 2,749 tons heavier than assumed.

With the crew onboard 7551 East with Frank and Everett in the cab of 8278 and Allan in the cab of 7549, the train departed Mojave on May 12th at 12:15 AM. After arriving at Oban at 1:30 AM, the train meets up with the helpers after they were decoupled from a northbound train they were assisting up the hill. Lawrence and Robert were unaware of the train's weight or what it was carrying, but they didn't bother asking the crew nor the dispatcher at the same time for they'd be helping the train through Cajon Pass. Sometime after 7:00 AM, the train begins the descent while the crew utilizes both air brakes and dynamic brakes to slow the train down.

The brakes keep the train cruising at 25 miles per hour, but things would then take a turn for the worse. The dynamic brakes on all of the locomotives, except 8278 and 7443, weren't working. As a result, the train begins to gradually speed up. The helper crew set the brakes into emergency stop which did work, but only for a short amount of time.

Second by second, 7551 East continues to accelerate and thunders down the pass while the crew alerts the West Colton Yard Dispatcher that their train was spiraling out of control. Although the speedometer read 90 miles per hour, that was as far as it could go for the train was actually going much faster at 110 miles per hour. But things were going to get even worse from that point onward.

At the bottom of the grade was a neighborhood at Duffy Street sitting next to a curve in San Bernardino, California where 7551 East was supposed to pass by. As the train got closer and closer to the curve, everything happened all at once. At 7:36 AM, the train tumbled off the tracks and slammed into several houses.

Out of all of those involved in the derailment, four had been killed. Everett Crown and Allan Riess were crushed to death in the locomotives they were in while two children were also crushed and asphyxiated when the train tumbled into one of the houses, those being 10 year old Jason Thompson and 7 year old Tyson White. The four locomotives at the front and all the 69 hoppers were destroyed and scrapped while the two helper locomotives at the back only had minor damages, some parts of the lead locomotives would be sold off to Precision National. Day by day and night by night, rescuers searched for survivors while employees of the nearby Southern California Gas Company also helped by shutting off gas to the houses that were destroyed in the crash though there were no sparks or fires from any of the houses.

Unfortunately, this nightmare wasn’t over. Located between the railroad line and the houses buried six feet underground was the Calnev Pipeline that stretched between Los Angeles and Las Vegas. The pipe was left unharmed when the train crashed and was started back up again as rich snobs claimed that serving Las Vegas was worth more than everything in San Bernardino. But while the pipe wasn’t damaged by the train crash of course, it had been ruptured by earth-moving equipment during the cleanup of the Trona and then on May 25th, 13 days after the train crash, gas from the pipe leaked until igniting into a huge wall of fire.

It was revealed that the pipeline operators were unable to halt the flow of the gas because defective stop-and-check valves had prevented them from doing so, even before the train derailed. Because of that, the pipeline would continue to further intensify the fire. After several hours, firefighters managed to extinguish the raging flames.

As a result, two people were killed as well as 11 houses and 21 cars that had been destroyed. Five of these houses were directly across the street from the houses that were destroyed in the derailment while another was the only house on the track side of the street that was left unharmed from the derailment. In total, the cost of the property damage was $14.3 million ($36,018,932.26 in 2024 currency), most of the damage though was from the fire while the train crash was deadlier.

This is dedicated to the victims, survivors, rescuers, witnesses, and even their families, especially their mothers since today is Mother's Day.

We will never forget what happened on both May 12th and May 25th...

Models and Route by: Jointed Rail, Auran, and Download Station

[punprincess321]

So... why didn't Bruce just lobby for Joker to get executed? Like you’re telling me this man doesn't have the cajones to kill the man that killed his son (he couldn't because Joker had diplomatic immunity but in recent years he just subscribed to "I'd be as bad as him if i did") but he couldn’t just... I don't know... USE HIS VAST WEALTH AND INFLUENCE TO GET HIM A SEAT IN THE ELECTRIC CHAIR!? Like if you're not gonna do it yourself, I get it, Batman should not be seen killing, but Bruce Wayne can absolutely be seen lobbying for Gotham's judicial system to give Joker the death penalty. Joker has never ONCE shown signs of improvement unlike the rest of the rogues gallery, he is fully aware of what he is doing, yes he's insane but he legit takes pleasure in the chaos he creates, there's no saving that, at this point he doesn’t even deserve the chair, he deserves to be held down and have a car battery clamped to his nipples. This fight between batman and joker doesn't end until one of them is dead and joker legit went to work at the DMV after batman died, there’s no saving joker while batman is alive.

"But he could break out with the help of his goons!" Bruce could use his wealth to pay them all off, every petty criminal and goon for hire gets a nice cash gift if they turn joker down, get lawyers that Joker threatened top notch security, HE HAS THE JUSTICE LEAGUE ON SPEED DIAL! If Joker was getting executed, Bruce would absolutely get Clark and Diana to personally escort the clown to the exection room, both are wearing heavily armored gasproof suits so he doesn't try anything funny with joker venom or kryptonite or anything else.

"What about Harley?"

Do this when she is in a 100% hates joker mood, keep her with Ivy and her doctors and more security, I say flash because he's a nice guy who wouldn't taunt her and rile her up to save joker. Don't let the path to the execution room go by where she is, one look and she could be back under his spell.

"Oh in this comic they tried to execute him and it failed" okay I wanna see that and tell me where it went wrong, and if killing him STILL doesn't work, then make LIFE hell for him. If killing joker still doesn't work here's my pitch for what to do with him:

Lock him away from everyone, lock him in a secure painfully beige house, he eats nothing with color just potatoes, well done steak, eggs, onions, milk, water, bread, and beans, his only utensil is his hands, no paper, no glass, no plastic, no metal, nothing to be used as a weapon, he just gets food put straight onto the table and he eats it with his hands, he has to drink using those fancy water bombs made with seaweed. Every product he has access to is 100% natural, no chemicals he can use to make his laughing gas to poison the guards, all he gets to watch is the news and documentaries about stuff like how taxes were thought up or who invented sliced bread. He speaks to no one, no phone calls or human interaction, his only entertainment is tv which he can only watch through a window of 12 inch thick glass and the speakers can't be reached to mess with, all chairs and tables are built into the floor. The house receives routine maintenance to make sure nothing is loose or messed with, he's knocked out for each inspection with a lot of knockout gas, all security cameras are hidden so he doesn'tfeel the satisfaction of knowing people are watching him. He doesn't get to see batman either, his one reason to live is messing with batman and he doesn't get to do that. Everyone is just hoping he gets depressed and drowns himself in the bathtub.

Like I am seriously wanting one of these to happen, either Bruce walks up to Jason with passes to watch the execution or hands him security footage of joker crying in his boring cell as a birthday present and a big apology for not handling this asshole in so long.

AND FOR ALL YOU THAT WILL SAY "You can't permanently off the most popular batman villain!" I DIDN'T SAY THIS WAS PERMANENT! I WOULD JUST LIKE TO SEE THAT THERE IS A UNIVERSE WHERE BRUCE MADE UP WITH JASON BY GETTING RID OF THE JOKER AND NO CONSEQUENCES! And don't say "he did it for superman to prevent the injustice timeline once" that ain't what I'm talking about, I'm saying he does this for JASON. HIS SON.

I'm taking this shit seriously if you can't tell. If you want to add something I missed in either plan go ahead, I am basically wait for the day I get sucked into the DC universe and I can tell all this straight to Bruce's face and I need it perfect.

[aryburn-trains]

Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway Company's California Limited, Cajon Pass, California

This photograph shows the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railway Company's California Limited at Cajon Pass, California. Train No 4 is eastbound and is rounding the curve. The train is powered by a steam locomotive. Cajon Pass was in the 1st District Los Angeles Division.

Date: 1930

[pcttrailsidereader]

Seven Summers

I have only cramped up one time in all of my hiking years . . . I'm not sure about Howard. But, we were both humbled on the long climb out of Cajon Pass at just about the same time. After the first exposed climb from Cajon to Swarthout Canyon (home of the San Andreas Fault) you begin the long, endless ascent into the San Gabriels. About half way up nearing the end of the day, we both began cramping. It started with our calf muscles and seemed to progress until it felt that our entire bodies were quivering. We ended up camping about two thirds of the way up the total climb. (We did wake to the most amazing sunrise.)

I could sympathize with Glenn's agony in this excerpt from Bob Welch's delightful book about the PCT. See my review of the book (July 23, 2023 post -- https://pcttrailsidereader.com/post/723701985617018880/seven-summers-by-bob-welch). Well, the book is available now and well worth the read.

This excerpt gives you a good sense of the book and Bob Welch's gift for telling a good story well. RH

BY SPRING 2021, COVID having abated and vaccines now in use, Glenn and I finalized plans for what we had hoped to hike in 2020, with one exception. Because of the virus, Canada was not allowing hikers through at Manning Park, so once we reached the border we would have to backtrack thirty-one miles to exit the PCT east at Harts Pass in Washington.

We would do that in August as our grand finale. For now, our bigger concern was the hot, dry desert stretch northeast of LA, starting in June: Cajon Pass to Crabtree Meadow, with a side trip up Mount Whitney.

“Some hikers consider (the climb out of Cajon) the most arduous in southern California,” said The Pacific Crest Trail.

I asked Geoff for advice. He wrote:

Leave Cajon Pass as early as possible; don’t plan on any water until Wrightwood. Whatever you do, do not take the Acorn Trail down to Wrightwood. Be very careful about water planning from Tehachapi to Walker Pass. Don’t plan on water at Joshua Tree Springs. It’s radioactive. The first crossing at Spanish Needle Creek will be dry (milepost 669). Second crossing will be dry (669.5). But walk up the drainage forty to sixty yards and you will find a leaf spout. Do not plan on water caches being stocked. I carried six to seven liters at times.

“This sounds every bit as tough as the books make it sound,” I told him.

“It’s beautiful country,” said Geoff. “I liked the desert. But it’s brutal. Hot. Steep. Sandy. And hardly any water.”

Rob Widmer, who I’d met in 2011 when he and his wife, Barbara, turned around rather than face Devils Peak, had hiked this stretch.[1] “Watch out for the wind on Tehachapi Pass,” he wrote. “One night I couldn’t even get my tent secured in the ground.”

To better understand this segment, I contacted a hiker-friendly guy in Wrightwood, Luis “Lou” Mena, whose email address I’d found on the PCT’s Facebook page. He was invaluable in helping us understand what we were up against in this desert environment—a lot.

Ideally, we would have left earlier in the less-hot time of early spring, but I could not. I had a new book, Saving My Enemy, coming out April 27 and my publisher wanted me to commit to six weeks of radio interviews. Thus, Glenn and I had agreed on a June 14 departure, six weeks later than we’d originally planned.

I don’t know about Glenn, but, in retrospect, I was whistling in the dark. Not only were we starting late in the year, but in what history would remember as the hottest June in U.S. history. The entire West Coast was sizzling. “The event is unprecedented in its timing, intensity and scope,” said Washington State University climate scientist Deepti Singh.

At 1 P.M. June 14, 2021, with the temperature already ninety, Glenn and I made what would prove to be a critical mistake: instead of waiting for the relative cool of morning, we hit the trail at Cajon Pass for an afternoon climb that would take us from 3,000 to 8,250 feet in two days. We chose not to wait until the next morning to start because an afternoon leg would put us ahead of schedule and lessen the chances that we’d have to scramble at the end to make our pickup time. To be blunt, we were shortsighted.

Under the freeway and into the low scrub we hiked. The eight-lane Interstate 15 and heavy winds made me feel as if I were hiking into a giant blow dryer set on high: hot and noisy.

“Do not leave Cajon Pass without enough water to climb 5,000 feet and walk 22 miles,” Berger and Smith warned in their book. We took them seriously. Even though our phone apps suggested there was water available at a cache five miles up the desert trail, we didn’t assume that was a sure thing. In Oregon and Washington, we rarely took more than two liters of water on a stretch; on this day, we each took six—twelve pounds’ worth in each pack.

From the get-go, something seemed off with Glenn. On breaks, he’d curl up in the shade of the chaparral and go to sleep. He complained of the heat—not his nature. His disposition, I started to realize, mirrored that of opening day 2015, six years before, when our brother-in-law Greg had died while Glenn and I were hiking north from the Columbia River.

Then again, trail history had taught me that a good night’s sleep could do wonders to rejuvenate tired bodies. On many occasions, I could remember falling asleep while thinking I couldn’t walk another step—and hiking twenty-plus miles the next day. I was hoping that would be the case here.

Amid a sea of desert scrub, we ate, Glenn only sparingly. The warning signs were there, but I rationalized that he just needed rest; we’d been up since 3 A.M. to catch our flight from Portland. At 6 P.M Glenn hit the sack. On a wooden chair near the water cache, I sat in my boxers, popped open an umbrella for shade, and read a book. I was just about to turn in when I saw something unfamiliar in my pack—a small note of encouragement from Sally that melted my heart.

It was far more comforting thinking about her than about how we’d pitched our tents directly above the 700-mile-long San Andreas Fault, catalyst for a number of major earthquakes. Alas, our trip’s forthcoming tremor would not be rooted miles below the earth, but in the heat above.

“Hot but healthy,” I wrote in a wishful-thinking satellite message to Sally and Ann before turning in.

I then messaged Geoff, who, when he saw the pushpin of our location on the online map I sent him would know exactly where we were and what we were facing. “Camping near Swarthout Road,” I wrote. “90 degrees. Haven’t seen another hiker. Will wake at 2 A.M. and night-hike.”

“Well done,” he wrote back. “Good plan for tomorrow. Sleep well.”

COME MORNING, exactly what I hoped would happen did. Glenn rebooted. We climbed high out of Lone Pine/Swartout Canyon with good bounce to our steps. The sky transitioned from dark to light blue, tinted with the slightest swath of pink. I reveled in not being part of the thick I-15 traffic we could see heading to and from Las Vegas and marveled at how the locomotives rolling through Cajon Pass looked as if part of a miniature train setup.

Then, boom: In the time it took the toe of my left shoe to ram a shark-fin rock, I was flat on my face to the accompaniment of a loud “Aaaaarggggghhh!”

“Bobby, you OK?” Glenn asked.

I got to my knees, then to my feet. “Yeah, only hurt my pride.” My falling, it seemed, was beginning to be a thing.

On the PCT, I’d come to realize, you could hurt yourself in myriad ways: slipping, tripping, bushwhacking, crossing creeks, climbing rocks, getting blisters, getting stung, getting sunburned, getting water, descending loose-gravel trails, burning yourself on stoves, you name it. One hiker told me he strained his knee while crouching over a cat hole. In 2019, on Washington’s Stevens Pass, a German hiker died after being hit by a falling tree.

It was a game, really, of beating the odds. And so we pressed on, hoping to do just that. With seven uphill miles under our belts—the only kind available here—we lunched late morning beneath the shade of a rare stretch of pines. All was good. The vegetation had shifted from chaparral to evergreens; the occasional shade lifted our spirits. As we continued up, however, I noticed Glenn once again laboring. His usual upbeat nature waned. Never chatty, he grew eerily quiet.

About noon, without a word, he tossed his pack aside, laid down in the middle of the trail, rolled to his back, and fell asleep.

“Glenny?” I asked, repeating his question to me earlier. “You OK?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

“Drink some water. How are you really?”

“Fine.”

“You’re not fine. Quit playing John Wayne.”

Cognitively, he seemed to be slipping; how much, I wasn’t sure. Seemingly in slow motion, he rolled over, sat up, and pulled out his water bottle and took a few swigs.

“Take some more,” I said.

He took a few gulps. His long-sleeved shirt—don’t get me going about how he insisted on long, dark sleeves and long, dark pants, even on hot days like this—was saturated with sweat, his skin pale. With his gray brimmed hat flipped up in front, he looked like an 1849 miner, older than the sixty-eight he was.

“You OK to go?”

He nodded. We had come about ten miles and had ten to reach that night’s destination: Blue Ridge Campground. The plan was to get water in seven miles at a place high above the town of Wrightwood called Guffy Campground, which Glenn had earlier told me “wasn’t a sure deal.” By now, I’d learned that just because something said “campground” didn’t mean you should expect flush toilets, running water, or even campers; sometimes it meant a few beat-up picnic tables and a creek that ran dry months ago.

I looked at my iPhone map. If we struck out at Guffy, it would be another five miles to State Route 2 (Angeles Crest Scenic Byway), where we could hitch a ride down to Wrightwood.

We headed on, me ahead, glancing back now and then to make sure Glenn was still coming. About an hour after we’d resumed hiking—about 2 P.M.—I heard it: “Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

I turned. Glenn was flailing on the trail. Rattlesnake? Bee? I shed my pack. “What is it? What?”

“Cramp! Oh, ah! My leg. Killing me! Ah! Ah! Ah!”

He wriggled in pain.

“What can I do?”

“Nothing. Just … gotta —Ah! Ah! Ah!—work it out.”

“Glenn, you’re the doctor here. What do you need? How can I help you?”

He looked dazed. Here but not here. Barely talking.

“Gotta sleep.”

It was about 1 P.M. I looked around. We hadn’t seen another hiker since we’d left Cajon Pass the previous day. The PCT herd was hundreds of miles ahead, and stragglers, obviously, weren’t braving this heat.

The situation suddenly crystallized for me: Glenn needed to get down to Wrightwood. And the only one who could get him there was me. I felt the unease of responsibility twisted with a twinge of terror.

Heavenly Father … .

I pulled out my iPhone and looked at the map. We were heading west-northwest at about 6,500 feet, just beyond Gobblers Knob. We’d need to climb another 1,700 feet up Wright Mountain just to get to a side trail that zigzagged down the height of two Empire State Buildings—2,312 feet—to the little ski community where Lou lived. The drop came in only 2.1 miles, its 1,101-feet-per-mile slope more than thirty percent steeper than the diabolic southbound escape out of the canyon at Belden, which was perhaps the steepest continual stretch on the PCT.

When I saw, on the map, the name of the connecting trail between the PCT and the town, I mentally gulped: Acorn Trail.

Wasn’t that the trail Geoff warned me not to take? How could this be? How could the very trail we needed—our lifeline to water, rest, and perhaps medical attention—be the only trail Geoff had explicitly told me to avoid? Dang. Why hadn’t I asked why we shouldn’t take it? I needed to talk to Geoff.

“Glenny, I’m gonna walk down the trail and see if I can get some cell coverage. Be right back, OK?”

He nodded. He was on his back, in a sliver of shade, trying to sleep. I walked 100 feet forward. Nothing. Finally, I found two bars, enough to make a call. But Geoff wasn’t answering. It was a Tuesday; he was likely cutting hair at the barber shop, which was only five minutes from our house.

I called Sally. “Glenn’s showing signs of heat exhaustion and I need to get him to this town, but the trail to get there is one Geoff warned me not to take. I need to know why. His line is busy. Could you zip over to the shop and have Geoff call me?”

“I would but I’m in Albany with Mom and Dad.”

“No worries. I’ll figure this out. Meanwhile, please pray. And, hey, don’t tell Ann yet, OK?”

“Got it.”

I returned to Glenn.

“Feel like moving on, soldier?”

“Little more sleep.”

I grabbed my inReach satellite device from its front-shoulder strap and messaged Geoff. But with all these trees could I even get a satellite connection?

We are at MP 360. Guffy 364. Iffy water. Glenn seriously dragging. Heat exhaust? … Acorn a bailout? What’s trail like?

When the device warbled, meaning the message had gotten through, I sighed in relief. He wrote back immediately.

Pretty steep for a mile or so. Then a mellow decent through neighborhood. I don’t like “iffy” when it comes to water. I’d take the Acorn Trail.

Geoff’s “go” signal for Acorn eased my fears, confirmed my instincts, and, frankly, made me feel not so alone in all this; I would ask him later about why he’d been so adamant that I avoid the trail. For now, I needed to get Glenn moving. I did so—for a mile. Then he wanted another break. I took the opportunity to call Wrightwood Lou, who was camp-hosting seventy-five miles away at Big Bear Lake.

“Hey, Bob, how you guys doing?”

“Been better. We’re above Wrightwood, and Glenny’s shutting down. I’m taking him down the Acorn Trail. Is it dangerous? Washouts? What?”

“No, Acorn’s a good trail and not dangerous if you’re watching what you’re doing,” said the Marine and former police officer. “It’s just steeper than holy hell. PCTers come down in the afternoon, party that night, then head back up in the morning facing a daunting 2,500-foot climb. Bad idea, really bad idea.”

“Got it. Good to know. Then that’s my plan—Acorn to Wrightwood.”

“So, Bob, to confirm: you’re not asking for search and rescue, right?”

“Copy that. No search and rescue needed for now.”

“OK, call if I can help more. Headin’ back to Wrightwood in the morning. Keep in touch.”

I updated Sally, then returned to Glenn, who was still asleep.

“Hey, wake up, Crab Net.”

One eye opened, then the other.

“We’re taking the Acorn Trail to Wrightwood. It’s just over two miles to the cutoff”—it was actually three but I lied to keep him hopeful—“then another two miles down.” I didn’t mention another mile from there to the motel, in a town so small (pop. 4,500) it didn’t offer Uber service. “We’ll get a motel, water, food, and medical attention if you need it. Sound good?”

He nodded a tepid yes.

I helped him on with his pack, then called the Canyon Creek Inn, a hole-in the-wall motel Geoff recommended, and reserved a room. We started up again, reaching the Acorn Trail Junction at 2:45 P.M. The trip down was like a mini-Fuller Ridge experience. Because the slope of Wright Mountain was almost straight down, I felt as if I could reach out and touch the peaked roofs of the houses below. But it seemed to take forever, partly because of the two dozen switchbacks and partly because Glenn required rest breaks.

We checked in to the Canyon Creek Inn just before 5 P.M., the last mile across town seeming like five.

“Drink, drink, drink,” I said to Glenn in our room. “Then take a cold shower. I’m heading to the store. Whataya need?”

“Chocolate … milk … and … V-8,” he rasped, his voice like that of an old man’s.

“Seriously? Not Gatorade? Electrolyte drinks? Fruit? Salty stuff?”

“Nope.”

At the store, I asked if Wrightwood had an Urgent Care.

“Sorry,” said the young man working the register. “You’d have to go into Lancaster for that.”

“Which is how far?”

“An hour—forty-five minutes without cops.”

When I returned, Glenn assured me he didn’t need medical attention. He phoned Ann and told her what was going on. He was moving like Tim Conway, the shuffling old man in the old “Carol Burnett” TV show. As I pulled the garbage out of my pack to throw away, Glenn crawled into one of the two double beds.

“Bobby,” he said, his voice weak, “I don’t know where ... we go from here.”

“I do: Mile High Pizza. Pepperoni OK?”

“Sure. But I’m just so tired ... I’m afraid if I get back on the trail ... the same thing’s gonna happen ... as happened today.” He coughed. His voice was weak. “I thought I was in better shape.”

I knew he’d done his prep work. He’d been hiking a 1,500-foot hill west of Corvallis and hitting the treadmill whenever he could, sometimes twice a day, up to two hours at a time.

“This isn’t about you being out of shape, Glenn, this is about both of us being stupid. We got greedy, trying to get an extra half-day of hiking when we should have stayed in a motel and left early this morning. Glenny, we hiked 6,500 feet straight up in ninety-degree weather with a hot wind in our face. We’re veterans and we made a stupid rookie mistake.

“Actually, we made another mistake: coming so late in the year. And that’s a hundred percent on me. It was my book promo stuff that forced us to leave six weeks later than we originally planned, when it would have been cooler.”

Glenn never was one to guilt me, even when the opportunity availed itself, and he didn’t now.

“I have no confidence,” he said. “I’m wondering ... if I can even go on.”

“You mean, you think we should call it quits?” I asked. “Like go home?”

“Bobby, I can only speak for myself,” he said. “I’m not sure that a night, or even two nights, here is going to recharge me.”

Until now, I’d looked upon the Wrightwood detour as little more than a tire change during the Indianapolis 500. I now realized how this experience had not only weakened Glenn physically but shaken him mentally. Beyond our 2015 debacle when we quit after two days, since commiting to hike the entire PCT I had never doubted that we would reach Canada. Now, for the first time, I did.

“Well, we don’t have to decide right now,” I said. “I’m going to go grab our pizza. Let’s talk when I get back.”

By the time I’d ordered, walked a few blocks to get fresh fruit at a grocery store, and returned for the pizza, I’d processed everything with fast-forward speed. I felt guilty about my conclusion: I wanted to go on, even if it meant doing so alone. I knew how to follow maps, how to find water, how to rely on others when necessary. I could do this—couldn’t I?

From the beginning, we’d agreed that the guy who didn’t quit should feel free to continue; that’s what I’d done the first year, at Glenn’s insistence, after his vertigo attack. But would that be fair to Glenn?

My thinking sloshed back and forth like an angry sea. In favor of me going it alone: Precedent. When vertigo had slammed Glenn in 2011, he’d encouraged me to finish alone. And we weren’t getting any younger; every year we postponed would make the next year’s miles all the harder. Against me going: If I went alone and Glenn decided to get back on the trail to catch up, we’d be out of synchronization. And what about 2014, when I’d sprained my ankle in the High Sierra and Glenn had said, You quit, I quit?

If only I could be so selfless. I called Sally. Updated her. Asked her if she was good with me going on alone. “If you think it’s safe and you think it’s the right thing to do, I trust you,” she said.

Back at the room, over pizza that Glenn barely touched, I floated my idea to him with the subliminal hope that he would discourage me from going ahead, which would make my decision easy. I wouldn’t press on without his blessing. He talked about the heat, having to hike at night, the challenge of finding water, and the lack of other people on the trail to, say, help find water, but his bottom line was: if I needed to go on, I should feel free to do so.

“Maybe … I could rent a car … and help resupply you,” he said.

His generosity moved me, but that idea wasn’t practical. The trail rarely crossed a road. And, meanwhile, Glenny would be baking in a car with nothing to do. How fun would that be?

We fell asleep having no definite plan about where we were going from here. But, inside, I knew what I wanted to do: hike on.

AT 4 A.M. I awoke in a sweat as if the idea of going on alone had been a horrible nightmare. What was I thinking? How crazy could I be? Going it alone was a recipe for disaster—and a lesson in how easily our emotions can become the tail wagging the dog of common sense.

“Glenn,” I said in the morning. “I rethought this. I’m not going on by myself. It’d be the stupidest thing I’ve done since, well, two days ago, leaving in ninety-degree heat.”

“If that’s what you want, but don’t not go on my account.”

“Hey, I appreciate that, but I’ve thought it over. I’m good with heading home. And if Sally knew the full context of hiking alone in this heat, she wouldn’t want me out there either.”

Quiet. Then, outside, a dog barked. Far away, a leaf blower cranked up.

“Hey, I have an idea,” Glenn said, his voice suddenly re-energized. “Look, we both have ten more days off. What if we fly home, rest up for a few days, repack, then drive back down to Lone Pine?”

His mind had obviously been at work since he’d awakened.

“And?”

“And in the relative cool of the high mountains, get the Kennedy-Meadows-to-Crabtree-Meadow stretch done, then summit Whitney again, exit at Whitney Portal, and grab a ride back to Lone Pine. Get in some trail we need to get done, but without this blazing heat.”

“Do you really think we’d have time for all that in ten days?” I asked.

“I do.”

“And you think you’re up for it?”

“I do. It’s this heat that got me but the mountains will be cooler.”

“Then let’s do it,” I said. “We can take my truck.”

My spirits soared. The Oregon Boys would live to hike another day.

[1] Rob and his brother Kurt, both Oregon State University graduates like Glenn, were, in 1984, founders of what became the regionally famous Widmer Brothers Brewery in Portland.

[the--rebel--fae]

To Love a Fallen Angel

A/N: Finally I start this up, the fic I promised for the 50+ follower celebration! This is only ch. 1 of the fic--I promise there will be a lot more. I'm really excited about this. So! Without further ado, enjoy my loves! Oh and if you rather read it in Ao3 I'll provide the link for it in a separate post!

TW: Violence, a lot of swearing, Adam being sexist, but that's about it for this chapter.

The sun shone brilliantly against the terracotta walls of the villa you called your home since you were just a child. As you passed by a window you looked out at the expanse of land with rolling Spanish hills stretching as far as the eye can see. 

You loved this time in the morning. It was like everything in España was just waking up. Letting out a contented hum, you leave the window and continue your usual morning walk only stopping when you neared a small alcove in the wall that held something very important to you.

Your late brother's memorial. Everyone in the family worked together to compile different items and pictures for Alejandro. It was a big blow when he got killed--he was the head of the family after all ever since your parents passed just a few years prior. Now, it was up to you and your cousin Mikhail to lead the family. 

"I miss you hermano. How I wish I could tell you about all the new things that have happened." 

You sighed as you ran a finger across the oak frame of his main picture on the table. It felt as if it was just yesterday that he turned that mischievous grin on you and teased you about god knows what. That's how it always was, you'd tease each other relentlessly, but at the end of the day, you were each other's rock.

"Missing him again eh?" A deep voice sounded out behind you. 

Turning around you can't hold back the smirk that pulled at your lips. "I know it's been ten years Mikhail, but sometimes," you trail off. 

Mikhail smiles sympathetically and puts a comforting hand on your shoulder. The sun glinted off of his honey-brown hair as he stepped closer.

"I know, but he wouldn't want you to be sad. If anything, he'd be proud of all the work you've done!"

You let a small smile flit across your face. "Hmm, true enough I guess."

The halls echoed back Mikhail's laugh. His bright green eyes danced with amusement. "You guess? Who's the one who just put a stop to those bastardos down in Madrid when they tried to take over half of the country with their sex trafficking ring? You were like an avenging angel."

You grinned at that. It was a rather proud moment for you. You despised abuse. Especially to young women. So you got a rather sick satisfaction when Interpol conveniently set off one of the group's wayward grenades that they just so happen to have lying around. 

They got the women out and the leader of the gang was no more. Before you could respond to your cousin's comment though, the whole house shook and the air was suddenly filled with the sound of gunfire. 

"Hijo de," you cursed. "What the Hell is going on?" 

Mikhail shook his head and started running towards the front of the house. "I don't know, but whatever it is, they're going to pay." 

Another blast shook the house making you slam into the wall. You cried out in pain. 

"Cousin!"

You grit your teeth at the throbbing pain in your shoulder but push through the halls nonetheless. “I’m fine Mikhail, just caught off guard. Let’s keep moving. We need to find out who the hell is behind this attack.”

You round the corner just barely footsteps behind Mickail. “Agreed, and what makes them think they have the cajones to attack La Familia Moreno.”

Some of the pictures and fixtures have already fallen off with the forces of some of the shots that have gone through the entirety of the villa. 

“Oh, I have plenty of balls thank you, Mikhail.” A familiar voice rang out, making your heart plummet straight to your stomach and ice felt like it was shot through your veins.

Crowley.

Both you and Mikhail ran out of the villa and were immediately face to face with a mass of paid missionaries with guns all cocked and pointed towards the two of you. After a beat, the sea parted and the man you hoped you’d never see again came walking out. 

After all these years, Crowley still looked the same. His raven hair sharply contrasted with the blaze of the Spanish morning sun, and his grey eyes still held nothing but malice and violence. The military gear he was decked out in just added to his imposing form.

You never really killed anyone, but looking down at Crowley right now, you’d reconsider your morals. 

“You should be dead you hijo de puta!” Mikhail snarled stepping slightly in front of you in an attempt to shield you from any possible tricks that bastard might pull. 

Grinding your teeth, your gaze practically lethal towards the man who tried to stage a coup against your family more than a decade ago, you let out a sigh that almost sounded like a hiss. “Ale, showed mercy to him when he tracked him down.”

Mikhail scoffed. “Damn his soft heart.”

Crowley chuckled. “Yes, that disgusting kindness was a weakness. But now that he’s gone, there’s no one left to hold the secrets of the Familia Moreno, except you little mouse.”

If not for Mikhail's presence in front of you, you would have lunged and killed Crowley right then and there. “Don’t you ever say that nick name to me. Only Alejandro and my family can call me that. And I’d rather die than give you our secrets.”

Crowley merely shrugged as if it was a mere inconvenience. “Very well, then I guess you need a little enticement.” He gave a nod to one of his men and it felt like everything moved in slow motion from that moment. 

You heard a gun cock and then fire–it was aimed right at Mikhail. 

Your body moved before you could think, shoving yourself in front of Mikhail and suddenly everything started going at a normal speed again.

But why did your chest feel like it was being ripped open?

Why was Mikhail suddenly shouting? What was he saying? Why was he crying?

It hurt to breathe.

Maybe if you went to sleep this would be all a bad dream and you’d wake up and you could have breakfast with Mikhail as you planned. 

Yea, a nap sounded good right now. It’ll take the pain away.

But when you closed your eyes…you didn’t wake up.

12 years later…

You let out an irritated puff of breath and fiddled with your half of the necklace you always wore. Even when you were alive. It had the Familia Moreno crest–a butterfly, on it. But it was only one-half. Your brother contained the other half. That was the only way you were ever going to identify him. Or any of your family for that matter. After all, everyone in the family wore some piece of jewelry with la Mariposa on it. 

Which brings us to why you were getting very agitated with a certain First Man.

“Come on Adam! We talked about this! You know why I want to join you on this Extermination! Who knows what other chances I may get, with the way things have been going! I won’t even fight, I just want to have a look around to see if I can find any of my family.”

Adam rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “And I keep tellin’ you, Sera would have my ass if I let you down there. You already found your sister-in-law and your niece and nephew. What more do you need?”

You fixed him with a look that he was all too familiar with. 

You didn’t have your brother. Or parents for that matter. 

Lute took off her mask and looked up at Adam. “Maybe just this once she could come, sir. We’re only targeting that disgusting excuse of a hotel. At least for now. Besides I’ve been watching her improve her hand-to-hand combat skills. She’s pretty capable. She was able to pin some of my best girls in minutes.”

A feeling of hope danced in your eyes. Yes! Maybe for once, you could get your wish. And not have to be babysat by Azrael again. You loved that man like a brother, but if he bugged you one more time about using your amazing singing voice for his band... you were going to hit him with his guitar. You didn't know how many more times you could take being called “My little Melody.”

You curse the day you chose that as your alias. But you never felt comfortable sharing your real name unless you were truly close with someone. You had the firm belief that names carried weight. So to those in your extremely tiny circle, you were (Y/n). To everyone else–Melody. 

Adam let out a resigned sigh. “Your gonna be up my ass about this even worse than before if I don’t let you go, aren’t you Mel?”

You smirked. “One. You know you can just use my real name, right? No one’s currently around. It’s just you, me, and Lute in the area. The other exorcists haven’t even arrived yet. And two. You bet your sexist ass I would.”

An overdramatical gasp fell from Adam’s lips. “Hey! I’m for equality and all that female shit.”

Lute and you just shared an amused look. 

“But fine, you can come. Only if you promise to circle back and come right back to my side in fifteen minutes. Because we are so going to pone those losers. So the battle won’t even last long.”

“Yes!”

“--And I’m assigning you a bodyguard. Just to be safe.”

You pouted but nodded. “Fine. I guess that’s fair. Whatever gets me down there at least for a little. Who’s it gonna be?”

“How about Siph? You two seem to get along well and even though she’s new she’s capable.” 

You smiled and nodded at Lute’s suggestion. “Yea, that sounds like a good idea. I mean how bad could it be?”

***

Turns out? It was not the right decision at all to assign Siph as your bodyguard. You realize asyou lay on your side, golden blood seeping out of your shoulder blades, your halo thrown several feet away from you. Your exorcist disguise was covered in dirt and muck as the red skies of hell looked down at you in almost a mocking manner. Almost as if to say: You wanted to be down in Hell so badly. Well here you are.

The whole incident kept playing in your head like a broken record.

Turns out she was jealous of you all this time, just pretending to be your friend. 

It was barely five minutes in with your search paired with her that she suddenly attacked you sliced off your wings, and trashed your halo. Leaving you to die just mere feet behind the Princess of Hell’s hotel. 

“You don’t deserve to be an angel you mafia filth.” She spat at you as she tore your wings off. “You don’t even deserve the way Adam treats you. He should be looking at me that way! Me! I’m one of his best girls. Not some pathetic excuse of an angel. You should be here in Hell where you belong.”

You honestly should have seen this coming with her, but for once, you wanted to try and see the good in someone instead of having that natural suspicion you grew up with.

“Lot of good that did me.” You muttered and coughed. “I can’t die here. Not without seeing Ale or Mama or Papa.”

 You tried to move but had almost no strength. Before you passed out though, it seemed Lady Luck looked down on you because you heard footsteps coming towards you. Hopefully, it was to help and not finish you off.

“Oh shit. Those bastards did it again. Shit shit shit! Hey, are you still alive?”

You felt two cool fingers at your throat.

“Oh thank Lucifer. Charlie! Get your father over here! We have a fallen angel on our hands! Damn, bastardos.”

Did that person just speak Spanish? 

You wish you could see them but your eyes felt heavy and it was a fight just to keep them open. The only thing you could make out was an outline of a woman and long white hair. 

“You’re gonna be alright. Don’t worry.”

You held onto those words of comfort like a shining beacon in a storm as exhaustion won the fight and darkness surrounded you once more.

A/N Well! that wraps up this chapter! I hope y'all enjoyed it! Please do feel free to tell me your thoughts on it! I love reading y'alls comments. And don't worry, the best is yet to come. Our dear Melody is a fallen angel now, chaos will surely ensue...