Chapter 2: Papers, Old and New
Now. Morning.
My search through the internet had revealed precisely what I expected it to: nothing else. Where on earth did the Reno Evening Gazette get this story? I asked myself. It didn’t matter. Even though it was a single article in an obscure newspaper, it suggested something was going on. I had to find out what.
I hopped in my 2007 Toyota Camry to drive to Santa Cruz. Perhaps the Museum of Art & History downtown would have some relic of this event that I had overlooked. It was still early and the museum would just be opening. I hadn’t made an appointment, but the archivist knew me. Hopefully she’d be willing to let me have a peruse through the collection. It wouldn’t be the first last-minute browse.
The drive down Highway 9 always felt like a journey into the past for me. The five miles of barely-inhabited redwood forest with the San Lorenzo River meandering far below just gave me a feeling of relaxation. I imagine that passengers on the old Southern Pacific Railroad, the tracks for which still follow below the road, would have been amazed when they entered into this wilderness. Granted, the trees would have been a bit shorter then, but the views would have been similar.
I parked at the River Street parking lot and jogged across Front Street toward the MAH. Although I had all the time in the world to conduct this research, it felt especially important today, the seventy-eighth anniversary since that last run through the mountains. I wanted to resolve this mystery and I wanted to get it figured out now.
I waved to the front desk person and climbed up the two flights of stairs to the archives. The archivist was there, as I had hoped, and she waved me into the backroom after I explained my discovery. I knew my goal already: the old county records. They were divided into folders and the Southern Pacific one I had browsed through a dozen times already. There was nothing there. But that wasn’t my target. I wanted to see the Santa Cruz County Board of Supervisors minutes.
After spending about fifteen minutes looking around, I was about to give up when the archivist asked me what I was looking for. As soon as I told her, she smiled and went back into the research room. A minute later, she handed me an old notebook with a title handwritten on the cover: “Board of Supervisors minutes, Jul. 1939 to Jun. 1940.” She explained that those records are stored in a special file cabinet with other minutes from county offices.
I quickly scanned the pages until I found the minutes for Wednesday, February 28, 1940. There it was – the smoking gun.
Closed session. Southern Pacific Railroad official speaks on the matter of the temporary closure of the railroad line between San Jose and this city. They note that the line will be reopened before the start of the summer season and that most damage is superficial and will take no more than a month to repair. Supervisor Rostron asks about the fate of the last train that departed on the evening of February 26. SP official replies that the matter is being investigated and that it may have been lost in one of the tunnels. Rostron asked which tunnel, to which he specified that it was the tunnel between Glenwood and Laurel. Rostron suggests that this matter should be made known to the public, but official clarifies that nobody other than SP employees were on the train when it disappeared. Rostron calls for a vote to release information to the press. Board votes 3 opposed, 2 for. The motion fails to pass.
Then. Late morning.
It only took Harold fifteen minutes to walk over to the train station. The rain was light and it was slightly gusty, but his broad-brimmed hat, blazer, and denim pants kept him dry enough. Zayante Creek lapped at the base of the bridge but it had yet to overwhelm it, which was fortunate for Harold since the station was just on the other side. The sprawling yard of the Santa Cruz Lumber Company spread to the southwest, much of it flooded, too, although the mill itself was situated on a berm that protected the valuable machinery.
Felton Depot was an unimpressive structure. Built around 1891, the single-story station housed the passenger, freight, telegraph, and parcel offices for the entire San Lorenzo Valley. A decade earlier, a branch line had gone up the entire valley to Boulder Creek, but the Depression ensured the closure of that line in short order. Now the railroad barely skirted the valley, and its location was anything but convenient. Harold didn’t care, though. He had never actually ridden the train. Despite growing up around lumber mills his entire life, his mother had a deathly fear of the iron horse. She insisted that they ride in automobiles when they could, and on wagons when they couldn’t. Economically, it made little sense – trains costs less – but his mother’s convictions triumphed over everything else.
The train to San Jose hadn’t arrived yet. Service cuts had ensured that the train would not actually arrive until late. 7:21 p.m. to be precise. It would be a long, wet wait.
Harold meandered into the station looking like a wet cat. He probably smelled more like a wet dog. When was the last time he had taken a shower? The station agent certainly didn’t look impressed. He stared at him with a stern glare, peering over bifocal glasses, assessing his qualities.
“Can I help you...sir?” he asked with an emphasis on “sir” that made clear he felt the appelation to be undeserved.
“Um, yeah.” Harold stuttered.” Yes, I have a ticket here for the evening train. I, um, I want to ride the train to San Jose and get out of this mudpit.” Harold handed the ticket to the agent, who pinched it carefully between his fingers, sceptically.
The agent looked over the soggy paper, looked back up at Harold, and then turned to his typewriter. He poked at a few keys and then pulled a paper out and turned back to Harold, handing him something. Harold took it. It was a new ticket.
“Please try to keep this one in a more...manageable state,” he droned, clearly wishing for this vagabond to leave his station forthwith. Harold, meanwhile, was ecstatic. The ticket was beautiful. And it was his. And he was getting out of this town.
He took a seat at the bench farthest from the ticket counter and grabbed a week-old newspaper that some previous passenger had left behind. It would be a long wait...
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. While some elements may be based on historical fact, the events described are entirely the author's own creation.
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