Whistles in the Mountains: Chapter 4: The Summit Road

Chapter 4: The Old Summit Road

Now. Late Afternoon.

It was later in the day than I had hoped to set out when Joe, Jon, and I finally climbed into the Camry for the drive up to Glenwood. Despite the warm temperature, the clouds had started to move in overhead and the humidity was rising. Still, late winter, assuming it wasn’t raining, was an ideal time to hike and work outside in the Santa Cruz Mountains. The cooler air kept you more comfortable for longer. The only real problem was daylight, and we were probably going to be pushing that. Hopefully the flashlight would be enough.

The south – railroad east – portal of the Glenwood tunnel was equally the most conspicuous and inconspicuous tunnel along the entire former mountain route. Whereas the other five abandoned tunnel portals were hidden in mountain glens or otherwise out-of-sight, hundreds of drivers saw the Glenwood portal every day. They just didn’t realize they saw it. That’s because it sat under Glenwood Drive. The only sign of the tunnel visible from the road was a series of steel pipe rails that lined the top of the portal to keep people and cars from falling off the road.

In all fairness, the deception was never intentional. When the road was first built over the tunnel, the entire area was very clear of debris, and the frequent trains running through the tunnel ensured that it remained quite visible from the road. In fact, many drives in later years probably found their cars suddenly barraged with ash and soot if they timed their passing over the portal with a train heading through the portal. But those days are long gone. The tunnel was collapsed by the Army Corps of Engineers in April 1942 on behalf of a salvage company hired by Southern Pacific. Ever since then, the gully around the portal – the former right-of-way – had become increasingly overgrown.

It was this overgrown mess that the three of us had to get through just to get to the portal. Poison oak lined the trail, mixed with pointy blackberry vines. At the bottom of the gully, decades of garbage had collected in a permanently moist swamp. We tip-toed around the water as best we could to get to the portal itself.

A concrete wall towered above us, barring our way. At slightly less than twenty-seven feet high, the tall arch of the tunnel mouth was an imposing figure, one that we would have to overcome. At the top of the tunnel, a taunting “1908” stared down at us, reminding the world of the engineering feat this structure was a century and a decade earlier. But the biggest obstacles were the large steel beams that criss-crossed the artificial cave-in at the entrance of the tunnel. To ensure that the roadway remained intact after the dynamiting of the tunnel entrance, the Army installed these braces just inside the portal to keep rubble confined inside the tunnel and the concrete walls intact.

The three of us looked at each other and discussed what we’d do. The obvious play was to dig a small hole at the very top of the tunnel, just below the top beam. The rubble pile would be the thinnest here.

We started to climb the crumbling debris pile to the top with our tools in hand. It was a difficult climb, but the biggest threat proved to be the small spider nests along the top of the portal. The little white silk cocoons looked ominous and suggested that spiders of a decidedly deadly nature lurked nearby. And here we were...getting ready to dig into a mile-long spider nest. It was not a pleasant thought.

Shrugging off our fears, we found a place that seemed especially easy to dig through, and Joe swung his pickaxe...

Then. Early Evening.

The rain had begun to downpour as soon as Harold was aboard the train. He shook off his hat and removed his blazer. The train only had three cars and appeared to be empty except for the conductor. Wooden bench seats lined both sides of the aisle, with a few facing backwards. Southern Pacific had long neglected this route, and these coaches had seen better days. While nicer cars were brought out for the Suntan Specials in the summer, slowly degrading passenger coaches such as this were used for the daily commutes. The lighter and smaller cars made the turns better in San Lorenzo Gorge and also cost less fuel to haul.

Harold, though, had never been on a train before, so he didn’t mind. In fact, the poorly upkept car reminded him a bit of his home in Felton Grove. Well, at least before it had flooded. He took a forward-facing seat near the middle of the train, setting his blazer and hat on the seat beside him.

The conductor rather lazily walked into his coach from the baggage car at the end. He looked down at Harold and sighed audibly. “Your ticket, sir.” Harold was unsure whether the conductor suspected he had no ticket or was just tired of his job. In any case, Harold presented the ticket. The conductor looked at it, stamped it, and then returned it. Without another word, the conductor disappeared back into the baggage car, clearly done with Harold.

Harold didn’t mind. He had spent most of his life being uninteresting. And this train fascinated him, even if nobody else cared. He gazed outside at Felton Depot one last time. The station agent was closing up and putting on his coat. He turned off the lights, locked the door, and climbed into his Ford pickup truck.

The train made a sudden lurch. Harold grasped the seat in front of him, uncertain what was happening. The train moved again, and this time it kept moving. Very slowly at first, but steadily picking up speed, the train ascended into the dark, foreboding mountains...

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.