Whistles in the Mountains: Chapter 5: Light and Darkness

Chapter 5: Light and Darkness

Then. Early Evening.

Harold sat on the edge of his seat, hyper aware of the motion around him. The train was moving very fast, or so it seemed from the inside. The darkness outside was near complete, except for branches that suddenly brushed past the windows only to just as quickly disappear. Although the train was moving no faster than 20 miles per hour, it was more than Harold could handle. He had never been on anything so large moving so fast through utter blackness.

Outside, rain lashed against the windows and sides of the train. Sheets of it fell and the sound of it hitting the coach was near deafening. Occassionally, lights flicked by the windows, ephemeral hints of civilization.

This is a mistake, Harold told himself, his knuckles white on the seat ahead of him. But the conductor, just barely visible through a window in the car behind him, seemed untroubled. Perhaps this is all just in my head, he thought.

Relaxing his grip, Harold shifted in his seat, trying to find some semblance of comfort. Outside, a hollow ringing ran through the train – they must be crossing over a bridge. But what bridge? They had already crossed Zayante Creek. Harold didn’t know and didn’t particularly care.

Five minutes later, the sound suddenly seemed incredibly loud and close. A tunnel. He could smell smoke in the air and the sound of rain on the coach temporarily ceased. But it resumed as quickly as it had stopped.

They were deep in the Zayante canyon now, rising quickly above the creek and toward the summit. A few specks of light glittered down along the valley floor, fireflies dancing in the trees. Everything else was dark.

The train bounced once. Twice. Even in this strange chaos, this new feeling felt different – unplanned. The conductor entered the car and scurried to the front, opening the door to the front coach. His expression did not provide Harold with any confidence. The train slowed slightly, either due to the steep grade or because of something else. The train rocked hard to the left and then righted. Something was wrong.

Another five minutes and the noise amplified again. Another tunnel. This time longer than before. The cabin lights flickered slightly and the smell of smoke was notably worse. The conductor returned to the car with a worried look on his face.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” he told Harold without prompting. “Everything is in order. Just some debris on the tracks.” Harold was not convinced and the conductor’s brow remained creased as he returned to the third car.

The train continued to rock unsteadily as rain pelted it with renewed vigour. The train whistle briefly punctuated the other sounds, signalling our approach into Glenwood.

Now. Early Evening.

Illegally breaking into a sealed railroad tunnel proved harder than any of us had realized. The large stones did not respond well to the pickaxe and we began digging with our hands and shovels just to shift the stones enough for the axe to pull them out of their holds. It was tedious labor, but all three of us hoped the returns would be worth it.

As we had feared, the sun was already setting and the Glenwood vale was already in shadows. We all prayed that our flashlight had enough power and luminescence to suit our needs. Jon had been working with the pickaxe for the past thirty minutes, while Joe and I shoveled stones and gravel down the rubble pile to the bog below. The beam across the Glenwood tunnel portal was still securely in place, and Jon used it constantly to leverage himself against stubborn rocks. The flashlight was now aimed from one side of the beam at our worksite, perched precariously from a hole in the prefabricated steel strut.

Suddenly, a noise pierced the otherwise night sky. It was a loud wheeze, like steam escaping through a teapot. All three of us stopped and looked around. The night air was silent. Perhaps too silent. Whatever had made the noise had vanished.

We resumed digging and Jon yanked hard on an especially large boulder that was lodged behind the beam. It shifted without warning and did something none of us expected: it rolled backwards into the tunnel. We stepped back, our eyes agape at the three-foot-square hole Jon had inadvertently revealed. We had did it. We had opened a pathway into the tunnel.

Almost immediately, a foul odor hit my nose. It smelled of acid, mildew, dry rot, mud, and rust. It was the smell of seventy years of decay and neglect. It was the smell of abandonment, forgetfulness, and lost dreams. But it was the smell of discovery, of new beginnings, of an awakening.

Just then, as we gazed excitedly into the tunnel, the strange noise returned, and this time it was unmistakable. It was a train whistle. An old, steam whistle blasting at full release. Joe, whose father worked at Roaring Camp Railroads, dismissed it, reminding us that the steam engines at Roaring Camp often did night runs and we must just be hearing that. Jon and I were not so sure – the noise seemed to come from the tunnel. But we had come too far to give up now and no echoing whistle from miles away would deter us from our exploration...

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.