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Drummond Junction: Cascadia Corridor Railroad

Consider downloading the Cascadia Corridor quickmod pack: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1HnVzctTjaBR2IamGL5IF_TSIO46jrq9p/view?usp=sharing

SD9-3 by long
SD40-2 by PAIN
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Noah Townsend leaned back on the tired leather of the engineer’s chair. Folding his arms, and with a great sigh, he stared long at the red glow of the signal in front of him, not expecting it to change, but hoping regardless. The old, decrepit condition of the seat spoke volumes of the history of the engine he, begrudgingly, had the honor of being the hoghead in this dry, hot July evening. Begrudgingly, but only slightly so. The smell of oil and dust lingering in the cab of the SD9-3, even with the windows wide open, ever so slightly carried with it some nostalgia. An old tractor, long since broken down, or a ‘52 Chevy 3100 he worked so tirelessly to keep running.

Those were the days, he’d tell himself, longing for a golden age that may or may not have truly existed. His early adulthood spent as a farm hand was brief, but so memorable. There were scarce other career paths in Warden, Washington, for a kid in his 20’s. When the recession of ‘81 came, those days ended. Packing up on what felt like the longest, lonesome road trip to Spokane, Noah would apply, and soon get hired by the Burlington Northern Railroad, and his ideal lifestyle of a country boy living and dying in his hometown was shattered. Maybe it was for the better, he didn’t know. In many ways, he still didn't. A couple failed marriages did a number on his recent memory. It was hard to look back to the previous year and feel the same way as his youth. Those were the days.

“CC 103 east, pass signal at Donnelly.”

Just a few more minutes, Noah thought to himself. He looked over to the conductor’s side. Mike Garcia sat unaffected by the thin layer of sweat coating his tan complexion. His gaze fixated on the ridge off to the south. An ochre canvas gave way to tall, contrasting dark conifers and bushes, the setting sun casting long shadows.

“Isn’t it different out here?” Mike said. “Like a whole new world.”

Partnered with his conductor for a while, Noah knew the story already. 28 years old, grew up in Burbank. Sick of living in the city led into a career with BNSF, working for BNSF led to coming up to the northwest, and a falling out with his last boss led to working for the short line.

“You ever been to the coast?” Mike asked.
“I’ve been up Seattle way, once.”
“Ain’t nothing like this.”

Noah looked over to the setting sun for a moment. “I’ve been here all my life. Can’t seem to bring myself to go somewhere else.”

Mike nodded. “All this, this is new to me. The rolling hills, the silence. Stuff you see in movies. Hasn’t changed.”

A place that hadn’t changed - impervious to the drive forward of time and civilization. Noah caught a glimpse of a red-tailed hawk, diving into a farm field by the tracks. It emerged out of a bush, a snake grasped between its talons.

The hawk soared back high into the blue-and-golden evening sky, and Noah realized something as he looked upon the farm field the hawk had claimed its prey in. A circular field of corn stood before him, a long snaking metal dinosaur of irrigation pipes strung out across the diameter of the field.

“Nah. Believe me, it’s changed.”

“In what way?” Mike replied.

“When I worked as a farmhand all we had to worry about was keeping our tractor running, and the water pipes working. Now you’ve got pesticides, farm corporations… Land has never been this expensive. Hell, even the tractors can set you back a decade’s worth of pay.”

Mike paused, thinking of the right words. “I had to get out of the city. All my friends that weren’t in trades were working at McDonalds, In N Out… Place I came from, I couldn’t pay for school.”

The story, for a moment, reminded Noah of himself. He resented that.

Mike continued. “In the city they’re building new highways, new stores all the time. In the city they’re always finding ways to ♥♥♥♥ you over. Though, working for the railroad isn’t that different either.”

“Well, the railroad is from the city, after all.” Noah responded.

“I guess that’s as good an explanation as any.”

“CC 103 east, pass signal at Arling.”

Noah looked around the cab. Cascadia Corridor #4603 was built for the Great Northern Railway in 1956 as an EMD SD9. The engine had gone through at least five different owners, but Noah could tell its heritage. The light gray paint on the cab walls chipped off in spots, and gave way to a tacky 50’s green. The 567C prime mover protested even at idle, a subtle rattle signifying its lease on life was soon up. To bring it up to 21st century standard, the old EMD had a PTC module bolted on the roof, its nose chopped for better visibility, and more importantly, a fresh coat of paint. Anyone would struggle to see past the facade of this zombie locomotive, pinned and mounted and somehow still running, except the most experienced hogheads.

The SD9 and Noah weren’t so different. Two old bastards hopping from place to place, always doing the same thing, and going in circles. Hell, the engine was a whole year younger than Noah.

Realizing this, Noah tried to keep an open mind. “This lifestyle out here should have died long ago. Maybe it already has, if I’m being honest. People from the city creep in and shake things up, impose their way of doing things, but this place still persists, in one way or another.”

A rumbling slowly came over the ridge as the eastbound approached, audible but still out of view.

“Hell, there were guys at my last job that still remembered working for Northern Pacific. A railroad is like an old tractor. It might change over the years on the outside but it’s still built for a purpose. Inside, it’s still the same tractor.”

Two SD40-2’s came around the bend at the front of a coke drag, the thick black coal-like substance loaded in hoppers to the brim, a byproduct of oil refining. The cars would go to a plant to be refined into calcined coke, and eventually used in aluminum production.

The DPU and the end of the train passed Noah with a whine. A series of beeping noises crackled over the radio, and the midget signal in front of Noah turned green. A WHOOSH dumped the air in the train’s brakes, and the locomotive rumbled to life, the rod knock growing louder as Noah eased it into notch 2. This engine wouldn’t last long, maybe a month at best.

Noah had a job to do before then.

The veteran SD9 crossed over the switch frog with a loud clack, and entered the main line.
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Cascadia Corridor: a class 2 shortline encompassing eastern Washington and Idaho state, ending at the Utah border. A veteran fleet of EMD’s serves local and switch jobs, while newer surplus SD40’s tread the main line, interchanging with BNSF and UP at either ends of the network. Crossing an infinite landscape of rolling hills, plains, deserts, and mountains, in some of the most isolated territory of the settled United States. A lifestyle of agriculture, ranching, cowboys and dirt roads nearly forgotten, kept alive by the memory of those who choose to live it.

At Drummond Junction, a siding for passing through freights sits alongside a lead to several industries. On one end, a gondola/boxcar transload takes in several cars a week. On the other, a KME Calcined Coke plant takes in petroleum coke loads, and refines them into a material used in the aluminum production process. Beside it, a similar liquid/gas transload facility, taking in tanker cars of all kinds.

Switch cars, or sit by the trackside and watch the evening manifests go by. Either way, this land, this lifestyle, and the memory of it will exist long after you leave.