There’s just something about the sound of a train blasting through the night; That harmonic whistle echoing up from the valley never fails to send chills up my spine. It seems to be calling me, promising endless adventure and unimaginable possibilities. As a boy, I used to watch the Southern Pacific freights roar by and disappear down the tracks that seemed to stretch off into infinity. Somewhere down that iron road was my future.

As you probably already see, rails have been a great source of comfort and stability in a crazy world where I always thought that I didn’t really fit in. When I’m on a train, all my troubles just melt away with the passing scenery. It’s like my imagination is fueled by massive steam locomotives, my ambition struggles against the grade, and my soul is a mile long freight train full of open boxcars, waiting for the hobos to hop on in.

I can be found hanging out with the rusting locomotive hulks of Humboldt Bay, or on a speeding subway train deep down in the tunnels of New York, or walking old abandoned rail right of ways where the tunnels remain like inviting ghosts offering glimpses of the past and insight into the future. It wouldn’t be strange to find me on a passenger train in the great Pacific Northwest, or even among the trench coats of the dashing commuters on the Long Island Railroad at the maze of tracks in Jamaica Queens, home of the famous, “change at Jamaica,” where rail lines fan out all over Long Island like all too comforting spider webs.