That Kid From California

By L.F. Nielsen

Based on Some Adventures of the Author

 

In the Summer of '78...

 

I really do wonder how I let Leon talk me into doing this kind of nonsense.

— C'mon, Vinny. It'll be fun, he said.

Right, that I'm not so sure about. But here I am, kneeling in the shadow of a concrete snowshed, waiting for an eastbound freight we're 'catching'...

 

Spanning two different years, three seasons, and five states in North America, this coming-of-age road adventure follows young Vinny, as his mother urges him to discover the world beyond his home town.

 

How much does he love his mother? And will he heed her advice?

• Language: English
• Publisher: EN ULV
• Release date: Jun 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393048190

L.F. Nielsen

The author cherishes their privacy and prefers to remain anonymous.They request you direct any inquiries to their publisher.

Book preview

That Kid From California

That Kid From California

L.F. Nielsen

EN ULV

A EN ULV BOOK

Second edition published 2021

Written in American English

Copyright © L.F. Nielsen 2021

The author has asserted their moral rights.

This book is fiction, supported by some real events, objects, people, and places. It should not be considered an endorsement of, or from, any mentioned in this book.

The story of the four main characters is also fiction. Any similarity of their actions, events, likeness, and names, to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

For Mom

Thank You

California Digital Newspaper Archive

California Native Plant Society

Donner Summit Historical Society

Eastman Kodak Company

Library of Congress

National Park Service

Polaroid Corporation

Rocky Mountain Airways

San Francisco Chronicle Vault

Tahoe Truckee High Yearbook

Truckee-Donner Historical Society

United States Geological Survey

University of Nevada Las Vegas

University of Texas Libraries

US National Archives

Vintage Las Vegas

Contents

Summer of ‘78

Catching Out

Lazy Sunday

Temptation

Fall of ‘82

Fading Away

Leaving Home

By The Bay

Rocks ’n’ Holes

Winter of ’82-‘83

Winter Storm

Beaver Liquors

Summer of ‘78

Catching Out

— C'mon vinny. before we miss it!

— Fuck. Leon!

Oh shit, there he goes again. Without any second thought, he's off-the-blocks, and reaching full running speed in a few long strides. Dust kicks up from the light-brown gravel under his sneakers. His muscular limbs have a good rhythm for a short stocky build, unhindered by a tight cotton t-shirt and shorts. The messy mop of blonde hair glistens in the morning sun. An ideal image of a healthy all-American boy. He was always good at sports in high school. Football, weight-lifting, wrestling. You name it, Leon was good at it. Only now though, from this odd angle, do I notice how developed his calf muscles are. Weird.

I am kneeling uncomfortably, my naked right knee resting on the loose sharp stones. A railway signal post towers vertically above, its signal lamp and protective hood facing east. My left elbow balances on my left knee, helping to hold a Minolta SR-T still camera. I squint to look in the rectangle viewfinder, to frame what is seen through the lens.

I turn the focus ring with my left hand. My right index finger hovers above the shutter release. I take a deep breath, then slowly exhale, to help prevent camera shake. Click! Hopefully, that captures something close to what I see. Lowering the camera, I absently thumb the advance lever, winding the film onto the next frame.

— VINNY!

Leon's shout over his shoulder wakes me from a momentary daydream. I fling the camera behind, the neck strap pulling taut and falling diagonally from shoulder to hip. No protective lens cap. No camera case. Bad I know, but it'll be okay. Don't have time to worry about that right now. Gripping the signal post with one hand, I spring to my feet and hit the ground running. My sneakers crunch the packed gravel, each footfall in rhythm with the last.

Twenty or so yards ahead, Leon is running parallel with a slow-moving eastbound freight of rust-colored boxcars. Four lead diesel locomotives are a few dozen cars ahead, beyond the left-hand curve three-hundred or so yards away. We need to be careful we're not seen by the engineers too. We haven't seen any helper locos yet either, but they could emerge from the tunnel behind us at any moment.

Leon moves closer towards one boxcar, at a pace to keep up with it. Making a judgement of distance and momentum, he throws himself into the narrow door opening. With his upper body inside and legs hanging outside, it looks like he's stuck. But in a flash his legs disappear, and a beat later, his head pokes out looking back at me. He gestures at me to catch up. Easy for him to suggest, as he had a head start!

I'm running as fast as I can, as sweat forms in my armpits and trickles down my upper arm. Only a few more yards to where Leon is leaning out, yet it seems so far away. I ponder over how many times he's talked me into doing this kind of nonsense. With both our arms outstretched I reach for his hand, and at first, miss.

Trying again, he eventually grabs hold of my lower forearm, and I firmly grasp his. I stumble and lose my footing, my legs flailing as my feet try to find some grip on the ballast stones. I look into his blue eyes with an expression of mild panic. With a slight smile, he winks. Holding the door frame with one arm, he drags my full weight inside one-handed. We tumble into the boxcar, panting heavily to catch our breath.

Moments pass while I stare at the dark ceiling. Sucking in a few deep and deliberate gulps of air, my chest slowly rises and falls. My heart is still racing, and will take a while to calm down. I feel like someone is watching me, and as I turn my head, Leon smiles. We stare in silence a few seconds, until he makes a funny face, causing us to laugh.

— You took your time! Leon taps his watch.

— Oh, that's so funny. I roll my eyes.

I nearly crapped my pants!

I turn sideways and tug at the seat of my shorts, checking my pants for any wetness. Phew, nothing. Relieved, I sit upright. Lifting the strap over my head and the camera into my lap, I inspect the body and lens for any damage. Maybe a few surface scratches here and there. It wasn't brand new anyway.

Looking at the front of the lens, I breathe on the glass and wipe off any dust with my t-shirt. I also check the viewfinder, focussing on some trees across the canyon outside. Satisfied, I sling the thin strap around my neck again, and hold the camera in my hand.

Leon lies nonchalantly beside me, hands behind and cushioning his head. Humming to himself, he doesn't have a care in the world. I've known him all my life, as we were born a month or so apart.

We've become comfortable with the silences, where a nod or discreet hand signal are usually enough. It's now, that earning a signaling merit badge in the Boy Scouts, is actually useful for something.

— What ya doin' after the summer?

— Dunno. Get a job I guess. Leon shrugs.

— What's wrong with that?

— Nuthin', he mutters, his eyes still closed.

I quietly nod, as I will have to do the same.

The rumble and clatter of boxcars, and high-pitched squeals from the wheels, becomes repetitive. Suddenly, Leon sits bolt upright, scratching his head and yawning. Staring intently outside, he awkwardly shuffles his ass the few feet to the opening. I do the same, scuffing my shorts across the worn steel floor.

We sit close in the side doorway, our legs swinging loosely over the edge. Gazing out over the tall trees in Lakeview Canyon below, I notice the scar of the other railway track halfway up the opposite ridge.

Nudging his elbow into my side, Leon points back the way we came. As the train bends on the curve, we see another two diesel locos emerging from the dark tunnel snowshed, with more boxcars trailing behind. If we keep reasonably still, and don't draw attention to ourselves, we should be okay.

— I told ya we would make it, Leon remarks.

As he flicks back a lock of hair from his freckled face, it's obvious that he's a good-looking kid. He's confident, fearless, and does reckon he looks like a teenage Robert Redford. I guess so, if you photographed him from the right angle. Unexpectedly, he lets out a fart so loud that it reverberates the floor beneath him.

— Geesus!

— What? Leon shrugs.

Shaking my head I look to my right, as this metallic beast slowly snakes around the joined S-curve rails.

Memories of my absent dad come back, whom I haven't seen since my last birthday. He was away too often working as a telecom technician for the Southern Pacific. I suspect that's where my fondness for trains comes from. But my thoughts are rudely interrupted.

— Hey, did you hear about that kid who stole a bus in San Francisco? Leon blurts out.

— Nah. What happened?

— Well, the cops still don't know how this young kid managed to board a parked city bus, start it, get it out of the city, then drive for two-hundred miles along the I-80. Like, how did he reach the pedals?

— Uh huh. Was he stopped?

— Yeah. One mile short of the Nevada state line.

— Why did he do it? I prompt.

— His mom told the papers he's nuts about the streetcars and buses in San Francisco. Knows everything about them, I guess. His bedroom walls were covered with pictures and photos of them too. Well, until his brother complained. When they asked him why he did it, he said he was going to visit an aunt in New York!

— Right, I sigh.

As Leon's story comes to an abrupt end, the vista in front of us changes from the tree-covered canyon, to the glistening dark blue water of Donner Lake. From our vantage point on the outside of a curve, and facing due north, the length of it stretches west to east.

Nestled in the northern Sierra Nevada mountains, surrounding rocky and wooded slopes reach down to the sparkling water. Also rather noticeable across the lake, are the parallel lanes of Interstate-80, part of an east–to-west transcontinental highway carved through this pristine wilderness in the mid-sixties.

Enjoying the warm morning sun on our faces and the fresh mountain air, our daydreaming is thrown into semi-darkness by a concrete snowshed. This structure covers a railway switch, so it doesn't freeze from heavy winter snow. Once thrust into the bright sunshine again, our illicit ride carries us along the northern slope of Schallenberger Ridge.

Entering a curved tunnel on the eastern end, an odor of diesel fumes lingers. Then descending Coldstream Valley in a long loop like a bent finger, the locos with their ‘bloody noses’ and dirty gray bodies are directly opposite. Briefly, they're visible a few hundred yards away through a gap in the trees.

Exiting the valley, are a few more miles of curves and short straights, on the gentle descent to the sleepy township of Truckee.

The train slows with low thuds of metal couplers and hisses of brake air, eventually coming to a full halt on the eastbound of the two main tracks. A deep moan and rustling of heavy fabric from within the boxcar, draws our attention. Appearing from the shadows, shielding their eyes from the bright sun, is a scruffy-looking hobo. They must have been hidden in the dark, at one end of our boxcar. Now they just look confused, or hungry. Quite possibly both.

— What's this place? They rasp.

— Umm. Truckee, Leon offers.

Without another word, they push between us in the doorway, to awkwardly climb down. Looking both ways, they head off along the track to somewhere.

Leon gives me a nervous smile and shrugs. I shake my head in disbelief, thankful that nothing happened. An audible growl from Leon's stomach means he must be hungry. Patting it gently, he gives me a pleading-puppy kind of look.

— Hungry, Leon?

— Uh huh. It must be lunchtime!

Leaning out of the boxcar, we look both ways to see if the coast is clear. The track here is the closest to the main road on a rather gentle curve, with no buildings in-between. A white Ford Bronco with blue stripe rolls past, its off-road tires thrumming against the asphalt. Someone out on some errands, I guess. But we might also know them, so we had better move.

Jumping off, my sneakers slip on hitting the sloped ballast stones, sliding me to the flat trackside gravel. A few brisk strides over a couple of yards, we soon hustle our way east along Donner Pass Road.

— Hey, did you hear about another ufo sighting? Leon says suddenly.

— What are you on about now?

— Some say they saw an object with lights over the lake, he claims.

— Wasn't that a few years ago and reportedly seen by the Sheriffs and the chp too? Or are you thinking of Close Encounters that we saw a few years ago?

— Nah, my brother told me.

Leon just shrugs, ending that particular subject, for now. You never really know with him. He idolizes his older brother, so believes anything he tells him. But he does come up with some of the most random facts at the weirdest times!

We're walking on the right-hand side, with a handful of cars coming and going in each direction. There's no sign of the hobo ahead or behind us either, so don’t know where they disappeared to.

As the curve straightens, the automotive repair shop is diagonally across, near to the corner of Spring Street. Just past the railroad freight warehouse on this side, is a fifties-style 'Phillips 66' gas station.

Some cars and a faded Ford F-100 pickup truck, are parked at random outside a single-level wooden railway station. The locos of the eastbound freight sit idling at the tracks behind, stopped short of the only road level crossing in downtown.

The railroad is a defining part of Truckee's history. Construction of the rail route over the rugged Sierra Nevada mountains, a seven-thousand foot elevation at Donner Pass, was the most daunting. Workers toiled away blasting tunnels of varying lengths through solid granite, seven of those within a two-mile section over the summit. An abundance of pine forest provided lumber too, with one sawmill still here, over by the rail yards. Railroad operations ever since, include helper locos on the steep grade over the summit, railway snow clearing, and daily passenger services. Actually, the first passenger train, led by the locomotive Antelope, arrived from Sacramento in June, 1868.

— Wagon Train?

— Yup, sounds good. Leon agrees.

We amble across the road, during a lull in the quiet traffic, in the general direction of the Variety Shoppe. In contrast, the cars here are angle parked, their