Trouble in River City

CN Photo circa 1964

Lorne Perry - Photographer

The Conductor is in charge of the train and will place his crew as he sees fit.  Such was the case in the late fall of 1967.

I had been working the infamous “Rupert Rocket”, CN’s passenger train that ran between Jasper, Alberta and Prince Rupert, on BC’s remote northern coast. Due to having very little seniority for freight assignments at the time, I bid the Baggage Car hoping that I might be able to hold the job over the winter.  Passenger service didn't pay as much as freight, and most brakemen and conductors tended to avoid working passenger trains as much as possible.  However, I reasoned that working nights on the Rupert Rocket's baggage car was far superior to working a midnight assignment as a yard helper in Jasper. 

Besides being well known as the “Rocket”, the train has experienced many changes in the number by which it was shown in Employee Time Tables, CN travel brochures and, on the blackboards on the front of the train stations along the route. 

It had “made a name” for itself as 195 and 196; as 9 and 10, and as 5 and 6 in the space of a very few years.  In 1966 it was 9 and 10 in the Time Table, but everyone knew it as the Rupert Rocket.

Between Jasper and Prince George, the Rocket looked like many other passenger trains.  It had a recognizable locomotive, a steam generator car to provide heat for the train, a baggage car or two, up to four day coaches, a diner and two or more sleepers.

Photo Credit Doug Wingfield
Train #10 about to arrive at Jasper
September 3rd, 1967

The Rocket continued on from Prince George looking much different, however.

Just to start off with, the train number changed (in 1963, for example) from 195-196, to 695-696.  The conventional train and locomotive remained in Prince George while 695 left with a consist that was made up of Budd-built stainless steel Rail Diesel Cars, or RDC's.

Don Jaworski Photo

The man who had taken the “Flagman’s” position on the tail end of the train had only recently arrived from Northern Ontario Area and had worked for years in and around Capreol, my home town. 

He had hired in Capreol on August 12, 1950 when I was four years old.  When he showed up in Jasper, I was astounded that he had given up more than sixteen years of service in Ontario to begin all over again in Jasper.  The man’s name was Al XXXX.

I was helping the station agent to load express on the baggage car when I spotted our conductor, Marvin “Tiger” Swartz striding along the platform with Trainman Al in tow.

Neither man appeared very happy and I was soon to learn why.

Trainman Al was making his first trip as a Mountain Region brakeman and he didn’t know the territory.   Marvin told Al he was to work the head end cars, helping the conductor and the baggageman with the loading and unloading along the way.  While this wasn’t the most strenuous job on the crew, it must have been damn close to it.  The head end brakeman was required to wear the prescribed uniform and keep himself looking presentable to the public, while at the same time he might be required to help load and unload passengers, freight, heavy cans of milk and cream, clean up washrooms, and assist the conductor when he had to break up fights or take weapons away from belligerent passengers. Such was the scene on the Rocket in those days.

Al thought he should be able to exercise his “eastern” seniority and place himself on the tail end as Flagman.  Since Al had been forced to leave his eastern seniority at the west switch at Nakina, Ontario…, he was starting all over again in Jasper and had next to nothing for seniority.  In fact, I outranked him with only eighteen months of seniority.

“Tiger” had another idea.  He put the head end brakeman in the baggage car and put me on the tail end (I had to run home to get into my uniform).  Whether he liked it or not, Al would work the head end, or he could book sick and face discipline for it. 

Begrudgingly, he stood beside the orange stepping box that was on the station platform by the open vestibule door between the head end coach and the baggage car.  He would be very familiar with that portion of the territory before the night was over.

After leaving Jasper, I came up to the head end to give the conductor the “count” that the Sleeping Car Conductor had given me before he retired to a vacant bedroom.

The “count” was a breakdown of the passengers who were occupying the sleeping cars and what their destinations might be.  The passenger count was given to the operator at Redpass to be forwarded to the dispatching office in Prince George.  These numbers were used by the railway to keep track of the public's use of the trains, among other things.

As well, for each sleeping car, there was a notation indicating what roomette the porter for that car might be found in, should he be needed during the night.

Under the rules that governed the employees of the Sleeping and Dining department employees, the Porters and the Sleeping Car Conductor, (Ollie Lane) were to remain awake and alert all day and all night to answer the call of sleeping car passengers.

The train crews on the Rocket had an arrangement with the S&D crews;  they would ensure that coffee, tea, light lunches and such were left where we could get to them in the dining car…, and we would patrol the sleeping cars at regular intervals to offer assistance to their passengers if it was needed. Also, we would wake them up in the event a CN Sleeping and Dining Supervisor got on the train unexpectedly, as they sometimes did.  

The trip went smoothly.  I patrolled the rear half, or that part that was made up of sleeping and dining cars, and made sure I was available to help out in the coaches or in the baggage car.  Al seemed to settle in nicely  and everyone was getting along just fine.

We arrived in Prince George about 06:00 and were soon having a light breakfast in a nearby café.  For their away from home accommodations, Jasper passenger crews were using a couple of converted wooden boxcars that had been taken off their wheels and set onto the ground.  This “bunk house” was crude to say the least.  One had to light a fire in the stove in order to warm the space before getting into the old, metal cots, and when the weather was severe, as it often was in Prince George in winter, the rooms never did get warm enough to get to sleep. 

When Al heard this, he took a room at one of the hotels in town.  I didn’t want to tell him about the hotels, since he had already balked at using the bunkhouse.  The hotels in Prince George in the mid-sixties were straight out of an old Wild West movie!!

I was to have a warmer place to sleep this night. A girl that I had met on the train was moving from a basement suite to an apartment in town and I had agreed to help her move her belongings across town, as long as I had a chance to get a few hours sleep before heading back to Jasper at 23:00 (11:00pm) that night.

She had arranged to have a few friends and a truck to help with the move, but it still took several hours.  We didn’t finish the job until nearly 18:00.  I showered, ate, set the alarm for 21:30 and fell asleep on the couch.

When I awoke, it was 23:45!!  The train, if it left “On Time”, was already on its way and I had been left behind. 

My mind was racing!  I phoned the station and was told that Number 10 had left 15 minutes ago! 

I knew that there would be several stops in the first 18 miles at Foreman, Shelley, Willow River and Giscome.  The next stop wouldn’t be until they reached Dome Creek at 02:03. 

Giscome was my best bet, and I had only 30 minutes to get there, a distance of 24 miles.  I would need a miracle, but it wasn’t to be.  The lady’s little Datsun got stuck in the snow well before we got to Willow River. 

When we got the car back onto the road, my only option was to drive back to Prince George and hope that Marvin would cover for me so that I could sneak back into Jasper, unnoticed.

Number 848, a heavy, lumber-laden eastbound freight was due out of Prince George at 01:30 and I thought I might climb aboard a trailing unit in the engine consist without being noticed, thereby making my way to McBride and then, Jasper.

Since I had a bit of time to kill before 848 was due out, we went back to the apartment to have a cup of coffee and work out a plan to get my sorry butt out of this mess.

The most important thing was to keep under the radar until I had a chance to talk with Marvin and there was no way to reach him until I was back in Jasper.

As we entered the apartment, the phone rang and the lady picked it up.  I heard her say, “No, he’s not here.  I dropped him off at the station about 10:30.”

They were looking for me and all I could think of was to hide!

Sometime in the night, I couldn’t see my way out of it without confessing, so I took a cab to the station. 

When I arrived, I went into the Operator’s office and told him who I was.  He just picked up the phone and made a call.  Then he told me to sit down in the outer office and wait for whoever was coming to pick me up.

In a half hour, the Trainmaster showed up and, without saying much, escorted me to his office.

Soon, the Assistant Superintendant arrived and entered the office, closing the door behind him. 

He sat down and turned to look at me.

After I had explained what had happened in the previous eighteen hours, he asked me a very peculiar question.

He asked me if I had been at the station just prior to the train’s departure…, and had I spoken with trainman Al?

“No”, I said.  “The train had already left before I woke up, and I tried to catch it in the car, but it had got stuck in the snow, and….”

“OK”, he said.  “I’ll bring 848’s power back into the yard and you can deadhead back to Jasper on the freight train.”

“You’ll be contacted by your Trainmaster to make an appointment for an investigation of this incident.”

He got up and walked out, closing the door once again.

The Trainmaster spoke, saying…, “You’ll be taken out of service on arrival at Jasper.” “You won’t be called again for work until after you’ve been OK’d by your Supervisors.”

A couple of days later, I sat in front of the Jasper Trainmaster and his typewriter.  I explained what happened…, exactly as it had occurred. 

The investigation seemed to go on forever, and when it was over, he collated the six page statement of facts and handed it to me to read. 

I agreed that the statement was accurate and I signed it. 

“You can go back to work now”, he said.  “I’ll notify the crew office to ‘book you back on’.”

Now I waited for the brown envelope that would carry the message that I had been assessed with a great whack of “brownies”, or demerit points…, or worse; that I was being terminated!

I hadn’t seen or spoken to Marvin, or Al or the guy who worked the baggage car that trip.  I didn’t know how Marvin would take it or what kind of reception I would get when I showed up for work next trip.

The next trip, I found that some things were not as I expected them to be.

Al wasn’t on the crew, and in fact, he had left Jasper and had moved to Kamloops where he was on “Laid  Off” status.

I was back in the baggage car and Marvin seemed to be a bit more “bubbly” than usual.  He walked out of the station and across the platform with his “signature” gait, one that might make you think that he was under the influence of alcohol.  On the platform, he couldn’t walk a straight line and his feet didn’t seem willing to line up, one in front of the other.  But…, once he was aboard the train, and it was underway…, the pitching, bobbing and weaving motion of the cars running on the tracks seemed to match his pitching, bobbing and weaving gait just perfectly.  He was at home on the passenger train.

Photo Credit Peter Cox
Westbound freight circa late 80's crossing the Continental Divide at Yellowhead

When we passed over the Continental Divide at Yellowhead,  Marvin came into the baggage car and, taking off his uniform jacket and hat, he sat down at the table in front of the pot-bellied coal stove.  Without speaking, I poured two cups of coffee and handed one of them to him.

Then, he said…, “Well, I guess you’d like to know what happened?” 

I was confused.  “I thought you might like to know what happened”, I said.

“Oh, I know you helped your friends move to their apartment.” 

“And, I know you slept in and missed the train.”

“But, it was your friend, Al that set the stage for what happened later”, he said.

“Before we left Prince George, I asked him if he’d seen you, because I hadn’t seen you come down to the station.”

“He told me that he talked with you on the platform and had given you the train orders to look at.”  “He said you’d made a (hand-written) copy of the ones outlining the meets with other trains and then you got on the tail end of the train.”

“That’s not true”, I exclaimed loudly!

“I know that now”, he said. “But I had no reason to doubt him at that time.”

“When you didn’t come up at Willow River and Giscome to help with the passengers, I thought I’d better go back to find out why.”

“What I found was the rear door open on the right hand side and the steps were down, too.” 

“I woke up the Sleeping Car Conductor and made him get his Porters out of bed to help look for you in case you had found a warm bed to climb into!”

“When we couldn’t find you, I had no choice but to call the Dispatcher and tell him that it appeared you might have fallen off the train somewhere between Prince George and Giscome.”

So that explained a lot to me.  That’s why I overheard the Assistant Superintendant talking with the RCMP about running 848’s motive power out to the big bridge over the Fraser River.  They thought I might have fallen off, or worse…, that I might have been thrown off the train while on the bridge!

Photographer Unknown.  Source: Post Card and John MacDonald, Summerville, Nova Scotia.
Please visit his website at: http://yourrailwaypictures.com/TrainBridges/

The fact that I had slept past the call time for my assignment didn’t seem to be as worthy of everyone’s disappointment as the fact that the other brakeman had lied when he said he spoke with me on the platform and had seen me get on the train and close up the vestibule doors as required by the rules.

  

Whatever went on behind the scenes, I wasn’t made party to.  There was some talk about giving me some demerits, otherwise known as “shares in the company,” for not showing up for my assignment, but that didn’t materialize. 

Instead, trainman Al received demerits for his role in the episode. 

I never saw him again.

Note:  For a much broader view of life in the Robson Valley, please visit the website of Marilyn Wheeler of Sternwheeler press (McBride, BC). And better yet, order a copy of her wonderful book, The Robson Valley Story... A Century of Dreams. I highly recommend this book to anyone who is interested in a historical, yet social overview of the early development of one of BC's beautiful interior regions.  The building of the Grand Trunk Pacific is covered in detail with lots of wonderful anecdotes and photographs.

Milk Cow Blues on the Rupert Rocket

The baggage and freight handlers were working feverishly to finish transferring several tons of freight, express, mail and baggage from the platform to the baggage cars on the head end of Number Nine, standing on passenger track two in front of the station at Jasper, Alberta.

Photo Credit C. Van Steenis

For the better part of an hour, the small but dedicated team of station employees had been moving boxes, suitcases, mail sacks and more from the express room to the platform using a half dozen or more green baggage carts that clattered over the rails on steel rimmed, wood-spoke'd wheels of unknown vintage.

It was early autumn in the Rockies and the year was 1968.  The western Canadian economy had been on fire for at least the last five years with a great deal of activity in the forest industry in British Columbia.  Lumber towns like Prince George were stretched to the limit as a pulp and paper town, as well as processing millions of cubic feet of finished lumber for eastern and southern markets.

In moving these forest products from Prince George to eastern and US markets, the CNR provided for three freight train schedules per day between Prince George and Red Pass Junction, 43 miles west of Jasper on the Albreda sub.

This land of opportunity brought people..., lots and lots of people.  Trains Nine and Ten were running with three day coaches on the head end and every seat was sold, every night.  Closer to the weekends, CN might have to scramble to ready a fourth day coach for the evening train.  Whenever four working day coaches were needed, a second conductor was called to help make sure all the passengers were properly cared for and to make sure that no one was carried past their intended stop.

On this particular Friday evening, I noticed that Number Nine had four day coaches behind the two baggage cars.  The station platform was busy, with passengers mingling with station staff, car men making last minute checks, porters checking passenger's accommodation tickets, ice lockers being topped up with ice brought from the ice house beside the diesel shop and, of course, the clattering baggage carts moving back and forth.

I was glad, I thought, that I had decided to come down to the station 40 minutes early.  There would be hundreds of pieces of luggage to write up as well as a car full of express to view and sign for.  Fortunately, I wouldn't be required to inspect and account for the dozens of dirty grey bags of Royal Mail that lay piled on the floor of the 'working' car..., my car.

I climbed into the vestibule and opened the solid, black steel door that led into the baggage car.  Closing the door, I slid the heavy steel bar into place, locking the door to access from the train.  To my right and left, luggage was piled, floor to ceiling and wall to narrow walkway in the center of the car, leaving a space less than three feet wide to move through the car.

In order to keep track of the all the luggage, and to arrange it so that it would be available on a first-out basis, I had to look at each piece of luggage and mark down the information that was written on the baggage tags affixed to each piece of baggage.  To do this, I had to tear down the mountains of bags and boxes piled against the walls of the car, make a record of the baggage tags and re-pile the myriad pieces of people's lives in an order that placed the 'short-hauls' at the front of the pile and the 'long-hauls' or through baggage at the rear.  This job would take up the first hour of my night if I worked fast.  Occasionally, an off-duty brakeman would wander by and offer to help for the price of a cup of coffee.  This was one of those nights.  A brakeman from Smithers, BC was travelling with his wife and had been visiting her family in Edmonton.  They both pitched in and we had the job done in no time.  While he and I talked, his wife walked over to Phil's Chinese across the street and brought back coffee and treats.

While she was away, a baggage cart had been pulled up to the open door and a young fellow wearing a Jasper Park Lodge logo on his shirt asked for help to slide an animal crate into the baggage car.  My guest and I each took hold of one side of the crate and lifted it onto the floor of the car.  Inside the crate, which seemed much too small, was a German Shepherd dog.  We slid it across the width of the car and backed it against the wall in a spot near my desk, but out of the way of the night's work.  Turning, I went back to the open door and caught the young man as he was towing the cart back to the station.

"Where's this dog's water bowl", I asked?

"His owner's travelling with him," he said.  "And she will come up and give him water when he gets thirsty".

"She has sleeping car accommodation and is going to Prince Rupert to catch a ship" he said as he made his way into the crowd of people on the platform.

There was documentation stapled to the top of the crate that indicated that the owner had paid to have the dog shipped along her intended route of travel. There was also a hand-written note to 'All Concerned' insisting that the dog be kept in the crate at all times and must not be allowed out by anyone other than the owner, a Madame G. La Chance.  The note went on, "Owner will feed, water and exercise this animal"

At the bottom of the note, almost as an afterthought were the words, "His name is 'Toujours'" (French for 'Always').

"At least, she hadn't tried to send him on a 'baggage tag'", I thought.

With all the baggage, express, mail and dog accounted for, I swung the big steel bar out of the way, unlocking the door.  Opening it, I stepped out and went down to the platform where I searched the sea of faces for the conductor, Marvin Swartz (whom you've all met in an earlier story).  I found him talking with the assistant conductor and the trainmaster on duty.  Catching his eye, I indicated that I was ready to go and he could leave when he was ready.

I went back into the baggage car for coffee with my guests from Smithers.

Sitting down, the brakeman's wife told me that she noticed that the dog's toe pads on his front feet were showing signs of having been bleeding.

I had a look at the dog's feet through the wire enclosure and couldn't tell, so I said I'd keep an eye on it.

Soon enough, we heard the locomotive's bell begin to ring, followed by gentle tugging on the car.  The draft gear and couplers began to creak and Train Number Nine was on it's way to the Interior of British Columbia.

Once the train picked up speed, the evening chill permeated the inside of the car and, not wanting to turn up the steam heat provided by the steam generator just behind the locomotive, I got up and lit a small fire in the coal stove near the working desk and the table where we were sitting with the last of our coffee.

With the kindling burning strongly now, I raised the lid of the coal bin and took out a scoop of hard, black coal.  I carefully spread it over the burning wood inside the stove.

Satisfied that  the chill would soon be off the well lit activity center in the middle of the car, I pulled from a pigeon hole above the desk, the only OCS mail that I had for the Albreda sub, and that was a couple of brown envelopes addressed to "Lucerne" about half way between Jasper and Red Pass Jct.  I removed a yellow fusee from the rack on the wall and wrapped the envelopes around the fusee, securing them with a couple of thick brown elastic bands.  If the train wasn't flagged to allow passengers to entrain, I would let fly the fusee and envelopes confident that the airborne package would land safely within one or two yards of the front door of the little white renovated boxcar that had been converted for use as a station.

The dog whimpered, and pulled at the screen on the front of the crate with his front paws.

When the train stopped at Red Pass Jct. to line switches and pick up mail and other packages for delivery to McBride and Prince George, I got off the train and went inside the station to stretch my legs and to look over any train orders and messages that might be issued for our train.

I commented to Tiger that I was a bit surprised that he hadn't come to the baggage car for a chat since we left Jasper.  He turned to me and, pushing his hat back on his head, he said that he was grateful to have an assistant conductor.  "Four day coaches and every seat is sold", he said.  "And they've oversold the train"..."I've got a dozen people back there who don't have seats!!!"  "I've put them into the Dining Car until we leave McBride".

Walking back to the train, Marvin handed me a message that read:

C and E, Train #9, date.
Arrange stop at Dunster to load shipment of milk destined Prince George dairy.

Usually, this wasn't bad news because it would mean that we would be able to lift the lid from a can of pure, raw cream for our coffee and toast in the wee hours before arriving at Prince George.  However, tonight there just wasn't room for 'several cans' of milk from Dunster to Prince George.  I would have to move all of the Royal Mail from the baggage car to the express car just behind the steam generator.  And that might not do it.

My baggage car and the express car were full to near capacity and I would have to enlist help to make room for the Dunster milk.  I had left some room for the twenty or so cans of milk that would be added to the train at McBride, but hadn't counted on this shipment from Dunster!

Marvin (Tiger) Swartz was one step ahead of me and, before we passed Alpland, the end door swung wide open..., Tiger never entered a room timidly, and introduced me to a small army of conscripts that he had collared in the day coaches.

Soon, they had moved all of the Royal Mail sacks into the express car and created an amazing amount of free space in the west end of the car.  I was grateful and promised them that the coffee pot would be ready for them once we left McBride.  They were happy with that and went back to their seats.

After I had closed the steel door behind my volunteers, I turned to see Tiger crouching low and, with his fingertips, gently rubbing the dog's ear.

"Where's his water bowl", Tiger asked?

"He doesn't have one", I answered.

"I'm going to let him out to stretch his legs and have a drink", I said.

"My advice...,"said Tiger..., "Leave the dog where it is!", and he left to go back to his desk in the coach.

I searched in all the cubby holes in my desk and finally found a dusty white porcelain bowl and a length of stout binding twine, which I doubled up into a length of about eight feet.  I rinsed and wiped the dirt from the bowl and filled it from the galvanized metal water tank held to the wall by sturdy steel straps.

'Toujours' emerged from his crate and took a long, leisurely stretch, then nearly drained the water from the white porcelain bowl I found in the supply cabinet.  I attached the makeshift leash to his collar and tied the bitter end to a painted wooden slat that made up part of the wall beside my desk and behind his crate.  He soon was laying on the floor, fully outstretched and falling asleep.

He didn't even lift his head when we slowed to deliver OCS mail to the darkened train order office at Tete Jaune.

Twenty minutes later, Tiger entered the baggage car with the rear end trainman and a couple of "volunteers" from the coach.  This was to be my team of milk handlers for Dunster.

Tiger gave me "a look", and softly told me to put the dog back into the crate.

That proved to be a little more difficult than I had anticipated, for the dog had other plans and wouldn't go back into the crate.

"Later", I thought, when Tiger and the other brakeman would be up to help me load the milk.  We'd put 'Toujours' back into the crate then.

The train slowed to a crawl and Tiger pulled the big rolling doors open and peered outside and ahead.

"Wow", he said!

Gripping the steel bar above the open doorway, I leaned out for a look, and immediately agreed with him.  There were at least fifty cans of milk and a few cans of cream to be loaded.   The cans were sitting on the platform, under the extended eaves of the old, un-occupied Grand Trunk Pacific Railway station.

Reaching up to a cord that stretched across the width of the open doors, Tiger took the cord with his finger tips and gave it two short tugs.  The train's brakes squealed against the wheels and we came to a stop withing three feet of the intended mark, just opposite the front of the station.

Perhaps I could have waited until after we left McBride to stoke up the fire in the coal stove; but I hadn't.  I'd stoked the fire after the train had left Tete Jaune and the kettle was now boiling with a purpose.


After removing the innards from the coffee percolator, I set the basket, lid and percolator stem into the supply cabinet.  From the two pound can of ground coffee that one of the construction camp shippers had 'donated' to the crew on 9 & 10, I took a heaping handful of coffee and let it pour into the empty coffee pot.  Next, I put in a half teaspoon of salt and filled the pot to within an inch or two of the top of the spout.

Leaving the lid off, I placed the pot on the center of the hot stove and, within a minute, the water, coffee and salt inside was in a rolling, foaming boil.  I put the lid on tight and pushed the pot to the back of the stove to keep warm.


Instantly, the inside of the baggage car filled with the tempting aroma of hot, fresh coffee.

                                      Photo Credit Google Images Photographer Unknown

Forgetting all about the dog, tied with a length of binder twine just opposite to the double-wide door we would use to load the milk onto the train, the crew and volunteers took up positions on the ground and inside the baggage car.

Looking around and finding everyone ready, I gave the word to begin loading, and the cans began to arrive out of the darkness and into the light inside the car.

                                          Photographer Unknown, Source Google Images

The milk cans began to move in a continuous line, from the station, across the platform to the open door, where the rear brakeman and another fellow were each gripping the heavily loaded milk can in front of them, and with a grunt, they lifted the cans and shoved them into the open doorway.

Can after can, the milk was filling up every available space that we had created, and there were still several large cans and a few small cans yet to be loaded.

With each can they lifted, the men on the ground grew more tired, until they asked to take a moment to re-position themselves.

Tiger, who had earned his name in the boxing ring, and who was still in 'fighting trim', goaded the boys on..., suggesting they trade off with two other fellows, they laughed out loud and bent to grab another can.

Working like an old-fashioned fire brigade, the fellows on the ground moved the cans of milk from the front of the station, and across the platform; and moving in tandem, they tilted each can onto it's edge.  With one hand gripping a handle, and the other on the rolled edge at the bottom, they lifted in one movement, just barely getting the can onto the edge of the door sill.  Tiger and I were just inside the door, and as each can reached our grasp, we took them, and in one rolling motion, dragged them to the next fellows who placed them, row on row inside the car.

                                           Source: Google Images.  Photographer Unknown.

We were all working as hard as we could and sweat was running down our backs.  We were all loosening our shirts, trying to cool down.

Heaving together, they lifted the can as high as they could, and..., the bottom edge of the can didn't make it all the way into the open doorway.  It caught the sloping steel door sill, and began to slide backward toward the ground.


Both men had gripped the top of the can with both hands, and now had no free hands to prevent the can from falling to the ground.  The can tipped forward into the baggage car, and with all hands inside the car working to roll the heavy milk cans into position near the west end of the car, there was no one available to catch the milk can that was falling onto its side...., in slow motion....!!!

Tiger and I grabbed for the top of the can, but it had already passed its center of balance and was falling inward, to land on it's side.  

Time stood still.  The can landed heavily and gave a small bounce.

The lid remained in place..., but only for an instant.  With a muffled gurgling sound, the milk inside surged into the neck of the can, and the lid literally flew across the baggage car floor...., clattering noisily, it careened  between the legs of the German Shepherd named "Toujours"!

Rearing up, Toujours deftly escaped the flying saucer that had only a second ago been firmly jammed onto the top of the 5-gallon milk can.  But what followed, presented a threat that, I'm sure no one inside the baggage car, including Toujours had ever confronted; a wave of ice cold, white milk shot across the floor, following the path that the lid had taken.

It all happened in a flash... the milk rushed from the now-open can, the dog frantically backed away from it, and the hot stove was standing there..., its presence preventing the retreating dog from reaching the wall of the car.

It's a good thing that dogs, when they're frightened..., tuck their tails between their legs.  Or, at least one would hope that they do that when they're in "fight or flight" mode.  Perhaps Toujours didn't have time to get his tail down, but it was obvious that he got too close to the coal stove, because it was definitely the stove that put him in motion.

At the same time however, he didn't want to engage the advancing white fear that was the flood of milk that had gotten his complete attention.  He leaped forward, clearing the angry, white monster that had just launched itself at him.    About half way across the width of the car, and while still airborne, he reached the end of the binder-twine leash I had made for him.  It snapped with a resounding 'ping' and he landed with all four paws firmly on the edge of the door sill.  Without missing a beat, Toujours sprang from the open doorway, clearing the heads of the two men on the platform who instinctively threw their arms up to protect themselves from the dog that had landed within inches of their faces.

Toujours disappeared into the darkness beyond the light of the train.

For a moment, all that was heard was the gentle throbbing of the two F7 locomotives which seemed to be beating much slower than the blood that was pounding in my head.

I immediately looked toward the end of the baggage car where, I was certain, Mme. La Chance was sure to emerge from behind the steel door, demanding to see her dog.  It remained closed.

We spent several minutes looking around the station, under the train and up and down the road near the tracks, but there was no sign of 'Toujours'.

With nothing left to be said or done, Tiger bent at the waist, picked up the stepping box and yelled into the night..., "Boooaaaard!"

The dog was gone and it was my fault.  Of course, by extension, it was also Tiger's fault.  Something had to be done, or there would be hell to pay once Madame La Chance discovered that I had let her dog out of the crate he was travelling in.

I turned to Tiger to tell him what I had decided to do, but he headed me off.  He told me that I had already made one decision too many regarding the dog and he took a small knife from his pocket and opened it up, exposing a flat bladed screw driver.  With it, he turned the screws holding the hinges on the crate's door panel until the threads had chewed up the wood so much that the screws would no longer hold the door on securely.

Without saying a word, he poured us each a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove and sat down on an old caboose chair near the table.

Setting his cup down on the table, he raised his hand and cocked his fist at me.  Then he broke into a big grin and pushed his salt and pepper hair back on his head.

"There's no sense crying over spilled milk".

The dog'll be OK," he said, taking a sip of baggage car coffee and Prince George Dairies cream.

"Perhaps he will", I said.

                                                              http://www.dogbreedinfo.com/germanshepherdphotos7.htm


At that moment, I really appreciated my friend, Tiger.

                                                    Photo Credit:  BBB Heritage Seeds

One Night On The Rupert Rocket in 1966

The baggage wagons were pulled away from the side of the train and herded to their resting places at the west end of the Jasper station.  Their steel tired wheels clattered noisily as they crossed over the mainline and headed toward the Express and Baggage sign that hung from the large overhanging roof over the station platform.  There they would remain until just before the next passenger train was due to arrive.  Station workers, their outside work completed, disappeared into the brightly lit interior recesses.

 Rain had started falling as the last of the baggage and express was being loaded.  Pools of rainwater, growing too large to remain on the round roof of the passenger cars, released themselves from their lofty perch and cascaded down the sides of the cars and over the windows.  The passengers had settled into their seats and now waited patiently for the train to start moving.  As they watched from the large windows by their seats, rivulets of rain water spilled down like some living creature, trying to reach the ground before the Conductor called "All Aboard" and the train departed, leaving the train station for the darkness of the Rocky Mountains at night.  In the bright lights along the station platform, the cars looked like they had just emerged from the railway's paint shop and had been pressed into service with the paint still wet.

Railway employees hurried this way and that along the platform, gathering hoses to coil up and put away in hidden spaces under the platform.  They pulled carts that had, only minutes before carried supplies to the dining car, or extra blankets to the sleepers.  The men were dressed in dark coveralls and wearing dirty peaked caps that told of countless repetitions of the tasks they were performing at this moment.

Conductor Schwartz, dressed in his dark blue uniform over a crisp white shirt and black tie, came out of the station checking the time on his watch.  As he deftly dropped his trusty Hamilton 992B gold pocket watch into the little vest pocket that kept it safe until the next time he needed it, one couldn't help but notice the cluster of gold bars that were sewn onto the sleeves of his uniform jacket; one for every five years of service.

Looking to his left, he saw that his flagman, the rear end trainman was standing near the stepping box at the back of the train.  The coal oil lamp inside the train's rear marker flickered, displaying a dancing green light that reflected along the side of the sleeping car, the last car on the train.  And looking to his right, Marvin met my gaze and I nodded to him, indicating that all was well in my world...that of the baggage cars on train number nine.

Schwartz raised his arm high in the air and the flagman answered by raising his arm as well.  In one motion, and without breaking stride, Conductor Swartz bent low and grabbed the stepping box from the platform and, taking one of the coach's polished stainless steel grab irons in one of his big, tough hands, he stepped up onto the stairs leading to the platform in the vestibule at the end of the car.  After a brief word with the young head-end trainman who was also in the vestibule, he pushed open the door and stepped into the coach.  The trainman reached up for the cord that hung from a valve near the top of the vestibule and gave it a couple of short tugs.  This was answered by a couple of short blasts on the whistle, as the engineer released the brakes and cracked the throttle.  The bell began to ring from the top of the engine's cab and the sound of air being released from the coaches announced that the train was about to depart.

The brakeman released the catch on the two-part dutch door and closed, first the lower door and then the upper one.  The train was now secure and he followed his conductor into the day coach to help him collect tickets and hang destination tags above each persons seat.

Conductor Schwartz' first name was Marvin, but everyone who knew him called him "Tiger", for that was his professional name when he toured the prairie fight circuit as a pro boxer, and sometimes as a rodeo rider in the late 40's and the 50's.  Tiger still liked to ride the bulls whenever he got a chance and he was known as a scrapper among both crews and passengers alike.  Tiger and I got along quite well.

In the Winter of 1966, the Rupert Rocket was the most practical and economical method of travelling to Prince George in the interior of BC from all points east.  The train, run by the CNR from Jasper, Alberta to Prince Rupert, BC left Jasper after dinner six nights a week and arrived in “PG” in time for breakfast.  During the night, the train would stop at several regular stops, as determined by the timetable; and many more "Flag Stops" would be made at unmarked places along the way.  Wherever a green and white flag was encountered, sometimes displayed in front of a small track-side shelter, sometimes from a nearby tree branch…the train would stop to entrain passengers, pick up mail or drop off supplies to bush camps, prospectors, hunters, trappers and Natives. 

After leaving Jasper, there wasn't much to do until we arrived at Redpass Junction, about 43 miles west.  There was a tiny train order station at Lucerne near the halfway mark and the possibility of receiving train orders on the fly, or perhaps a passenger to drop off or pick up.  Since there were no private dwellings at Lucerne any more, and only the CNR train order operator who lived in the converted boxcar that was both his office and his home away from home, there was little likelihood that there would be a passenger to pick up or leave behind.

At Redpass, our train left the former Canadian Northern Pacific mainline, now...CNR mainline to Vancouver and branched off onto the former Grand Trunk Pacific mainline to Prince Rupert.  Local railroaders still called it "The Trunk".  Leaving Redpass on our descent of the hill past Mount Robson, following the headwaters of the Fraser River, we entered very dark territory.  Gone were the electric 'search light' signals of the Automatic Block Signal train detection system of the Albreda Sub.  We were now running on the Tete Jaune Sub, where switches were marked with oil-burning switch lamps that were filled and lit by section crews who patrolled and maintained the track, mostly during the daylight hours.

This was true western Canadian wilderness.  There were no lights from homes and farms, no roads or power transmission lines...nothing but dark forests and towering, snow and ice-covered mountains.  On a clear night, you might get an unobstructed view of Mount Robson from the train, reaching up nearly 13,000 feet above the sea.

The station at Tete Jaune was dark, as it was operating under new hours, being open only during the day when most of the freight trains that ran on this subdivision might be found.

Arriving at Dunster, halfway between Tete Jaune and McBride, the train slowed.  Opening the door on the side of the baggage car, I stuck my head out into the night while reaching up to find the communication cord hung somewhere above the door.  There was a green and white flag hung in its holder by the waiting room door in front of the station and a woman stepped out of the darkness and, picking up her suitcase from the platform, moved forward to the line near the edge of the platform.  Judging the right combination of speed and momentum, I pulled twice on the cord and the train stopped.

While the trainman stepped off the train and placed the stepping box on the platform, I climbed down from the open door and, taking the long wooden draw bar of the baggage wagon that stood in front of the closed up station, I pulled the first of three wagons loaded with large cans of raw milk and cream that was destined for the creamery at Prince George.

Conductor Schwartz had commandeered a couple of strong backs to help swing the heavy cans up onto the baggage car while he and I spun them into place near the end of the car.  In less than fifteen minutes, we were underway once more.

Completing a quick tally of milk and cream, I pried the lid off one of the cream cans and scooped up a cup full of the thick off-white coloured delight and set it in the middle of the table for use in our coffee.  I banged the lid back onto the can and put it with the others.

During a half hour stop in McBride, the baggage car was loaded with many more five gallon cans of un-processed milk and cream from local dairy farms, and items of baggage belonging to people who had come aboard heading for Prince George and points west.

Day coach passengers were given the opportunity to get off the train during our stop at McBride.  When the train pulled to a stop in front of the station, several got off and wandered into ‘the beanery’, a railway operated restaurant for an early breakfast. The beanery staff had a talent for getting a customer's order ready in a matter of minutes so that everyone could eat, have a cup of coffee and get back on the train without delaying the schedule.

The in-coming engineer and fireman, who had brought the train from Jasper to McBride were standing on the platform talking with the out-going head end crew.  Surely, they were discussing water and fuel levels, the way the new traction motors on the lead unit were behaving and the ditch light that had burned out as the train was leaving Redpass.  All of these matters would have been booked, or written down on CN Form 538D which lived in a sheet metal holder on the back wall of the locomotive cab, but the engine crew would still discuss their findings with the new crew before they handed over responsibility for the engine consist.

The McBride shop staff were on hand to check fuel and water levels and would check the function of the large steam generators in the car immediately behind the locomotive.  You see, the engines used on the Rupert Rocket were not the same as those used on the mainline passenger trains.  Normally, they were used in freight service and when needed on the branch lines, were coupled to a steam generator car that did nothing else but create steam, under pressure to heat the train and provide heat for the galley in the dining car.

This photo, taken by Peter Cox, of Edmonton AB is of CN train number 4 east of Vancouver.  It shows the use of two freight locomotives, the 9173, a GFA17 and a similar "B", or cabless unit.  Notice the blue car immediately behind the second striped locomotive: this is a steam generator car providing heat to the train.
This photo also demonstrates the placement of the lights on the front of the locomotive, with the dual sealed beam headlight on top and the two ditch lights, a CN innovation, on the bottom.  Thank you, Peter.

The final load of baggage rolled out of the express shed on an old green cart at the west end of the station topped with grey canvas bags marked "Royal Mail".   The station agent and his helper slid the baggage across the floor to me, then piled the mail bags on top of the already deep pile that had come from Jasper.  Wiping their hands on their trousers, they climbed down from the car and without a word, slipped inside the station, closing the door behind them.

After comparing their watches and discussing the train orders with the engineer, the conductor gave the familiar “all aboAARRd” call from the platform and lightly climbed onto the coach to check his passengers.

Once more, the familiar scene was repeated.  Station staff  retreated to their desks, the beanery staff busied themselves with cleaning up the counter top, sweeping the floor and washing up the kitchen before heading home to bed.

I finished processing the baggage, adding their tag numbers and destinations to the report that I would hand over to the station agent in Prince George.

The rain began to fall with a vengeance.  Rain drops drummed a constant and concerning roar on the roof of the baggage car as I took one last look at the station platform for anything, or anyone that might get left behind.  I closed and locked all the doors, except one.  This, I left open just a few inches for fresh air.  

 I was grateful that we had gotten our work done at McBride before the deluge began.

The head-end brakeman took one last look up and down the platform and, picking up the orange stepping-box he swung up into the vestibule.  In a series of movements, he put away the stepping box, lowered the vestibule deck into position over the steps and closed the doors.  Reaching up to the ceiling he hooked his fingers over the communicating cord connected to an air-operated signalling system and pulled it twice.  The brakes on the train were released as the locomotive’s bell began to ring and the whistle sounded twice.

With the slightest lurch, the night air came alive with the creaking and squealing sounds of draw bars, vestibule buffers and truck springs.  The train began to move, then slipped silently away from the brightly-lit station platform and into the rain soaked night.  The engine throttles were opened up and the big diesels eagerly leaned into their charges, speeding away to the next stop.

In the baggage car, the coal stove was burning hot and the over-filled kettle began to hiss and spit as water escaped from the spout, landing on the hot cast iron stove top as the train rolled along the track.

Running a bit late due to several slow orders that were in place due to soft track conditions between Tete Jaune and McBride, locomotive engineer ‘Pappy’ Howard worked the throttle and the air brakes in an effort to make up a few minutes on the schedule.  I listened to the  staccato rumble of the diesel engines that echoed off the mountains and trees.  The wheels and the rail joints created that clickety-clack that everyone loves to remember, and mixed with the engine sounds was music that entered my baggage car through the partially opened sliding door.  I shovelled a scoop or two of coal into the pot-bellied stove that stood beside the painted steel desk that was fixed to the wall, midway along the length of the baggage car.  On the desk lay baggage reports and Express Department documents that I would have to edit into reports-in-triplicate that would be sent by OCS Mail (On Company Service) to offices in Vancouver, Edmonton and Montreal.   Hanging on a length of heavy wire hung a flat steel key of about three inches in length which unlocked the heavy steel safe sitting on the floor beside the upright desk I called my office.  Much of the time, the safe wasn’t locked, as there wasn’t much need to lock it.  Occasionally though, certain items would be loaded onto the head-end cars at Jasper or Prince George that were accompanied by a “Value Receipt” which the baggageman (me) signed for in the presence of the Express Agent.  The ‘item’ mentioned above might be an envelope, or it might be a package containing something of value like jewelry, bullion or cash. 

On this particular trip, we were carrying several oblong shaped bundles that were approximately 14” long by 8” wide by 6” high.  These were wrapped in heavy brown waxy paper which was neatly folded at the ends and where the folds met, there was a dollop of heavy, hardened red wax that had been imprinted with a stamp of some sort.

Each of the bundles had a 3 by 5 form taped to it with rather obscure hand-written code that consisted of letters and numbers.  The form also had a clearly defined number of 6 or 7 digits, as I recall that identified the package as one that I had signed for on a sheet that the Express Agent brought for that purpose.

Most of the bundles were all locked safely inside the heavy safe and the key was hanging from a hook above the desk.  However, the steel strong box wasn't large enough to hold all of the shipment, so some of it was had been stuffed into compartments above my desk that we called pigeon holes.  These were open compartments and were never meant to protect high value shipments.  When I brought my concerns to local railway authorities in Jasper, I was told to keep all the doors locked and not leave the car unattended.  

While they weren't identified as such, it was reasonable to assume that these packages contained paper currency, as there was reference made on the way bills to a Canadian Bank in Edmonton and another branch in one of the small towns on "The Trunk" in north western BC.   Out of curiosity, I added up the total value as stated on the waybills and came up with a figure in excess of half a million dollars!  Not that much by 2011 standards, but in 1966, when a 12 hour day's pay on the railroad was less than $25.00, the contents of those packages represented a large fortune!

Pappy blew the whistle signal 14(l), two long, one short and one long... just as I placed the cast iron lid back on the stove.  I tossed the scoop shovel into the coal bin and dropped the metal lid into place. Wiping my hands on a paper towel, I unlatched the big sliding steel door and leaned into it, pulling it open a few feet.  Cool, damp air rushed into the warm car and rain water that had been running down the outside of the door's window, now rode the swirling puffs of night air and settled on the polished steel floor in the doorway.  Taking a firm grip on the grab iron that was bolted to the wall near the edge of the opening, I squeezed my eyelids closer together and poked my head outside.  Looking forward, I could see the track and trees ahead of the engine as the scene was illuminated by the engine's headlight and ditch lights.  Everything behind the leading end of the engine lay in darkness, save for the soft yellow light that originated from a grime covered light bulb under the skirt of the engine that lit up the leading truck and the ground beside it.

Brakemen depend on this light to lead them to the hand rails and foot rests on the ladder when en-training or de-training in the dark of night.  When attempting to "lift" a heavy train from a stopped position, engineers would roll down the window and lean out, resting an elbow on the padded window ledge and, releasing the brakes and cracking the throttle with their left hand and pushing the "manual sanding" lever over into the forward position with their right, they would watch the illuminated ground beside the engine for an accurate indication of their forward movement.  Sometimes, if this operation was not carried out successfully, the train could roll backward, even with the throttle open in forward operation.  This could force the engineer to reverse the engine and back into the train while setting the brakes.  The object of this maneuver is to bunch the slack while the train is stopping.

The engineer will then return the engine to 'forward' position and begin to work the throttle once again.  When he sees that the load indicator is showing two or three hundred amperes of DC power being delivered to the traction motors on the axles, he will release the train and engine brakes and once again, watch the ground below his window.  With his left hand, he will work the throttle back and forth, exercising care that not too much, nor too little power is being delivered to the traction motors.  Too much, and the wheels will slip and the engine will lunge forward with the potential to tear the train in two.  Too little and the train will once again begin to move in reverse, resulting in the whole procedure to be repeated.  As the brakes release, the engine picks them up, one or two at a time while the brakes are still applied at the rear of the train holding it in place.  

Squeezing my eyelids closed to force the rain water from my eyes, I could see the engine leaning into a right hand curve as the track followed the course of the river.  The bright headlights, boring a hole into the cold, wet night illuminated the open end of a tunnel that allowed trains to pass beneath the steep mountain-side ahead.  I pulled my head inside the car and reached for another paper towel to wipe the rain from my face. 

While the rules called for the whistle to be blown approaching tunnels, curves, bridges, railway crossings at grade and other places as may be determined by the railway, it was a bit unusual for Pappy to blow the whistle for the tunnel this late at night and in such bad weather.  My curiosity was up.

As I wiped the rain-water from my eyes, I heard the train brakes go into emergency!  The baggage car began to surge back and forth.  As the train’s speed dropped quickly, the leading end of the car was raised up a few inches and began to tilt toward the river.  I abandoned any thought of pulling the door closed, and dove headlong into a large pile of Royal Mail sacks that had been neatly stacked on the floor near the end of the car.  Frantically pulling as many bags as I could reach on top of myself,  I huddled in a tight fetal position and took a deep breath.  I wondered if the train would stop moving in time to avoid a cold swim in the river.

Amid the sound of screeching brakes, grinding metal and surging train cars, all movement finally came to a stop.  The baggage car settled with only a slight list toward the rain-swollen river.

After waiting a moment anticipating an after-shock of some unknown origin, I threw off the mail sacks that had covered me and re-opened the side door, which had rolled to a close during the excitement.  I looked toward the engine to try to determine what we had hit and saw the two locomotives standing upright along with the steam generator car immediately behind it.   The Express car, which contained  high-value shipments and which was immediately behind the steam generator car was upright as well.  My baggage car was next in line. 

I was unable to determine whether the baggage car was derailed or not, because it was standing in mud, rocks and broken tree parts.   Looking toward the rear of the train, I saw that half of the baggage car was still inside the west end of the tunnel.  

The door at the end of the car closest to the coaches opened with a loud bang and the conductor came striding in.  Marvin “Tiger” Schwartz was well seasoned as a passenger conductor and had seen just about everything that the railroad or Mother Nature could throw at him.  When it comes to train mishaps, this one was of the "not too serious kind", but neither was he flashing his usual broad smile.

Sliding open the door closest to the mountainside, Tiger took a look around outside.  He said we were going to need help to get out of there and asked me if I had checked the tool locker before we left Jasper.  “Of course”, I lied;  I could tell by the look that he gave that he knew I was lying.  It didn't matter, though.  One shovel and a pry bar was not going to get us out of this mess.  We were going to need a gang of men, each with a sturdy hand tool.

I knew that there was a shipment of hand tools including shovels, picks, axes, bars and others in the express car.  These had been consigned to Ben Ginter Construction of Prince George and were en-route to one of his  construction sites near Prince George.  I mentioned this to Tiger and he brightened right up with “Hell yeah”, “And I've got about twenty of his men sleeping in the day coach!”  He told me to go back to the coaches and conscript every able-bodied man I could find, while he made his way up to the engine to find out how Pappy and the fireman were doing.  While he was on the engine, he said he’d call the dispatcher and get permission to put Mr. Ginter’s men to work, putting them on the company payroll. 

I returned to the baggage car with every man from the coaches.  Not a single man chose to remain behind.  They all volunteered!  Tiger had spoken with the fireman who had come back to find out how the train had fared in the collision with the slide.  The fireman told him that the dispatcher in Prince George had been notified of our situation and arrangements were being made to help us, if required.  Tiger decided that we would try to extricate ourselves and, failing that, we would call for help. It would take at least four or five hours to get help to us, even if an "ASAP" call was initiated at Prince George.  Wrecking crews, train and engine crews, laborers, bulldozer and operator, front end loader and operator ... all take time.  Besides, we were about 130 miles from Prince George and the running time alone would eat up four hours.  No...it was a good decision on Tiger's part.  We would see what we could do with what we had.

It was Tiger’s intention to put a shovel or a pick into the hands of every man on the train.   His instructions to me were to coordinate the distribution of the tools and keep the fire hot to make coffee for the workers.   Tiger and I got along pretty well.  Tiger Swartz looked out for his brakemen.

After a couple of hours of non-stop digging and shoveling, rolling rocks away and pulling roots and large branches from the mud, they had cleared away all of the debris under the baggage and express cars, righted the baggage car and cleared all of the mud and debris from the train’s running gear and brake rigging.  The locomotives and the steam generator car got a good once-over and the decision was made to attempt to move the train ahead, while our conscripted "volunteers" stood alongside, watching for anything that might be a hazard to the train.  The "All Clear" was finally given, and with no remaining threat to the train or engine, we pulled away from the site of the slide at restricted speed. 

Once underway again, I dug through a mountain of luggage that had once been stacked and organized so meticulously so that the workers could find clean clothes to change into.  It was a madhouse in there for over an hour while men stripped, wiped themselves down with paper towels from the coaches and linen that Tiger commandeered from the sleeping cars. 

While the men were cleaning up and putting their luggage back into orderly piles inside the baggage car, I continued to make lots of "baggage car coffee" having borrowed coffee pots, water and cups from the galley in the dining car.  I put out sugar cubes that someone brought up from the diner and I pried off the lid of a three gallon can of heavy cream that had been loaded onto the car by a dairy farmer in McBride, destined for the Prince George Dairy.  The cream was marvelously rich, being the consistency of ice cream.

Once into fresh clothes, we hung out in the baggage car, drank hot coffee and talked about the great recovery effort we had all taken part in.

By the time I bunged the top back onto the cream can, we had depleted the contents by about a third!  It was so good that someone even spread a heaping tablespoonful onto slices bread that he had toasted on the top of the coal stove.  Needless to say, every slice of bread in the bag was toasted and creamed in short order.

When the train finally rolled into Prince George, it was met by the usual station staff, express and baggage handlers and others.  Apparently, when it was learned that some passengers had been allowed to work in and around the baggage and express cars, CN's security people had been notified.  I had been busy inside the baggage car, transferring my duties to Prince George station staff when Tiger came in and asked me to stay inside the car until CN had finished checking the train.  When I asked him what that was all about, he just repeated his instructions that I stay inside the car and not allow anything to be removed.  Well, it was already too late for that!  The baggage wagons had already been towed away from the train and taken inside the station.  One or two wagons had been unloaded from the express car and were standing on the platform, waiting for someone to move them into the express shed.  

After several minutes had passed, Tiger entered the car with a man who was dressed in a suit.  Tiger asked me to give the man my 'grip'.  I did, and he looked through it and handed it back to me.  I asked Tiger what was going on, but he didn't answer me.

We walked across the yard to the bunkhouse for a shower, then we turned in for some very much needed sleep.

On our return to the station for a late night departure on train number ten, we learned why there had been such interest in the contents of the express car and…..the safe…!

Tiger explained to me that there had been a large shipment of cash in the safe, packed $50,000.00 to the bundle and wrapped in heavy waxed paper, with a hard wax, red seal on it.  When CN checked the ‘valuables’ on arrival at Prince George, one or more of those bundles were deemed to be missing.!!

He later learned that police dogs had located the money hidden under the tracks inside the tunnel within 100 feet of the site of our derailment.  All train crew members must have been cleared of any suspicion, because we never heard another word about the theft, and we never learned who had taken the money from the train, or how they had done it.  It would have been easy enough, I suppose.  There was a lot of excitement on that train following the striking of the mud slide.  Several people had been moving about, in and out of the baggage car...and, in the excitement of the moment, I completely forgot about the brown-paper covered bundles that were stuffed into the safe and the open pigeon holes.