He had walked the railroad tracks for most of his adult life. A lone traveler, a hobo, a soul on life's journey of whistle stops and days on end in a boxcar, his worn boots hanging over the edge, dancing with no floor. He followed the seasons, staying cool in the mountains of the northern Pacific and warm on southern stretches of track.
He was a simple man who preferred his own company and never paid much attention to glaring eyes and whispers. His clothes were well worn, and he replaced them with throwaways found in dumpsters and donation boxes when needed. The tracks were his road map that he knew like a good friend, cold steel taking him places most will never see.
Homeless camps yards from the tracks, where some like him stayed out of sight until an open car filled with supplies was ambushed, as men risked life and limb throwing boxes of unknown contents out of the car to be picked up by hungry mouths. It was like Christmas morning as boxes were opened and they found things they could use, while others were left in the bushes because they had no value to them.
Life on the rails, where stories were written and told around campfires and hidden riverbanks, brought smiles and often a deep recognition of a chosen life and the sadness it brought. Broken veterans and Wall Street business people who took the gamble and lost everything, leaving them empty, with no future, unable to face the life they walked away from.
The sounds of passing trains and whistles, the smell of diesel fuel, a dragging wheel throwing off sparks, and the smell of an empty boxcar were all moments he grew to love on his endless journey as the caboose rounded a bend and rolled out of sight
Homeless camps yards from the tracks, where some like him stayed out of sight until an open car filled with supplies was ambushed, as men risked life and limb throwing boxes of unknown contents out of the car to be picked up by hungry mouths. It was like Christmas morning as boxes were opened and they found things they could use, while others were left in the bushes because they had no value to them.
Life on the rails, where stories were written and told around campfires and hidden riverbanks, brought smiles and often a deep recognition of a chosen life and the sadness it brought. Broken veterans and Wall Street business people who took the gamble and lost everything, leaving them empty, with no future, unable to face the life they walked away from.
The sounds of passing trains and whistles, the smell of diesel fuel, a dragging wheel throwing off sparks, and the smell of an empty boxcar were all moments he grew to love on his endless journey as the caboose rounded a bend and rolled out of sight
Mike 2026
Mike 2026
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