PILGRIMAGE #1

When we turned off of US 50 at Parlin my heart began to race. I recall seeing a sign on the road with a cheesy train exiting a tunnel. It read “Gateway to the Alpine Tunnel.” After passing through Ohio City and Pitkin we found the dirt path off to the right where the roadbed began. Our white Ford Taurus rental car was certainly not designed for off-road adventures, and the rental company was adamant that it not be taken off paved roads, but my dad was an outdoorsman and we did it anyway.

We slowly rolled over several miles of rocky road and wound up some of the most beautiful scenery I’ve ever seen. We passed Tunnel Gulch tank, which was just a base, and then passed Midway tank. Midway tank was built after a snow slide destroyed the town of Woodstock and its water tank farther up the line. The Mile High Jeep Club restored Midway tank from a precarious leaning state in the late 1950s and it looked great on this summer day. We decided to park our car here and walk the last three miles.“The next three miles of roadbed are possibly the most amazing stretch of railroad in the world.” There was a sign somewhere along the way that stated the above and we were not disappointed.

We eventually came upon the ill-fated remains of the town of Woodstock. All that remained were the six stones that once supported the water tower (with its supply pipe still gushing water), and some scattered timbers. We looked up to our left where the deadly snow slide had originated and saw the incredible Palisades, still towering and formidable, holding up the roadbed on a cliff over a century after its construction. My dad and brother Karl, being the daring guys they are, decided to climb straight up the mountainside to reach it. Being the faithful baby of the family, I stayed with Mom and we began walking the grade toward Sherrod…until we heard screams.

Up above we could make out my father standing on the palisades waving his arms and yelling. What he was yelling we couldn’t make out, but it made us panic a bit, especially because we didn’t see my brother. Had he fallen? Had some wild bear attacked him?! We were relieved to see a Park Service pick-up truck coming up grade toward us. He asked if we wanted a ride and we accepted. I was disappointed when he took a sharp curve and completely avoided Sherrod loop. In my concern for my brother’s welfare, I even missed the fact that we had driven right over and past the famous Palisades. Disaster was averted when we came upon my dad and brother walking leisurely along the grade where the Williams Pass stage line continued its ascent above the railroad grade. We soon discovered that my dad had simply been trying to wave a hello from the Palisades, but his muffled words did not reach us. We thanked our driver and continued our stroll along the roadbed.

I did see a few remaining ties in the dirt and took a small piece of one with me as a souvenir. My dad found a large rusted nut and bolt that I also added to my treasury. Whether it was from a wrecked Mason Bogie or a beat up Chevy pick up I still don’t know.We wound our way along until we turned a bend and before us lay the holy city: Alpine Tunnel station.

It was guarded by a gate keeping vehicles out. It also sported a sign that read: “Take only pictures and leave only footprints.” In the mid 90s the only preservation efforts on the site (excluding the addition of a leaning port-a-potty) were to the telegraph station and the coaling platform. The engine house was merely rubble and the frame boarding house appeared to be a pile of abandoned lumber. I did acquire some coal dust from the coaling platform that I subsequently glued onto the tenders of my model trains back in Ohio.

There was also a random length of rail lying in the grass just outside the engine house. The telegraph office was in great shape, though it did not have the famous “Alpine Tunnel” sign on top. Inside was a small table where people had placed miscellaneous finds including nails and spikes that were on display.

We continued outside and around the rockslide for my first glimpse of Alpine Tunnel. As the roadbed began its cut into the hillside a large wood beam blocked the way. In its center was a wooden replica of one of the arches inside the tunnel. Famed supporter of the tunnel Francis Trudgeon had constructed the replica out of discarded wood and installed the memorial at the site. To the left of this was the the “tombstone” to the tunnel placed by Trudgeon, Dow Helmers and Mac Poor back in 1967. It was missing a significant portion of the top right corner. I’ve always wondered what broke it. Some say vandals, some say an avalanche.

The cut leading to the west portal was piled high with old snow shed timbers. It made things fairly difficult to walk through and I can understand why they were later removed. When I made it to the portal it was almost entirely buried by rock fall into the cut.

Someone had created a rectangle of discarded boards to protect the little of the stone archway that they could. When peering inside the rectangle you could see maybe four or five of the archway stones and there appeared to be a small hole leading down and to the left, large enough for maybe only an animal to scurry through. Unimpressive as this may sound, I on the other hand was amazed: I was really here! Holy ground! I was standing at the west portal of the Alpine Tunnel! The pilgrimage made a passion. And then came the storm.The sky was getting quite dark. I have since read the railroaders knew that the weather could change quite dramatically on this line; we were yet novices and were very concerned about the distance between ourselves and our car downgrade. We quickly made our way toward the station. I stopped to snap a picture of a piece of original South Park rail submerged in water beneath the snow sheds. I also passed the turntable, which was simply a mound of dirt with only two of the three timbers on the roadbed that used to form an abutment for the roadbed leading to the long-gone turntable.

I took one last shot of Alpine Tunnel station and turned to join my family as we made a mad dash to our car. In order to save time my dad decided that we should just walk down Tunnel Gulch. Thankfully, the weather seemed to subside eventually so we slowed our hustle to a hike. It was more like a climb considering we were traipsing through the woods without a path. Just before reaching our car we stumbled upon two or three decayed cabins. Were these old work camps? Finally, we hopped in our car and noticed: we were low on gas.We knew we could make it to Pitkin, so we weren’t too concerned. However, upon arriving at the one station in town we discovered a sign in the window that read: “Closed Mondays.” Of all the days of the week, you can guess which one it was.

So began a much retold story among my family. We turned the car on and accelerated to the top of the many rolling hills, then turned it off…and we rolled. The repeated dialogue went something like this. Mom: How’s the gas? Dad: Low. Mom: Keep rolling. So, we rolled all the way to Gunnison, gassed up and hit the motel. I had just experienced an adventure, a journey, a pilgrimage. That pilgrimage led to two more because this pilgrimage, the chance to see in person something I had only read about, turned into a passion.