When I was in college—the first time, when I was about 21 and apparently renting m, y judgment by the hour—a friend and I cooked up the brilliant idea of hopping a freight train over summer break. The tracks ran past Colorado State and headed south, which was all the itinerary two young geniuses needed. We figured we’d wind up in Texas, New Mexico, or Arizona. Details, such as which train went where, how we’d get home, and whether freight trains accepted passengers with no tickets and even less sense, were left to fate.
Fortunately, the train never came. So we activated Plan B: get in the car and drive to Utah, visiting Goblin Valley, Moab, Archesand Glen Canyon like slightly more responsible idiots.
Looking back, that missed train was less a disappointment and more divine intervention with a timetable. The trains that roar through town here in the mornings are moving so fast that, had we tried to jump aboard one, our adventure might have lasted four seconds and ended very badly. Even if we had made it on, we could have been arrested, stranded in a town we’d never heard of, or introduced ourselves to a serial killer who appreciated door-to-door service.
And somehow we assumed we’d simply catch
another perfectly convenient freight train back to Fort Collins, as if the railroad
operated a special round-trip package for clueless college students. Being a
drifter sounded romantic for a week. Actually drifting would probably have
delivered a world of pain, hunger, and deeply regrettable footwear. Ah, youth:
when confidence is unlimited, planning is optional, and survival is partly dumb
luck.
