Faudi

(Toy not with the master!)

Here I am at the mighty Curve, Tunnel Inn actually.
Alone this time for two reasons:
—1) So we wouldn’t have to throw the new dog in the slammer, and
—2) To prove to myself I could still live alone, if need be.
Being alone means:
—A) No one to bounce insanities off of, like “Wrong Way” signs having the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to say “Wrong Way,” instead of more diplomatically asking “Could you please explain why you are going this way.”
and
—B) No one to help me drive Jack crazy, so crazy he surmises he’s being attacked by bloodthirsty sharks.

Item one: So here I am quietly bopping along on U.S.-220 south, in the so-called “congested-area” south of Williamsport doing about 60 mph.
I’m coming up behind a helmetless biker-dude doing about 57 mph.
So I plan to switch to the passing-lane, but not so fast.
Another helmetless biker is charging up the passing-lane, planning to blast by me, noisy Harley at full song.
I saw him in my bubble-mirror (dread).
I hold off — could have changed lanes, but didn’t want to scare macho-dude out of his pants.
Macho-dude charges noisily by, so I change into his lane.
“WHOA!” Macho-dude is suddenly slowing, and has his right-turn signal flashing.
Macho-dude is wearing a flimsy orange tee-shirt that blares “Can you see me now, __ __ __ __ __ __ __ ?” in huge letters.
(I’ve been kind enough the delete a suspect portion of the textual content of this message, to -a) protect little children who may be reading this here site, and -b) protect the tender ears of tub-thumping zealots.)
Needless to say, it was the usual tactless and disgusting message common to Harley-dudes.
“Of course I see you, Boobie! Ya slowed right in front of me.”
“I had to stab my brakes to avoid rear-ending ya. You’re filling my windshield.”
It ain’t a move I’d make on the Banana, but of course the Banana ain’t a Harley, which apparently makes its rider immortal and immune to the laws of physics.

Tuxedo Fs.

Item two: I’ve used the new route that takes State Route 26 off of Interstate-80, to see if the new expressway crossing of Bald Eagle Mountain is finished.
It’s not, of course. Still bog-slow and congested old U.S. Route 322.
Approaching the mountain-top, the expressway ends at an exit for Grover’s Woods, and also tells you to waddle.
Part of the new expressway is open eastbound, but the mountain-top is still U.S.-322.
I did not waddle as I used the exit.
Linda didn’t either last trip.
(Utterly reprehensible!)

The spaghetti-joint was not open; either closed on Sundays, or on vacation.
So I looked for Olive-Garden, but it looked like a new discount-store was in the old Olive-Garden building.
So I patronized Denny’s, and got the senior tilapia (dreadful). $9.41; that’s a $1.90 tip, 20+% on my cellphone calculator. For Rachle (doesn’t matter); gotta help her make her nut.
Went to Brickyard after.
Found it without difficulty. I didn’t have a noisy blowhard riding shotgun badmouthing everything and distracting me.
In fact, I used a previously unused route from Denny’s, but only because I more-or-less know my way around.
Back at Tunnel Inn I called home, and it sounds like our dog is a nervous wreck.
Perhaps because I’m not there, or perhaps because I walk her both before and after supper.

Reflection on the mighty Curve:
“Looks like you’re the only one here with a scanner,” said a gangly 12-year-old. “Anything coming?”
“I haven’t heard anything,” I said; “and this thing gets three defect-detectors, and the engineers calling out the signals. It also gets Alto Tower, but I never can make any sense of that, plus it’s always Marlon Brando’s Godfather.
“When I left Altoona,” he said; “there was a Trail-Van down there with two SD70-M2s on the front. It was just sitting. It has to come soon-or-later.”
“Well, it’s Sunday,” I said. “I’ve always heard this place was dead on Sunday.”
One-by-one people began appearing to ask me if anything was coming.
Finally, after about 45 minutes, the Trail-Van appeared, and so began a burst. First that, then one down, and another up.
I went back down to the parking-lot, which was crammed, and another went up.

From the ledges.

Reflection on Brickyard: (After Denny’s.)
“This is a good spot,” I said to a fellow fan, camped out on the embankment overlooking the tracks in a folding canvas lawn-chair, 24-ounce Pepsi ensconced in its mesh arm-rest holder. “Looks like I’ll have to join you.”
“I dare say if you’re 64, you probably witnessed the end of steam,” he observed. “I graduated high-school in ‘83.”
“Sure did,” I said; “but not here. South Jersey on the Pennsylvania Reading Seashore Lines.”
“Diesels in Run-Eight are nice.....” he said.
“But they ain’t steam,” I interjected.
At least an hour passed before the lights came on on the nearby signal-bridge, and a Trail-Van climbed past, three SD70-M2s on the point.
The lights came on again in the gathering gloom, but it was only a helper-set.
“So where ya from?” he asked, as we packed to leave in the dark.
“West Bloomfield, New York,” I said.
“New York, eh?” he said. “I live about five minutes away along the road to Horseshoe Curve.”
“I don’t think I could live here,” I said. “I’d never get anything done.”

Track One past AR Tower in Gallitzin.

Railroad Overload:
The whole point of this journey was the RailTour with Phil Faudi, an accomplished local railfan who knows the area and all the prime photo locations.
Faudi was suggested by Tunnel Inn.
He arrived at 9 a.m. in his baby-blue ‘93 Buick, as promised.
Quickly off to Lilly to shoot the business-train, a gamble on his part that paid off.
The tuxedo-Fs are in the second picture.
Thereafter began a frenzied chase back-and-forth all along the railroad, — first a few spots on the east slope (westward) to take advantage of the sun-angle; and then the west slope (eastward) as the day progressed.
Most memorable was hiking to “the ledges;” a place on the east slope above the tracks.
We navigated a rocky road to Altoona Volunteer Sportsman’s Association — there was a long one-lane tunnel under the tracks, much like the tunnel at Horseshoe was before it was lowered to clear tour-buses.
We parked in the woods, and hiked up a rocky jeep-trail. Not sure Jack could do it, but I said I thought he could.
We ended up on “the ledges,” rocky ledges overlooking the tracks and a new signal-bridge.
Back-and-forth we zoomed, hither and yon — Altoony to South Fork. Pictures were taken at sites I’ve never heard of — the best being highway overpasses.
20 trains in nine hours; 125 smackaroos. Actually 22 trains if ya count the two Amtrakers I missed. Both snuck up on us. (I photographed 20 trains.)
I can just hear the blustering from West Bridgewater, about how I throw my money away.
But for all his blustering, Jack would not have known as much as Faudi knew.
The longest I waited for a train was about 15 minutes, usually five; and we beat most everything to the photo-locations.

Eastbound grain-extra on Track One around the sweeping curve in South Fork.

Faudi would hear an approaching train, and off we’d go.
A couple times we passed trains en route so we could beat them to a photo location.
It got so I asked what we were doing. “Waiting for 20Q,” Faudi would answer.
“Eastbound or westbound?” I’d ask.
“Track One” (or two or three), he’d say.
And it also got so my prime objective was to not fall.
We were hiking down woody, rocky trails, and jumping guardrails. Twice down a steep weedy embankment, and then back up.
I turned my ankle on ballast, but caught it.
“Seems I can do this,” I said; “if I pay attention.”
“A really good shot can be had if ya stand down here on this old bridge abutment.”
“Oh no ya don’t!” I said. “Too risky for someone with poor balance.”
We’d run to the car, and zoom back in the opposite direction.
We only missed one spot; off a private road. No one was in the house but loudly barking alarm-dogs.
“Can’t do it,” Faudi said. I can’t imagine the Bluster-Boy having that much class. “We’re railfans,” he’d bellow. “We’re above the law. Diplomacy and tact are for wusses! Ya don’t catch a train without breaking the law.”

Eastbound under a signal-bridge. (The signals are raised to be seen over the nearby overpass.)

A large unit grain-extra had stalled eastbound despite having a pusher-set on the rear.
Additional helpers had to be dispatched from Altoony to get it up the grade.
That was 50N, I think. 74 cars, 9,500 tons; 120 tons of grain per car; an extra. (The math is suspect, but that’s what was reported.)
So up The Hill with four pushers on the back.
And Faudi wasn’t driving like Jack; not cutting people off or running stop-signs.
We boomed-and-zoomed, but “Ya drive like me,” I said.
Not entitled to run people off the road, particularly motorcyclists.
And that was despite not being able to hear once because a loud unmuffled Harley was blasting by wound to the moon.
Faudi was using essentially the same scanner as me, although he suggested I have my antenna “tuned” to 161.000 mghz.
I don’t know what this means, but it’s worth pursuing.
He’s getting more than I get, although some of that may be location.
For example, there is a defect-detector at 245.? I never get at Horseshoe; although he said he never got it at Horseshoe either due to topography.
But the main thing is he recognized train-symbols as they were called out by the engineer — or mentioned in dispatcher chatter.

Westbound at Lilly.

I doubt I would have known that train had stalled; and doubt Jack would have either.
We passed it stopped on the grade, but knew of the stall much earlier from scanner chatter.
I tune out dispatcher chatter: all mysterious numbers Faudi knows.
Here I sit and wait at Horseshoe or Cassandra; my only indication of an approaching train the detectors at 238.8, 253.1 or 258.9, for example.
“Oh, that’s a surprise,” Faudi would say. “590’s at South Fork. Let’s go! Probably we can beat it to Lilly.” (590 was a loaded eastbound coal-extra.)
Into reverse and slam around. “There’s so much traffic in this little burg, it’s not helping us.”
We beat it; see lead picture — a double. 590’s on Track One (to the left).
“Three tracks over this Hill is not enough. That priority UPS train is being stabbed by an oncoming Amtrak on Track Two; which is passing a freight on Track Three. That UPS has to follow that heavy slow grain-extra down Track One.”
We also passed a coal-tipple that was flood-loading a long train of hoppers.
A workman with a shovel was trimming each load into the classic breadloaf shape so it wouldn’t blow coal-dust.
But the tipple was only a transloading point. Coal was arriving by truck.

Day Two:
Breakfast at Perkins, not the curiously misnamed “Wye Diner” (Inlow’s) to get a single soggy pancake made by Fat-Boy on his greasy griddle.
The classic “Buttermilk Three” for Seniors, with two sausage-links.
Much better than Fat-Boy.
The spaghetti-joint was also open Monday night (August 4, 2008), and I tipped the skinny waitress three bucks (way more than 20%). Her smile was worth it. Wallet emptied for teeth (disgusting).
It started raining as I drove back Tuesday morning to Tunnel Inn, so I got Linda to fire up my MyCast at home. I have it as a Flock bookmark on my so-called “silly MAC,” and “the mighty Curve” is a location.
But it didn’t look too bad, so I guessed the Curve was worth a try. It was only raining slightly.
“I think I hear a train, Bobby,” Jack would say. “No, that’s a motorcycle,” I’d say.
“I think I hear a train, Bobby,” Jack would say. “No, that’s the air-conditioning compressor on the Curve Museum.”
“I think I hear a train, Bobby,” Jack would say. “No, that’s one climbing the grade on Track One on the other side of town. We won’t see it.” (We’re at Tunnel Inn, which is only Two and Three.)
“A train is coming!” Jack would bellow.
We’d wait a while — nothing.
If I had a dime for every so-called train Jack was hearing, I’d be rich. Toy not with the master! —I been here hundreds of times.
I was at the Curve for about an hour-and-a-half; not raining at all.
One up; then pushers — then the scanner went silent. After a while it started raining harder, so I left.
Off to South Fork; the most photogenic site of all — photogenic because the railroad makes a big sweeping curve.
A loaded coal-train had been dragged off the South Fork branch, so now the power (two SD70-M2s) was swapping ends.
A pusher-set also arrived to help get the coal up The Hill.
A brakie hooked off the handbrakes; looked like every third car (of 100) had been set.
Once released, the train departed, and so did I, but without my scanner.
I had to go back and get it — about a half-mile drive; thereby missing the coal-train at Lilly, but it was going at a good clip.

Next stop was Cassandra Railfan Overlook; one of the greatest railfan spots on the planet, but primarily because of -a) the shade, and -b) the benches for railfans placed by the town.
Cassandra goes way back, clear to the Pennsylvania Public Works in the early 1800s with its combination canal/portage railroad (inclined planes) system.
Cassandra became a small coal-mining town off the Pennsy, and was also the place where State Highway 53 crossed the Pennsy main on an overpass at a rock cut.
The old iron bridge was only wide enough for a single Model-A, and was abandoned when 53 was rebuilt to bypass Cassandra.
But it wasn’t removed.
Railfans started congregating on the old bridge, so the town ran with it.
I guess the mayor of Cassandra was the guy who mowed the grass at the Overlook. He also opened a railfan store.
At least six trains passed — maybe eight — in the two hours I stayed there.
I had the place to myself except for a small group of filthy urchin townies.
Finally the only girl there, about four or five, announced to all-and-sundry she couldn’t hold it any longer.

Eastbound under a highway-bridge near Portage.

I thereafter returned to Tunnel Inn, but the tiny parking-lot was packed; I had to park elsewhere. (Too bad Jack wasn’t there; he woulda complained about walking too far — “How come ya didn’t just leave it in the street? I woulda.”)
But no matter — off to Lilly and the Cresson Springs Family Restaurant for a Philly Cheese-steak sandwich.
Lilly is also photogenic (the location of the business-train pik), but I only saw one train; westbound (pictured at bottom).
Eastbound is more photogenic; a long curve (see “Double”-pik).
It was already after six, so I only stayed about a half-hour.
Shooting an eastbound also means standing on the side of the bridge that lacks a sidewalk — i.e. in the road, which I didn’t do.
(It sounds worse than it is. I stood there enough times with Faudi.)

Reflections:
—A) Doing this trip alone has been quite strange.
Namely -1) no one to trade comments and snide remarks with, and -2) no one to cover and do my talking for me.
Let me explain:
The original speech-center of my brain was apparently zapped by my stroke, so what is assembling my speech now is not designed for that, so that it can be slurred and choppy and tend toward stuttering.
That being the case, I tend to not say much, or hesitate before speaking — after which the wrong words may spill out.
-a) As soon as we started out, I told Faudi I’d had a stroke, it effected my speech, and I tended to be uncommunicative.
-b) A dreadful misunderstanding took place in the crowded Tunnel Inn parking-lot. My hesitancy was interpreted as anger, as it often is, and then the wrong words spilled out.

Eastbound pushers up The Hill toward New Portage Tunnel at Gallitzin.

This is where Linda comes in. Her response can be more immediate than mine, and the right words.
The Bluster-Boy won’t understand this; what he perceives is mainly disdain for his self-proclaimed VAST greatness. Any tendency on my part toward compromised speech is overshadowed by that.
Okay, what can I do but disdain a blowhard? I’ve certainly run into enough. I drove bus, so have plenty a practice parrying blowhards.
And I would say the ones I met driving bus were more difficult. Jack, by comparison, is fairly civil. —If he weren’t, I’d probably avoid him.
-c) The car-salesman at the Suzuki-store last week was put off.
“Standoffishness” was his perception. “Uncommunicative;” hesitant to talk.
—B) Only three disasters occurred, one more an anomaly than a disaster.
-1) Leaving the scanner at South Fork never went anywhere, because I caught it right away.
-2) My pencil disappeared, which means it’s still on the sink at Tunnel Inn; where I left it last. —No matter; I have a pen.
-3) The anomaly is that my watch kept switching over to Time-Zone Two, which is Californy. I suppose my sleeve was resetting it.
I poked around, but no reset to Eastern Daylight Time; so lacking the watch-manual I called Linda.
Poked around some more afterward, and got it reset.
So I called back and told her to forget it.

Westbound at Lilly.

—C) I seem to have been elevated to knightdom, as everyone was addressing me as “sir.” “Anything coming, sir?” “Thank you, sir.” “Have a pleasant night, sir.” “Be careful driving home, sir.”
—D) Every railfan BY LAW, should do the Faudi RailTour. That includes Jack and 44.
“My brother is much heavier than me, and he has pins in his ankles.”
“So I guess that means skip ‘the ledges,’” Faudi said.
“Oh I don’t know.........” I said. “I bet he could do it. He’s ornery enough. He’ll make it.”
“After all, he can make the steps at the Curve.”
“He doesn’t smoke, and doesn’t drink (at least I don’t think he does).”
“His blood-pressure and cholesterol are okay. He’s just heavy.”
“I would be like he is if I ate like him, and watched NASCAR instead of exercising.”
“Monday is usually a slow day,” Faudi said. “To get 20 trains is hitting the jackpot. And one was the business-train.”
The best days are later in the week: 814-949-8238.
—E) Now that I’m home, the dog is thrilled. Linda said the dog was mopey the whole time I was gone. Now the dog is smiling. “I like this walk-jazz.”

(All photos by the so-called “old guy” with the dreaded and utterly reprehensible Nikon D100.)

No footnotes for this — there would be too many — except “Linda” is my wife of 40+ years, “Jack” (“the Bluster-Boy”) is my loudmouthed macho brother-from-Boston who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, and the “Banana” is my 2003 Honda 600cc CBR/RR crotch-rocket motorcycle. Seeing it, my brother-from-Boston, a macho Harley-guy, that it was yellow, noisily declared it a “Banana.” “44” (“Agent-44”) is my brother-in-Delaware’s onliest son Tom. Like me 44’s a railfan.