Brian Cray

The inclement weather followed me as it always does on the road.  Getting wet is a part of travel, but the key is staying dry. Although I never encountered Sergeant Flood in Roseville, I certainly dealt with my fair share of rain.  I felt too lazy to walk, to setup camp in the woods, and honestly, too damn sick to step another inch.  I plopped my ass under a bridge by the tracks. Rail cops,

Yesterday I learned that just because I've been through tunnels dozens of times over the years, does not mean the train can't side out in one for three hours.   At first, I figured the crossing light was out, and she'd start moving in five minutes, or she was briefly waiting for clearance — no biggie.  When that didn't happen, I panicked.  My mind started racing, and I just

After hopping off the train last night in torrential rain, I set up camp in an empty storage container for a few hours on RR property, until it calmed to a mist, to start hoofing it into town. Walking in the dead of night on Ridley Island Road scared me more than I imagined it would. My heart pumped erratically erasing the chills of my saturated state as I marched up the slick asphalt road,

I took a break from trains to enter the states legally and left Canada a few days ago on a bus, crossing the border into VT.  Border Patrol always asks me the most cynical questions just because there's a little dirt under my fingernails and smudges of grease on my winter jacket, where holes and patches are fairly noticeable.   He asked me if I had been to jail in about five different ways

I woke up covered in a thick, wet, film of condensation from the crashing raindrops running rampant throughout the rough night, festering from the ambush of humidity. I glanced through the alcove of dripping forest at the dismal sky. It blocked the sun with dark, puffy, storm clouds giving the façade of night. In three hours, I would interview for “gatekeeper attendant” at Baxter State Park Headquarters located behind the McDonald’s in Millinocket. The

When my freight train is in motion, riding in a well during winter often feels like I'm trapped in a snow globe.  Wind surges around those ribbed walls of double stack containers, with a cool, subtle stream flowing into my well, nothing violent, but persistent, quickly pulling up any tiny crystals of snow packed to the porch.  At first, they dance and they swim and they soar through the air playfully grazing my

The hardest moments for me are goodbyes.  Always.  Don't get me wrong, I very much enjoy my solitude, but the goodbyes always tear me down like watchin' a building of emotions collapse as you push that tiny red button.  Sometimes I'd rather just hit fast forward on life and skip ahead a day without havin' to say goodbye or cya later at all. I do love the freedom of

I remember my correspondence with Northbank Fred from over a year ago via email like it was just yesterday. I thanked him for his contributions to hobohemia and the many adventure stories and monikers plastered throughout his blog. They are all truly inspiring and preserve so much of the train culture; it’s unfathomable, with dissertations, short stories, and photography the symbol of freedom resonates through the bindle of the early American Hobo. The words