Even before I was old enough to drive, though, I listened to the sounds of the trains at night—as Paul Simon says, “everybody loves the sound of a train in the distance; everybody believes it’s true.” Then the trains were punctuated by the occasional deep whoosh of pouring steel, both swelling up beneath the cicadas in the distant dark.
Old habits die hard. Here, I keep my bedroom window cracked at night even in winter because I so crave the white noise that assures me someone, somewhere, is up as late as I am. Of course, it’s not coal being ferried here; the closest equivalent is timber, torn, skinned, and neatly stacked on its various modes of transport.
And we know Portland has always been a town of water and steel. The water never fades from view; we wear our bridges like banners, or boutonnieres. Of course, the rails are still there too, but a bit more like a corset underneath the fineries of our downtown. In some spots this is more evident than others. The first few blocks on the east side were literally built up around the train tracks; many streets there (like elsewhere in the downtown area) were initially wooden platforms built up to make the bottomlands navigable and the trains accessible.
A recent walk through the old Albina neighborhoods—my last from Laura Foster’s treasure, Portland Hill Walks—took me through many of the blocks near the Union rail yards, underneath the arches of the Fremont Bridge. It’s not the most graceful neighborhood, but there’s a great sense of the past reigns of rails and river. And there’s plenty to love, even in the buildings that seem ready to bow to the weight of time. This one, at 733 N Russell, bears a scarlet letter, a “U” letting firefighters know that it’s unsafe for them to work in.
There’s also, of course, the White Eagle Saloon, owned by McMenamins and sometimes called one of the most haunted sites in Portland. Most of those ghosts are said to date from the time when the saloon served the hundreds of rail workers housed nearby, providing food, drinks, gambling, and sex.
Across the street is one of the more recognizable ghost signs of the area, an advertisement for Headlight Overalls, a pre-shrunk overall from a denim line designed specifically for the demands of a life on the rails. Here is a link to a blog post showcasing one of Headlight's promotional pay calculator and time books for rail workers.
On the other side of the block is a fragment of another sign, promising credit, gladly given. Back then, you didn’t need credit unless you were living the life of a working man. Today, well, we know how normal it’s become. On my walk, I ran into a man, slightly disheveled but mostly clean, asking me for directions. He said he was from out of town, and wanted to know where to find a convenience store. The man took to my dog, petting him, welcoming the affection my dog gives away so freely; he had the distinct look of someone who had just stumbled into town and could use some conversation. Without even realizing it until I wrote this blog post, I assumed the man had just recently jumped off a boxcar. I don’t know if people still travel that way. A small part of me, though, even knowing the perils of that mode of travel, hopes they do.
