As Pastor Kate wrote last week, at Monday Morning Prayer, we are inviting members of the faculty and staff to share a true, personal story in response to the prompt, “I didn’t see that coming…” Some of these will be stories of perseverance in the face of struggle, and some will likely tell of unexpected blessings. They don’t need to be moments of profound moral truth. So, in the interest of setting a low bar, here is my own foolish story of a time when “I didn’t see that coming.”
It was near the end of June 1990. I had been backpacking through Mexico and Central America since January and had chosen to complete my trip by flying out of Guatemala City to Miami and then taking a couple of months to visit some friends along the 2500 miles to my parents’ home in Saskatchewan. I was 28 years old, and I was hitchhiking.
My ride up from Minot, North Dakota, to the Canadian border had dropped me off on the American side, so I walked across the border to speak with the Canadian customs and immigration officers who welcomed me home.
It was late in the afternoon, and I was eager to make some miles before dark. It’s nearly impossible to hitchhike at night. So I walked a few hundred feet away from the border and put down my bag by the side of the highway to wait for traffic. There wasn’t much.
Here, I should tell you about the school of hitchhiking in which I was raised. My father took me hitchhiking for the first time when I was 15. He had done a lot of hitchhiking when he was younger and had definite opinions about best practices. Basically, one had to maintain an optimistic spirit, despite the fact that 99% of drivers won’t stop to give you a ride. He was convinced that passing drivers could read your body language, so it was important to present yourself in an upbeat and inviting manner. You’re not so much asking for a ride as you are offering a passing motorist an opportunity to be helpful and, if they are looking for conversation, that too. You carry a small bag, so you’re not a hassle. If someone stops down the road, you run to the car. Everyone wants to keep moving.
So there I am, standing next to a very unbusy two-lane highway, working to keep my spirits up when an older guy rides up on a 10-speed bike. He stops right in front of me and says, “You’re not gonna get a ride here.” And then he peddles off.
“Thanks,” I say, not meaning it.
Then I see him in the distance turn around and pedal back in my direction.
“Now what?” I think.
He pedaled the whole way back to my place on the other side of the two-lane highway, then made a U-turn (there isn’t a car in sight), pulled up in front of me, and said.
“I’m the engineer of the train sitting on that siding over there.” I turned around to see a Canadian National Railway locomotive as he continued, “We’re pulling out at 5 o’clock heading for the yards at Moose Jaw. If you don’t have a ride by then, you’re welcome to climb into the caboose. (They don’t use cabooses anymore, but they were these shorter rail cars set up, almost like a passenger coach with a bumped-up part full of windows and hitched to the end of the freight train. Members of the train crew would sit up there and keep an eye out for trouble with the load.)
Well, now, I’m hoping there won’t be a ride, and as I see every passing car, I am morally obligated to stick my thumb out. However, I really want the experience of riding on a freight train. I’m repeatedly checking my watch, and at 5 minutes to five, I leave the highway and head over. I figure out how to open the door on the back of this caboose and climb in. A few minutes later, one of the guys in the crew, whose name I learned later was Denny, came back and told me to come up and ride in the locomotive. Even better!
So I followed him up the length of the train and climbed the ladder up into the locomotive. It was a crew of three: Denny, the guy with the bike, and one other. I wish I could remember their names. They are all in those bib overalls with blue and white stripes on them just like you might imagine. We get going, and they’re brewing tea and explaining the rudiments of driving a locomotive to me.
It’s about 175 miles to Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, and 40 miles from my ultimate destination. We’ll be pulling in after nightfall, but I’m not concerned, I’m riding a freight train!
Here’s what I didn’t see coming:
As we approached Moose Jaw, the engineer turned to me and said, “Okay, here’s the thing. We can’t stop the train to let you off without drawing attention from the dispatcher and getting in trouble for taking a rider. We can’t let you off the train after we stop in the rail yard, because then the railway police will pick you up, and you’ll be arrested for trespassing. So here’s what we’re going to do: We’re going to slow the train down as much as we can without drawing attention. And Denny is going to teach you how to leave a moving train.”
Here’s what he told me: You get outside of the cab and onto the platform that runs the length of the locomotive. There’s a ladder that descends from this platform to about 2 feet from the ground. The ladder has handrails on either side. You climb backwards down the ladder, and when you get to the lowest rung, you let go of the railing closest to the direction of travel, and you swing out, so now you have one foot on the ladder and one in space with your body facing the direction of travel. At this point, the train has slowed to somewhere between 15 and 20 miles an hour, and you’re leaning out as far as you can, away from the train, looking a little like Leonardo DiCaprio on the bow of the Titanic, “I’m the king of the world!”
And then you let go.
There’s not much of a moral to the story, except to expect unexpected things, especially when you’re out on an adventure.
And if someone is going to instruct you in a skill that you will practice for the first time in a potentially life-threatening situation, you should listen very closely and do exactly as they tell you.
– Pastor Jim
08.28.2025
Rev. Katherine Museus and Rev. James A. Wetzstein serve as university pastors at the Chapel of the Resurrection at Valparaiso University and take turns writing weekly devotions.
