Hoboes From High-Rent Districts

By James Willwerth/temporarily aboard the Southern Pacific

On a dusty stretch of track outside Colton, Calif., a railroad bull confronted three rumpled men about to hop a stalled desert-bound freight. "Turn around," ordered the policeman, resting one hand menacingy on his gun. Frisking the hoboes, the lawman squinted in disbelief: their driver's licenses bore upscale California addresses in West Los Angeles, Marin County and Palm Springs. "Beverly Glen Boulevard?" the policeman demanded of one robust tramp wearing suspenders and carrying a Swiss army knife. "What is this?"

Welcome to the eccentric world of recreational hoboing. The tramp from Beverly Glen is Actor Bobb Hopkins, 39, founder of the National Hobo Association. He drives a Mercedes and until recently lived near affluent Century City in Los Angeles. On the road he carries a secret credit card, which he used once to fly home for a role. Hopkins' companions are a Palm Springs horse breeder and a journalist. Across America, weekend hoboes include a Connecticut schoolmarm, a Florida minister, a Washington State college professor, even a Denver shopping center developer who hops freights to find remote fishing spots. They are among some 500 weekend rail riders on Hopkins' home computer and part of the 2,000-member association, which also publishes a newsletter. Not surprisingly, the railroads are appalled. In January the Association of American Railroads labeled the hobbyists part of a "dangerous trend." They cite 1987 "trespassing" statistics that report 582 deaths and 673 serious injuries.

But for hobbyists, danger is part of the scenario. "You step back into Jack London's time," says Hopkins, who first hopped a freight during his student acting days to attend his grandfather's 90th birthday. "Each trip has edginess, adventure and beauty." Hopkins and his companions are headed for Yuma, Ariz., a wintertime hobo haven along the Colorado River. Since the bull had promised 30 days in jail and a $2,000 fine if further annoyed, everyone hid, returning well after midnight to catch the train. They succeeded, but with difficulty. Comfortable boxcars are giving way to sealed containerized loads. The riders settled for a chilly flatcar under a heaving truck, leaving Colton amid a terrifying anvil chorus of wheels, cars and couplings stressing and whining. But a neophyte's raw nerves are soon lulled by the classic rhythms of clickety-clack, as he crawls into a warm sleeping bag to enjoy a moonlit panorama of passing desert and mountains unmarred by highway billboards.

Approaching Yuma at midmorning, the freight slows to a crawl to accommodate track workers laying ties. Fearful the workers will throw rocks, a constant terror, the riders hide and jump off in a remote rail yard. Campground "jungles" located in trackside patches of scrub and a riverside park for relaxing and washing clothes are nearby. A notable addition to the hobo community this weekend is Tudor Williams, 44, former chef to Movie Director Steven Spielberg. A tramp's poem recommends making mulligan stew by putting "Whatever you've got/ In the pot/ Heat it 'til it's hot/ Eat it." Williams improves on the formula. He keeps a store of spice packets from fast- food stands and collects money from hoboes who have some to buy day-old meat and vegetables. His stew takes two hours, but a grateful hobo once told him, "I ain't had such a meal since I was on my mother's breast."

Some hobbyists enjoy the strange mix of oddly dignified and unsavory characters found in a flip-side world. Others like the colorful road names and don't-look-back life-style. Hopkins is "Santa Fe Bo." Tudor Williams is "Wanderin' Wills." Real hoboes they know include a man named "Wild, Wild Wes," who rides with a crow perched on his shoulder, and "Pepsodent Pete," who quit dentistry for the rails. Then there are those who may be starting the life. Thad ("Thunder") Thorton, 22, sits by the Colorado River and talks of being a late child of parents who died early. "I'm not so lonely out here," he says quietly. Thorton left Tulsa last October, aiming to get a Mohawk haircut, see America and eventually settle down as a policeman. So far, he has accomplished the first two goals.

Hoboes first established a niche in American history when Civil War veterans rode West looking for work. Thousands of real hoboes continue riding, including illegal aliens and men running from the law. They constantly exchange weather advisories, news of police activity and bulletins on available work. Jungles often have chairs, kitchenware and neat stone-edged fireplaces. One even has the beginnings of a library, a copy of Saul Bellow's Henderson the Rain King resting on a rail spike driven into a tree.

After a restless night in a patch of salt cedar scrub near the westbound line, home and family beckon. The three grimy hobo-hobbyists trek to the old Yuma prison for some middle-class sightseeing. Well-groomed tourists stare uncomfortably. Afterward, westbound freights are said to brake for a curve and easy boarding just past the Colorado River. Eight hours later, when the tourists are having dinner, the hobo-hobbyists are still waiting for a slow freight.

The backup strategy requires sneaking near the rail yard to board in darkness. Railroad police are everywhere with spotlights. No sleep again. Just after midnight they find a grain car with a narrow porch. Twenty minutes later, the freight pauses to add an engine, and aliens from the Mexican border clamber aboard frantically. Finally, the clickety-clack commences for the last time. A hobbyist road-named the "Gentle Giant" defines this moment. "You face nature, and the train is your friend," he says. "All your senses are alive. You'll love your wife, your children and your home better." Three weary faces framed in a sunrise breaking behind the westbound freight seem to agree.