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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.