The wanderers

RODNEY GRAHAM

ILLUSTRATION TED BARKER

Who has not felt the urge to cast off responsibility and strike out for parts unknown? Without exception, everyone has sat at his or her office desk fuming over something the boss has done, has not done, or something else in life you can’t do much about anyway. However, there is a breed of people who have done it — who have said, “ Take this job and shove it — I ain’t workin’ here no more!” It is a lifestyle many of them have embraced as routine and are actually quite comfortable with. Well, most of the time, anyway. . . .

They used to call them hoboes. They still do in the United States (or tramps), but in Canada we call them train-hoppers, mostly. Some may ask, “What good are they? They don’t contribute to society, they’re just dirty bums!” Well, I beg to differ. Theirs is a priceless gift to us; a rich legacy. A national treasure, even. And, in the future, a historic picture of songs, adventures, tall tales and ballads.

It is actually we who owe them a lot. Personally, I have gained intangible treasure from them by the good influence they’ve been on me, demonstrating courage in hardships, loyalty to friends, resourcefulness, bravery, honesty, individuality, humility, optimism, tolerance, and generosity .

Over the years I have met hundreds of youngsters, and telling their story is often quite depressing, both for them and for me. Lots of train-hoppers are in their teens and most are runaways. Studies have shown that most are on the streets because of extreme abuse of one sort or other at home.

This article may be about those who are not very old, but sort of “old hands” at being on the road with empty pockets. The kids I talked to in Winnipeg were mostly in their mid-to-late 20s, with thousands of miles of train-hopping under their belts. Sadly, some of them had tales of bad childhoods that led to the way of the road. Though whatever their pasts, they were a great bunch: humorous, witty, and, maybe a bit filthy — but charming nonetheless.

They are not really bums

Like the charming hobo of old, some of the new train-hoppers carry their tools with them. But for these young tramps in Canada, their tool of choice is not a hoe like the traditional hoboes carried — but a squeegee. What I have noticed over the years is how incredibly similar they are to the hobo of tradition.

Although there are differing opinions about how many hoboes there currently are, they definitely have kept in touch with each other. In fact, every year there is a convention in Britt, Iowa where a “king” and “queen” of the hoboes is named. The hundredth anniversary of the gathering will be in 2006.

Sarah George, a filmmaker from England, who made a documentary called Hobo Jungles, told the New York Times she had heard that there were an estimated 10,000 to 100,000 regular freight-hoppers in North America. However, Gerri Hall, president of Operation Lifesaver (a rail safety group), says the number is probably closer to 20,000. The largest group, according to Hall, are true tramps (mostly men from 30 to 50 years old), followed by “punks” or rather, youths who (according to Hall) are rebelling against society. However, I would add to that some of these “punks” are probably youths who are running from abuse at home. (And of course, there are “recreational hoppers” — middle class people doing it for a thrill.)

There’s an old favourite hobo tune called “The Big Rock Candy Mountain” by Harry “Haywire Mac” McClintock, circa 1920, that goes like this:

The hobo of history

In the mid-19th century, civil war veterans who were in need of work (after the civil war had destroyed much of America’s economy) hopped freight trains. They were probably the first train-hoppers. They traveled from farm to farm, working for whatever was offered. They often carried hoes with them. They were mostly called ‘hoe-boys.” Many historians agree that the term “hobo” is derived from the phrase “hoe boy.” When you see cartoons of hoboes with a stick on their shoulder and a knapsack, they were actually carrying a hoe with a knapsack tied on the end of it.

Young men worked in gardens for a few days room and board. The work they did was arguably not very necessary work, but an agreement whereby the hobo was given a full belly and maybe a pillow for a night. They would also do odd jobs like washing floors in a hotel, for example, for a night’s stay and a hot bath.

Black Tuesday, October 29, 1929, was the start of the Great Depression. This was the golden age of the hobo. During the depression, it is believed that nearly one and a half million hoboes from many walks of life road the rails. They had a culture and code all their own. They weren’t bums — bums begged, whereas hoboes did work often for just a meal. According to Jeff Davis, King of the Hoboes, 1913: “A hobo is a man who will work when he can get it, at a decent wage, but insists upon the right to beat his way from town to town to better his condition — Men of character.”

The now-famous Canadian “Trekkers” hopped east from Vancouver, B,C. toward Ottawa during the depression to demand more decent conditions for the poor. They were stopped and beaten by the RCMP in Regina, Sask.while on their way to Ottawa.

Train-hopping squeegee punks

The use of the word “punks” is not derogatory — the “punk movement” is seen as something quite noble. I ran into Dustin and Mackie at Polo Park in Winnipeg. They had been trying to pan in front of the mall, without much success. Because of their extremely dirty fingernails and condition of their clothes, I knew they were train-hoppers.

“We didn’t have much luck here,” said 24-year-old Dustin. “We’re trying to make enough to catch out to Edmonton.” Twenty-six-year-old Mackie has been traveling for six years, Dustin for an incredible 12 years (and hopping for eight). They first met in Vancouver, B.C. one year earlier, and then again in Calgary just three months ago, where they then train-hopped to Toronto from Alberta. When I met them they had just arrived from Toronto, and were heading west again to Edmonton, Alberta. I gave them my phone number and left knowing they probably wouldn’t call. Fortunately, however, I ran into them in Osborne Village later that day, and they introduced me to more squeegee punks and train-hoppers than I had ever seen together in one place.

It was raining that day, so they had taken shelter under a bridge. The beer was flowing freely and there was a carnival atmosphere in the air. It was like a family reunion — young men and women, who had not seen each other in months, or years even, shared adventure stories. Woody Guthrie could be heard wailing away from someone’s ghetto blaster. Later on, as everyone got more sauced, a few of the boys began singing “King of the Road.” None of them knew all the words to it, though.

The reason so many had ended up in one spot is because a lot of transient youth and squeegee kids head west for the winter, where it is warmer. On my way home I looked up and saw about a dozen geese flying over Winnipeg, heading south. I had to chuckle . . . migrating, just like the train-hoppers, I thought.

I sat on Osborne Street in Winnipeg talking to Dustin and Mackie the next day. Dustin or Mackie would every so often say, “Excuse me,” and ask a passer-by if they could have their leftovers. People were coming out of the many restaurants with little leftover bags. Dustin and Mackie were ready for dinner, and showed me the ingenious way they obtained it.

Personally, I never would have noticed the bags, but these two were a seasoned pair and they had hawk eyes. In fact, Mackie and Dustin had themselves quite a good dinner — mostly yummy Chinese food, while at the same time generously offering me all kinds of info about their very interesting lives.

I showed them the pictures I had taken of the big group under the bridge the previous rainy night. “Can I keep this one?” Dustin asked. I told him to keep them all since I made two sets of them.

“The rest of them will get a kick out of them when we meet up again,” he said, grinning. Then they showed me some pictures they had taken on trains. In one of them, there was a picture of an old man standing on the street.

“Who is this old man?” I asked.

“He is a man who had seen us sitting on the sidewalk in Melville, Sask. earlier this summer. It was on our way to Toronto,” Mackie answered. “It was funny . . . what he had said was, ‘What are you two . . . some kind of new-age hoboes?’ He was interested because he had known hoboes decades ago.”

“He invited us home and he had insisted we eat all the hot dogs we could because he owned a hot dog concession in town.” She looked down at the picture again. “He’s dying,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on his picture, “He won’t live much longer.”

“Yeah,” Dustin said, “We have to stop off and see him on our way through.”

“Yeah, we really should, Dustin,” Mackie replied.

The words of the song “Big Rock Candy Mountain” rolled in my mind. . . .