Big Boy 250

Union Pacific's Pride and Joy

It was a rainy drive on those flat desert roads. Not the sandy kind, just barren and riddled with distinctly shaped four-legged beasts to the left and right. Clowns and jokers, one could say. Ironically, I was actually tailgating a carnival too. Speed signs varied, slowly going up and quickly coming down. They were the only hills one could recognize for a thousand miles. With the windows down, my hand cutting through the wind. I’d been down this road before. In search of nothing. Only this time, my destination was known.

Weeks prior, I had planned a road trip to see a train. Not just any train, however, but the biggest one. The Union Pacific 4014 “Big Boy,” which had departed from California in March of 2026. The trip, which stretched from the West Coast to the East, was to celebrate America’s 250th anniversary. Something told me to make sure I didn’t miss this. A whisper echoed deep within me, “Go see it.”

So I did.

I drove from the middle of nowhere to the next middle of nowhere and landed in Gothenburg, Nebraska. Seeing as this was my 48th state, which I had never been to prior. This event was the perfect reason to make the trek. Driving thoughts went back to my days of infancy. Stories of my great-grandfather and his entire garage dedicated to miniature trains. He even made a train car out of Coke cans. I always said I’d try my hand at mini trains, probably paint graffiti on the sides, and sell them in my shop.

After an all-day drive, I was exhausted. I stayed in a nice hotel and scavenged for a decent drive-thru in town, which was never found. Luckily, I’d packed some essentials and had eaten a few hours back. I took that downtime to ensure all my batteries were charged. Cleared out space on my SD cards. Everything was packed, unpacked, and packed again before the next day even arrived.

I woke up early, at least, early enough to make the last-minute decision to head toward North Platte. This is where the train had slept the night. Had I known this was also the town that Henry Hill, the infamous mobster who snitched on all his friends and went into protective custody, was hiding out for all those years, I may have made more of an effort to allot more time there. But I didn’t know. And that’s just how traveling is sometimes. You go to a place, are unaware of something interesting nearby, and you simply miss it.

Off to the side of the road was the perfect spot to set up shop. Pulling off and backed in so I could make a clean getaway as soon as the train passed me up. I waited for what felt like two hours before I could see the smoke in the distance. That wasn’t the only trail I saw, either. Here comes the only traffic jam that small-town Nebraska had seen in forty years. As the train chugged on by, it would be my luck that UPS decided it would be a good idea to say “to hell with our routes” and completely BLOCK everyone who had patiently waited all morning by riding on the side of the train at the same exact speed. Not just one either. Multiples of three.

Despite all that, there she was. A train worth over a million pounds and barreling down the iron beams like a bat out of hell. It was moving rather quickly; that was the first thing I’d noticed. So I hopped in my truck and sped down the road, trailing a sea of cars, trucks, campers, work trailers, railway vehicles, delivery vans, and even some classic muscle cars.

To my surprise, this wasn’t, in fact, a ghost town. People do actually live in these parts of the world. A lot of them, too, because I think every single person in town was standing beside the tracks waiting to catch a glimpse. Just to see it with their own two eyes and wave it goodbye. No, not jumping in their vehicles in hot pursuit. Simply being satisfied with their fifteen seconds of witnessing fame. Little kids waving their cowboy hats. Tripods and thousands of dollars of camera gear all lined up. People jumping up and down. Young. Old. Everyone in between, figuratively and literally. “What a time to be alive,” I thought.

When I remembered that I was obligated to look at the road, I looked ahead and saw people riding in oncoming traffic lanes for MILES. I mean, it actually concerned me at one point, as the cars in the right lane weren’t trying to let anyone over. And those who had floored it on the left crossed their fingers that no one would pull out in front of them. I know people never check right when traffic only comes from the left. Yet, the mention of letting off the gas pedal at any point probably would have landed me in the hospital on this day. Truth be told, I may have done the same thing, but carefully and, more importantly, legally. At some point, I’d caught up to the train and managed to ride on the side for a moment that could have lasted a lifetime. The realization finally clicked as I stuck my camera toward the passenger window. Driving with one eye on the road and the other glued to the black beast. One hand on the wheel and the other glued to the shutter button. It was finally true. I was chasing the train of all trains.

The next stop was back in Gothenburg. I took this opportunity to detour to the Pony Express museum. When I was still in ATC training, I had a dream that I was on a train, and there was a poster on the wall inside “The Pink Pony Express” adorned with an actual pink pony and a train behind it. I woke up and wrote down everything I could remember about that dream. A few days later, I was stress shopping on Amazon and saw the cover of a book I’d never searched for and had never seen. It was “Orthodoxy and the Religion of the Future,” by Seraphim Rose. A pinkish-red horse straddled the cover with Archangel Michael mounted up with wings like an eagle. And while I am not a practicing Orthodox, I do recognize the significance of the original denomination, before Catholicism decided they were first, much like kids in a comment section at times.

So this strange peculiarity, which had followed me all the way to Gothenburg, Nebraska, was worth the stop. The Pony Express. To check boxes or perhaps stand in the presence of an undercover angel. Who would willingly avoid such a thing? I parked and went inside this old pony station and met a kind woman who explained its history. The fact that stood out to me most, as she said, is that the old route the settlers used would take nearly a month to pass, as they wouldn’t ride the horses at night. But this new path allowed the cowboys to ride their horses at night, too, cutting the trip down to less than half the time. I thought, too bad they didn’t have night vision goggles. Oh no, one more thing to add to my ever-growing bucket list. I stocked up big time on trinkets and souvenirs before I left, as the likelihood I’ll ever be back in Nebraska again is essentially zero, at this given moment.

After I’d completed that mission, I hopped back in the truck and made my way out to the main street, where I could see the Big Boy surrounded by about one hundred people. Smoke was coming off its sides. The purging valves sounded like hissing from a pissed-off Panther. Gatherers couldn’t take their eyes off it. This thing had star power. Not even a Lamborghini or Bugatti could rival it. Had those been there, I think every single person would have simply walked by without so much as a double-take. The other train conductors who rode by must have been overcome with jealousy, having to trot around in the equivalent of a work truck.

I’d decided before forgoing that stop that I’d make my way ahead of the train to get food and fuel, then rendezvous at the tracks before it arrived. I wanted to get some footage of it pulling into town. So that’s what I did, and to my surprise, I actually found Kearney to be rather pleasant. I was shocked, actually. Even more so, that was where I had the best McDonald’s Double Quarter I’d ever tasted. I found a parking spot, and that’s when it began to feel like a true Mardi Gras event, walking down the street amongst dozens of other spectators just seeking a glimpse. Something larger than life.

I made my way over to the junction box, right next to the third track, which Big Boy was on. It would be feet away. I don’t know if it was my accent or the excitement in the air, but a man and his sons struck up a conversation with me. Not long after, an eavesdropper buzzed in and asked, “You chased the train from North Platte!?”

It was a news reporter. He asked me if I would interview, so I obliged, but in the end, I didn’t make it on TV, as I’d told him not to put the logo on my hat in there. It was fun, though. Memorable to say the least. Once I noticed everyone’s heads leaning over to look down the tracks, I could see the train barreling its way into the intersection. That earth-rattling horn that could make you jump out of your seat from a hundred or more yards away was making sure everyone knew,

“I’m here, bitch.”

I had plenty of time to take photos and walk around its right side. I pet a sweet pup on the head as I ducked and weaved people just standing around, trying to sop up some of the aura this thing was putting off. Eventually, I made my way back over to the junction so I’d have a good spot to photograph its departure. Before that happened, though, a man and a lady who were standing next to me turned their attention to the left side of the train, at an angle where I couldn’t quite see what was going on. Next thing I know, there is an ambulance pulling up to the train and removing the stretcher.

I didn’t know what happened, and no one else did either. We just stood there with the understanding that something had occurred and there was a delay. Regardless of what happened, it wasn’t my business to go running around the other side just to snap a few photographs of someone else having an emergency of some sort. So we all waited and then finally = it happened.

Black smoke started barreling out of the tops as white smoke punched out of the bottom, extending outward like wings. I switched the shutter on my camera to hummingbird mode and snapped away without a care in the world. Then, in one smooth motion, over to video mode for the main event. The footage I gathered that day laid the foundation for every train encounter I will have for the rest of my life. Yet, I’m afraid I did myself in, and nothing could ever compare.

Shortly after it departed, I walked back to my truck and sped down the highway for one last hoorah. Grand Island, Nebraska. The road seemed longer than I had calculated in my brain. I saw smoke emanating from deep within the city line, consisting of short blocks in abundance. I pulled up to the starting gate slowly, looking left and right. Cars were parked everywhere. People with tents, ice coolers, and barbecue grills. It was pure insanity. Parking nearby was worth the quarter mile I walked, and by no surprise to me at all, I stumbled upon an old railroad spike that was buried beneath dusty gravel. I picked it up and put that sucker in my pocket immediately.

That’s just how I am.

This shot, that shot. Staring at her in the drizzling rain. Bumping into one another. Taking photos for those with only two arms. The train of all trains came and went before I realized that it was over. All that driving, all the chasing, the memories forevermore. She pulled away when all I wanted was for her to stay.

But that's just how it is.