The Hunt for the 113

When the locomotive at the back of the train disappeared around the bend, I hoisted my backpack onto my shoulders to cross the tracks and continue my journey. The original plan was simple: reach a nearby lake, pitch my tent there, and finally rest. After being awake for almost 24 hours, 20 of which spent on a loud and cold train, I longed for silence and peace. But that plan quickly vanished when I lifted my backpack. Immediately, I felt something was missing. My heart sank. My camera. I opened my bag, already knowing what I would find. Nothing. No camera. How could this have happened? I’m usually so careful. “This can’t be true,” I thought. 

I shared the news with Jay. His expression wasn’t hopeful. “You can try,” he said, “but prepare for the worst. That camera’s gone.” Jay knew everything about railways, crew changes, and trains. If he was pessimistic, I could assume my chances were slim. Still, I refused to give up. I devised a plan. If I could get to the next crew change before the train arrived, I might still have a chance. The only option was hitchhiking. 

We walked to the road and stuck out our thumbs. It didn’t take long for someone to stop. It was an old man. He glanced at us briefly and then said we could get in. The man was a conductor of an orchestra. He was on his way to Canmore to join the rest of his group before heading into the mountains to make music there. His voice was warm, his movements slow and deliberate. He drove calmly, enjoying the scenery, and told us he was from Ontario. “Vacation,” he said with a smile. Under different circumstances, I would have joined him. A story, an experience. But not now. He dropped us off at the on-ramp of the highway.

Jay and I went our separate ways. Jay walked into town for his daily coffee,-double cream and two sugar - while I walked onto the shoulder of the Trans-Canada. A grim scene greeted me. A dead bear laid next to a truck. The driver was still placing his warning triangles. The accident had just happened. What if I’d been five minutes earlier? Would I have seen the accident? Would it never have happened because I’d have scared the bear off? My thoughts drifted from exhaustion. 

There I stood, dirty from the train, sleep-deprived, and with a stomach protesting from hunger. Nobody stopped. Almost comically, a helicopter took off from the bushes right in front of me. “If only I was in that thing,” I thought. After half an hour, a car finally stopped. The driver was Kanan. He was on his way to Banff to do some hiking. He was from India and had saved up to make his dream trip to Canada. When he said he had no fixed plans for the day, I carefully asked if he could take me to Revelstoke. That’s where I claimed I had to catch the only bus of the day, a small lie, but my camera was at stake. Though I offered him money, he politely refused and dropped me off a bit further along. 

There I stood again on the shoulder of the Trans-Canada Highway. The view was breathtaking, but I couldn’t enjoy it. Every minute felt like a step closer to failure. The train would almost be at the crew change by now. Just as my hope began to fade, a second car stopped. 

The driver was a young Canadian from Calgary. He was on his way to an exam to become a certified rock-climbing instructor. I told him my story about the “bus to Vancouver.” He gave me a sharp look. I looked like I’d been lost in the mountains for a week, and he suspected there was more to the story. Fortunately, I managed to steer the conversation in a different direction. I asked him about the surrounding mountains, hiking trails, and climbing techniques, and as I’d hoped, he enthusiastically dove into the topic. We ended up having a pleasant conversation, and with a friendly smile, he dropped me off next to the highway. Once again, the shoulder of the Trans-Canada Highway stretched before me, an endless ribbon leading into the mountains. 

Luckily, this time it didn’t take long for the next ride to appear: a young man named Clint, who would take me to Golden. Clint was on his way to a friend’s wedding and told me he was a DJ. His favorite music genre was drum & bass, especially liquid drum & bass, a genre I also enjoy. It was nice to talk about music we both liked, and we listened to tracks we both recognized. In those moments, everything felt normal again. When we talked about Netsky, a Belgian DJ duo, I suddenly saw a train in the distance. It seemed to have a familiar shape: the same containers at the tail, the same locomotive at the back. I was a bit skeptical that it was our train since it should've been much further already. But hey, we were in the mountains, and that's often a difficult environment for long heavy freight trains. “Can you drop me off in Field?” I asked as we overtook the train. Field was a crew change-spot. Clint gave me a strange look but accepted my request. We drove to the small village, and as we approached the yard, I immediately asked him to drop me off there. “No, no.” he said, “I’ll take you to the visitor center.” “No need,” I replied firmly, “you’ve helped me enough already.” We said goodbye, and I went in search of where the train would stop. 

In the distance, I saw some men in fluorescent vests. They looked like railway workers. The only way to the tracks was past them, so I decided to go through the woods. It ultimately looked silly because they could still see me through the trees and knew exactly what I was doing. Fortunately, they said nothing. I heard the train approaching. The speed at which it passed me was remarkably slow. Then it hit me. These weren’t railway workers; they were the new crew. And I was just 100 meters away from them. Panic set in, and I sprinted toward the train. As I ran, I felt I didn’t have much energy left. I was immediately exhausted. As the train started to pull away, I climbed aboard with the idea of continuing my search at the next stop. I quickly sent Jay photos of the train, but I was already starting to realize I might be on the wrong train. 

“Shit man, I think you’re on the 101, the train behind the 113,” Jay replied. Despair hit me as the train slowed down further and eventually stopped after half an hour. I decided to get off since I was still near the highway. Whistling, I walked through the forest toward the road, not because I was happy, but to avoid startling any bears. Bear tracks were everywhere. 

When I finally reached the highway again, an older man stopped after 15 minutes of waiting. “I didn’t know there was a trailhead here, where did you start from?” he asked. It turned out he was a guide. “I left from Field but got lost,” I said quickly, inventing a story about ending up on a animal trail. “We’ve all been there,” the man said. Just as he said that we drove over a bridge that offered a clear view of a yard. The train I had just jumped off was still there. Fortunately, the man didn’t notice. He dropped me off in Golden. 

It was hot. I stood at an intersection in the blazing sun, my body heavy with exhaustion. Luckily, I still had enough water, but it did little to alleviate the discomfort of the situation. The minutes crawled by, each second feeling like a defeat. I cursed myself for my decision not to stay with Clint; I would have been at least an hour further by now. Suddenly, I heard a voice behind me. “Hey buddy, where are you going?” asked a man from a large pickup truck. “Revelstoke,” I said. The man nodded. “Hop in.” The truck was covered in dents, but I was so relieved to finally get a ride that I didn’t care. His name was Dave, a welder who traveled across Canada for jobs. He was now on his way to his wife in Vancouver. I got in, grateful to make a big leap forward. Though I couldn’t help wondering why his truck was so beat up. The answer came quickly. Empty beer cans were everywhere. Dave cracked open a new one as we hit the highway, and beside him sat a blue plastic cup filled with a strange red substance. Tomato juice, he explained, because he always drank his beer with tomato juice. He liked it that way. He took a sip, smiled, and lit a joint. “Just to take the edge off things,” he said. “I’m not drinking till I’m wasted.” 

We stopped at a gas station. Dave replenished his supplies and got a bucket of ice, which he placed by my feet. He dropped about eight beer cans in it. “Help yourself,” he said. Perhaps not the smartest idea after more than 30 hours without sleep or food, but I took one anyway. It was pretty good. Dave was a cheerful man with lots of stories. He was fascinated by my hitchhiking adventure across Canada and asked me all about it. When we passed a police officer, Dave expressed his disdain for the police. That was the moment I decided I could share my real story with him. I explained everything I’d been through, that I was actually chasing my camera and traveling across Canada on freight trains. Dave was bewildered at first, but when I showed him a few videos, he started to understand. I had to be careful, though, because every second he looked at my phone screen, the car veered half a meter to the left. I guessed he had about three meters of leeway on the road, so I never let him look for more than six seconds. 

“No way, I made that silo!” he suddenly exclaimed when he saw a video of the prairies. “It’s in Saint Joseph’s! That’s the one I built!” He was right. It was a beautiful moment of connection, how our two worlds had already intersected in some way in the past. 

The landscape gradually changed, the green, forested hills giving way to dry plains and rugged rocks. The Rockies were now behind me, and my thoughts were entirely focused on Kamloops, three crew changes away. We eventually arrived in Kamloops.

The sun was already setting. All day, I had been following the train, and I finally had the chance to rest. I walked to the tracks and heard from Jay, who had been in contact with an engineer, that the 113 hadn’t passed yet. There was a delay due to another train losing some lumber along the way. 

When the sun had set, I headed for the yard. I had carefully calculated where my car would stop, and which containers would be in front of my car. I was so exhausted I could barely think, but I had everything written down. 

The yard was active, and it was dark. There was little cover, but a small grove offered just enough space for me to lie down. I was right in the spot where the locomotive constantly was doing work. It always stopped with its bright lights aimed directly at the grove. Workers passed by, and I heard their radios... It was incredibly stressful. I absolutely couldn’t afford to get caught now. My brain had given up by this point. After 44 hours without sleep, I began to see things that weren’t there. I heard voices that didn’t exist and thought the train was passing by, but it was all in my head. 

The hours ticked by slowly, and around 3 a.m., I finally saw the intermodal train entering the yard. I had missed the locomotive numbers, so I wasn’t even sure if it was the 113. I climbed over the grain train that had parked in front of me and suddenly found myself standing right next to the intermodal as it roared past. The grain train suddenly came to life, moving in the opposite direction. The space between the two moving trains was narrow. I immediately took off my backpack to avoid getting snagged by one of the trains. It was pitch dark, and the margin for error was razor thin. Everything still felt hazy and dreamlike, making it even more dangerous. I scanned the containers, but I didn’t recognize any of them. I walked past car after car, nearly giving up hope, when I finally saw it: the containers in front of me—Maersk, Evergreen, Evergreen, Evergreen. I sprinted to my car, climbed aboard, and felt around in the dark under the grate. Immediately, I felt the bag. My camera. I couldn’t believe it. It was a moment of pure wonder, a feeling of triumph I could barely comprehend. Just as I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten my camera, I now couldn’t believe I had it back. It was beautiful. 

I am deeply grateful to all the people who helped me along the way. They may not know it, but their help was crucial; without them, the Canada videos might have not been possible. It was an experience I won’t soon forget.