They call him ‘Bear’

Illinois Central and the Bear

In my years hanging around the North Cairo, Ill., depot — first Illinois Central, then Illinois Central Gulf — I had many cab-ride opportunities. My first was at age 3 on the GM&O, however. The station access was partially due to the family farm sitting 3 miles outside Cairo, but mostly because my father, Donald J. Turner, was a 42-year railroad employee.

He had to have a nickname — most everyone did — and his large physical presence, jocular nature, and large appetite branded him “Yogi Bear.” It was shortened along the way. The older guys called him “Yogi.” To the newer ones, he was simply “Bear.”

Of all the rides I had, one sticks out. Around 1986 or 1987, I was home from college, and the Bear and I went out on the 11-7 overnight shift, me riding in the lead locomotive of a ubiquitous two-unit set of Paducah Geeps. The job’s conductor was in the caboose with a switchman. We headed up the northbound main to Mounds, Ill., a tiny hamlet that was once an important railroad town and crew-change point, the latter designation usurped by Cairo long ago.

Even as Cairo was spiraling downward economically, North Cairo was quite busy in those days with tons of grain business and the presence of two rail-to-river transloading facilities that were booming. A big Bunge soybean processing facility in Cairo did show some promise at the time.

We headed to Mounds to switch out another grain facility, a long-standing elevator off the Chicago-New Orleans main. We pulled off the main into a siding west of the southbound main, facing north just below the switch, at an angle. The engineer and I sat in the cab and waited for Amtrak’s No. 59 — the City of New Orleans — to pass before we could cross both mains and work the elevator on the east side of the double track.

I had been around trains virtually my whole life, hanging around the depot since I could walk. There have been times I stood closer to moving freight and passenger trains than was safe. None of that prepared me for the shivers down my spine as from seemingly out of nowhere an F40 came screaming towards us at track speed — or probably better. In those days, 79 mph was more of a suggestion than firmly enforced.

As the bright headlight and all that horsepower roared down the track towards us, it looked like No. 59 was not passing us by, but heading straight toward us. Being face-to-face with a screaming locomotive “picking them up and putting them down,” as the old timers say, with our proximity to the switch and the angle we were sitting gave me a fresh perspective, literally, as to how dangerous railroading could be.

Even though I thought I had seen everything, even though I knew deep down how this was supposed to work, that we were in a siding and No. 59 was charging by on the main, a rush of anxiety filled my being. I couldn’t help but think: What if that switch isn’t lined properly?

“As the bright headlight and all that horsepower roared down the track towards us, it looked like No. 59 was not passing us by, but heading straight toward us.”

The switch was lined correctly, or I wouldn’t be telling this story. I did breathe a sigh of relief as the F40 rushed past with the string of Heritage and Amfleet cars that constituted the train in those days. Internally, I felt a bit ashamed for my sudden loss of faith and momentary panic. I now realize it was a good demonstration of what railroaders see and work around every day, and that one misstep can result in tragedy. I’ll never lose the image of that encounter.

As vivid as that memory is, it is not the most cherished or lasting moment from that beautiful spring night. What I witnessed before No. 59 blew by us was far more personal, and a much happier recollection.

As we were waiting for the City of New Orleans in the siding, I was (unusual for me) just sitting silently enjoying the wee nighttime hours and the fresh air outside the fireman’s window. The engineer — I can’t recall his name — sat silently having a smoke. My mind was wandering, reveling in the simplicity of the juncture, when I realized I heard the familiar sound of freight cars banging together.

Wait a second, I thought. There are cars rolling and slamming into each other, and we aren’t moving! What gives?

Aroused from my drowsy thoughts, I looked puzzlingly at the engineer. Before I could say a word, he saw the confusion on my face; exhaling a cloud of nicotine smoke, he smiled wryly, “That’s your old man switching cars without an engine again.”

I turned my head so fast I’m surprised I didn’t get whiplash. The Hudson Elevator tracks jutted out to the west, perpendicular to the double-track mains. Again, our angle at the switch gave me a perfect vantage point looking out the left-side cab window. Hearing was the first sense rewarded with the familiar crunch of a big man walking on ballast. Then my sight adjusted to the darkness, and there he was, silhouetted by the moon and the elevator’s lights, back to us, an unmistakable outline.

It was the body I inherited, all his height in his trunk, massive shoulders, back and chest, made even more impressive by short legs for a six-foot-tall man, striding along, switch list in left hand.

He paused at a Pullman-Standard 100-ton covered hopper and spun the brake wheel as easily as whirling a roulette wheel, then with a quick hard shove with only that same right hand, the hopper was on its way, down the yard track, where it collided violently with its brethren.

I know it’s easier to move a freight car by hand than most people think, but I don’t think I can emphasize enough how simple my father was making it look that long ago night in Mounds. I sat there and watched as he continued working the little yard by himself, glancing at the switch list and organizing loads and empties. Nothing was going to get between D.J. Turner and an early quit.

The same smile that had crossed the engineer’s face moments before filled mine, but even broader. That’s right, I thought, that IS my old man. There’s a reason they call him “Bear.”