Guiding the train: Paul Rahn is at the controls of the CSX locomotive that marked the resumption of freight traffic through the tunnel. (Sun photo by Karl Merton Ferron / July 24, 2001) |
A whiff of smoke penetrated the sealed cab of the diesel engine as Paul Rahn eased a mostly empty 29-car freight train through the fire-scorched Howard Street Tunnel yesterday.
The creeping 12-minute ride, with Rahn at the controls of the 400-ton, 4,000-horsepower CSX locomotive, marked the resumption of semiregular freight traffic through the tunnel after an uneventful early morning trial run.
It also gave the news media their best glimpse of the subterranean battleground that had bedeviled firefighters for days and spawned a traffic nightmare aboveground for commuters.
Like a tour guide, Rahn pointed out landmarks that dominated news coverage of last Wednesday's derailment and fire, as the train inched along at 8.3 mph.
"See the white part?" he said, meaning the spot where freshly laid tracks suddenly brightened. "There is new stone. You're getting to the derailment site."
Rahn knew what he was talking about. He entered the tunnel several times during the fire to help retrieve rail cars, and at one point gave firefighters a hurried lesson on how to drive a train in case he passed out.
Yesterday, the century-old tunnel seemed like a giant brick oven. The smell of smoke wafted through the train cab's sealed windows, and in places the tunnel walls were coated in black soot - darker than Rahn remembers from his roughly 5,000 passages before the fire.
Yet in other spots, the bricks on the ceiling almost glowed orange, though not from heat. Rahn said he thinks the fire burned off soot that accumulated from years of diesel exhaust. Whatever the reason, the burst of color gave the tunnel an oddly cheery feel.
One of the surest signs that the train had reached the heart of the destruction was the sight of a ladder rising up toward the street. This was where firefighters, unable to enter the tunnel, descended through a manhole near Lombard Street. Near the spot, millions of gallons of water had poured into the tunnel after a water main burst.
Rahn's unscientific assessment of the tunnel echoed that of structural engineers who said on Monday that it is in "excellent shape." "Really, I've got to say it looks pretty good," he said. "Boy, we've come a long way."
With freight service rolling through the 1.7-mile tunnel again, albeit at no more than 10 mph instead of the usual 25 mph, trains no longer must go on long detours. Some trains bound for upstate New York had been rerouted as far west as Cleveland.
Others, including the regular Tropicana orange juice trains from Florida, hung a left near Washington and were diverted through Hagerstown and Harrisburg, Pa., on their way to a New Jersey distribution facility.
Companies such as United Parcel Service could not tolerate 18-hour delays, so they resorted to trucks temporarily.
Rahn remembers just how bad the tunnel looked. Early Thursday morning, hours after the fire began, he went inside on a mission to yank cars out of the tunnel's south entrance.
The 46-year-old father of three, who lives in Jarrettsville, said he didn't dwell on the danger. But his wife, Danette, worried; she'd never been more nervous, he said, since he joined the railroad 24 years ago after realizing it paid better than managing a grocery.
During his first foray, water lapped at his shins and moisture on the ceiling rained soot on his head. But at that point, able to breathe without an oxygen mask, he got four cars hitched to the locomotive.
On Saturday night, three days into the fire, things were much worse. Wearing an oxygen mask in the cab, he managed to extract 28 cars, with firefighters' help. He could see nothing outside the engine cab, so he drove the train using instruments, like a pilot flying at night. A "total whiteout" is how he put it.
Rahn started with CSX as a brakeman engineer. He rose up the corporate ladder and today is a division road foreman whose responsibilities include making sure federal rules are followed and investigating derailments.
Rahn figures he has covered 600,000 miles over the rails. Safety has come a long way since the days when you could tell how long a guy had been working on the railroad by how many fingers he had, he said. But it still has its hazards.
Rahn has had several derailments, all fairly minor. Once, he said, a man who had been drinking hopped on a freight train Rahn was driving and broke his neck trying to jump off.
Yesterday offered another example. As the train, guided by Rahn and partner Danny Ferguson, approached the tunnel, boys standing on an overpass showered rocks on the cab. The stones bounced off the windshield with a loud clunk.
"See what I mean?" Rahn said.
The creeping 12-minute ride, with Rahn at the controls of the 400-ton, 4,000-horsepower CSX locomotive, marked the resumption of semiregular freight traffic through the tunnel after an uneventful early morning trial run.
It also gave the news media their best glimpse of the subterranean battleground that had bedeviled firefighters for days and spawned a traffic nightmare aboveground for commuters.
Like a tour guide, Rahn pointed out landmarks that dominated news coverage of last Wednesday's derailment and fire, as the train inched along at 8.3 mph.
"See the white part?" he said, meaning the spot where freshly laid tracks suddenly brightened. "There is new stone. You're getting to the derailment site."
Rahn knew what he was talking about. He entered the tunnel several times during the fire to help retrieve rail cars, and at one point gave firefighters a hurried lesson on how to drive a train in case he passed out.
Yesterday, the century-old tunnel seemed like a giant brick oven. The smell of smoke wafted through the train cab's sealed windows, and in places the tunnel walls were coated in black soot - darker than Rahn remembers from his roughly 5,000 passages before the fire.
Yet in other spots, the bricks on the ceiling almost glowed orange, though not from heat. Rahn said he thinks the fire burned off soot that accumulated from years of diesel exhaust. Whatever the reason, the burst of color gave the tunnel an oddly cheery feel.
One of the surest signs that the train had reached the heart of the destruction was the sight of a ladder rising up toward the street. This was where firefighters, unable to enter the tunnel, descended through a manhole near Lombard Street. Near the spot, millions of gallons of water had poured into the tunnel after a water main burst.
Rahn's unscientific assessment of the tunnel echoed that of structural engineers who said on Monday that it is in "excellent shape." "Really, I've got to say it looks pretty good," he said. "Boy, we've come a long way."
With freight service rolling through the 1.7-mile tunnel again, albeit at no more than 10 mph instead of the usual 25 mph, trains no longer must go on long detours. Some trains bound for upstate New York had been rerouted as far west as Cleveland.
Others, including the regular Tropicana orange juice trains from Florida, hung a left near Washington and were diverted through Hagerstown and Harrisburg, Pa., on their way to a New Jersey distribution facility.
Companies such as United Parcel Service could not tolerate 18-hour delays, so they resorted to trucks temporarily.
Rahn remembers just how bad the tunnel looked. Early Thursday morning, hours after the fire began, he went inside on a mission to yank cars out of the tunnel's south entrance.
The 46-year-old father of three, who lives in Jarrettsville, said he didn't dwell on the danger. But his wife, Danette, worried; she'd never been more nervous, he said, since he joined the railroad 24 years ago after realizing it paid better than managing a grocery.
During his first foray, water lapped at his shins and moisture on the ceiling rained soot on his head. But at that point, able to breathe without an oxygen mask, he got four cars hitched to the locomotive.
On Saturday night, three days into the fire, things were much worse. Wearing an oxygen mask in the cab, he managed to extract 28 cars, with firefighters' help. He could see nothing outside the engine cab, so he drove the train using instruments, like a pilot flying at night. A "total whiteout" is how he put it.
Rahn started with CSX as a brakeman engineer. He rose up the corporate ladder and today is a division road foreman whose responsibilities include making sure federal rules are followed and investigating derailments.
Rahn figures he has covered 600,000 miles over the rails. Safety has come a long way since the days when you could tell how long a guy had been working on the railroad by how many fingers he had, he said. But it still has its hazards.
Rahn has had several derailments, all fairly minor. Once, he said, a man who had been drinking hopped on a freight train Rahn was driving and broke his neck trying to jump off.
Yesterday offered another example. As the train, guided by Rahn and partner Danny Ferguson, approached the tunnel, boys standing on an overpass showered rocks on the cab. The stones bounced off the windshield with a loud clunk.
"See what I mean?" Rahn said.
