HISTORY HUNTS WAREHOUSE: A History Chase

Often a "History Hunt" gets into gear with a grind or two.. Sometimes they never engage but remain wayward rides which occasionally turn into train chases which do get into high gear.

Now for more personal information than you ever wanted. Such is the price of admission.

I have 3 main hobbies. First is taking pictures of stuff I find. I would have said "photography" if what I do qualified for that label, but it doesn't. Second is anything to do with railroading, well, most anything. Memorizing is work. I rather just "pick up" stuff at my own pace or ask some generous benefactor. I call it "choo choo welfare". Third is using the motorcycle to do the first and second.

Another facet may enter the the realm of the above mentioned activities, "exploring". If you are out there wandering around aimlessly those that judge may see you as demented. Thankfully there is a word with which you can armor yourself, "exploring". If asked why your GPS trail seems to have no focus, simply say "I was exploring". The truth, since I am being so intimate, is that I don't look for much until I stumble onto something interesting and then the "search" begins. "Searching" is accepted. Google has legitimized "searching" and it may surpass football as the national sport, sadly. Reflecting, Is "searching", "exploring". I guess. I really hadn't planned on getting conflicted at this point.

One more personal note which I must address and then I will move on.

I present myself as Mr. Serious Adult. If asked or not about the motorcycle I usually play down the relationship as this, "I just use the bike to get where I'm going". The truth is that the bike is the frosting on the cake. If all else fails I can still get my yayas like a kid on his first date. Some have even compared the motorcycle to being "the other woman". I have no problem with that or the competitiveness it creates.
You just need to tell the right one that "she's winning".

The next few pictures have nothing to do with anything but pure sensuality.
There is nothing complicated here, just a man getting his yayas on a motorcycle, the ultimate freedom of travel machine available to the common man. The army has maybe better but doubtfully more sleuth.
If you start leaning from side to side as these shots progress, you know what I mean. Know what I mean?

Up on top.

And down and around again.

South Fork ... Hi Sue Ellen!!

Yes, this is South La. Who'd thunk it?

At the end of this little slice of road riding excellence is US 90 and

where I start doing one and two, mentioned above.
This is also where I'll shut the door on my personal vault.
The following is a serious ride report.
.

BNSF, the railroad company, has an outpost at Cade, La.

If a fisherman, I'd call this stretch the "reef". This is where my fish swim. No fishies today.

The hulk of an old cane cart sat discarded by the tracks.
There are more than fish around the reef.

I rode into New Iberia and it was deader than a door nail.

Suddenly I heard over the scanner, "Amtrak is 20 minutes early, get that switch at Crowley aligned" or something like that.

The part I heard best was "20 minutes early".

Could I get to the main line between Lafayette and Rayne in time?
I decided to whip my 9 year old pony hard and try.

At this point I want you to know where I was so that you can appreciate my effort.
Stop the presses.

I'd just heard a knocking at my door.
Appearing as a stand in from Men in Black 15, this surly bureaucratic thug
barged into my space.
He then handed me this 900 page rule book on writing a blog.
Long story short:
I'll be using "we" as I've been told by that Obama person to be more inclusive

and that I am part of a village, not an individual, or was that the Hill Ray woman who inferred that?
I told him that I had built this blog, and not the "village" or big government.
He told me, "Elections have their consequences".

So, "we" it is. Saddle up villagers.

Here's the map so we will know where we are / were

The red route was today.

On the right is Duchamp Rd. Look for the label.

Down toward the lower right is Cade.

Our race to get to Rayne is the line going across the bottom, then straight up to Duson.

At Duson is old US 90.

We went to the west end of the red line where it says "Overpass".

We took a few shots along the way. .

An explanation is to follow.
Here we go: New Iberia to US 90.

. There would be more good road east of the Vermilion Bayou.

The hump is possibly that of the F&A RR at Lozes.

We just did catch this old homestead as we were flying by.

We looked at what is now Youngsville, La. It was once a village, very poignant.

I know, I had the same experience.

At Milton, Harley Riders were doing what some Harley "Riders" do,
possibly comparing wardrobe and repair bills.

Then it happened. This idiot pulled out in front of us.

Witch, you almost killed us.

This is a kind warning to all. If you see this person on the road, stay clear.

This villager is oblivious to her surroundings or doesn't care.

We think both.

We decided to throw the dice and try for the best place in the immediate countryside to take train pictures,

the US 90 overpass between Rayne and Crowley.

We were this close to making a perfect intercept, a nirvanic experience.
In the bungling excitement we almost took a picture of ourselves.

If not for what we saw, we would have conceded and gone our separate ways.
That mud hole may have been our undoing anyway.
We whipped around and went into full train race mode achieving
full legal velocity.all the way to Lafayette.

We thought, "The train was 20 minutes early".
We thought some more,

"It sits at the Lafayette station until 5:15 PM if not late".

We were going into the realm of heavy metal thunder as we'd head east.

How's your balance? Stand up quickly.

The train would beat us to the station but not by much.

We'd have plenty of time to leisurely set up, we thought.

We hit every red light.

If it stayed red too long we went right and improvised.

We know downtown Lafayette like the pigs, chickens and cows that designed it.

The depot is just north of the right end of the red line by the hog feeder.

The gray line was another day and cannot be used as "wandering aimlessly" evidence.
The statute of limitations applies.

We went by the yard on the way in as it is the fastest way.

It avoids the Ambassador Caffery light which is always red. Then without being in any sequence it turns green for 2.2 seconds. In New Orleans or Baton Rouge 10 cars would get through that light.

Only 1.2 cars can manage that here.But it's getting better.

Lafayetteians are learning to run the reds to compensate.

A westbound train was climbing out of the yard onto the main after the arrival of our pursued Amtrak.

By the way, if your are an aspiring song writer, you can use "Westbound Train" as a title.

Don't say we never gave you something.

We like a lot of stuff going on in our pictures.
The yard was its usual. Huge tethered engines were moving football field long strings of cars up and down.

We arrived at the depot.

It looked old as if a ghost of itself.

The long grass added to the effect.

For those that don't know, that was a poignant statement.
Seems we cut a bit of our desktop off with the picture.
We were wondering what happened to it.

She was surely there. All the hassle had been worth it.

We'd ridden 70 miles flat out.

All seemed very quiet.
The old cars were hidden.
We considered going out into the field opposite the station where the
old yard and maintenance buildings had been to take a shot.
We ditched that consideration as pictures into the sun from that location stink like skunk spray
and then we'd be marooned when the train left.
We'd hold our ground and wait.

We looked inside. No one was in the front room.

They must have been in the parlor eating.
A camera looked back. Do they communicate?

We worked on some artsy shots. Notice that white car. We believe he was monitoring us.

What did we tell you?
We were trying to get a shot of the train, that is all, sir.

Then we shifted our picturing gears to the old Gerami warehouse. We love these old steal buildings.

With heat rising from the engines and horns whaling, she began to pull off.

Of course we were listening to all the chatter between the engineer and dispatcher.
Often rookies accompany these trains. Listening to them struggle with the cadence of a warrant
sometimes makes us feel good about our own inadequacies.
You ever see that show, "Are You Smarter Than a Train Trainee".
We are just kidding all of you train trainees out there. Y'all are great and friendly, at least up until now.

The gates on 6th Street went down as the Sunset Limited blew her horns for all they were worth.

We detected a little toot toot directed toward us.
We waved and a toot toot was returned.
We've said this before and we'll keep saying it until we find out otherwise,
maybe not after the "trainee" gig?
Amtrak's pilots are always friendly to the possibly demented
photographer standing in an ant bed next to the tracks jumping around while trying to hold the camera still.
Got the picture? Who couldn't love us or have pity?

The History Hunt, what this train chase had become, was coming to a close.
The unpredictable camera cooperated and fired.
Pop!

Pop!

Wilbur, you need to field dress them.

The Village People and I are going home.