I have never walked more that a dozen feet into a train tunnel. Didn’t make sense to me to do otherwise. The opportunity of adventure was not outweighed by the image of a train showing up, suddenly, without warning, and demanding the right of way which is its right.
The tunnel portal I entered was at Ridgecrest. Trains passing through the passageway have either just completed climbing the steep incline to Black Mountain or were about to descend to Old Fort. Either direction, the experience is frightening and success in doubt as the engine strains to make the climb or screams as brakes to all they can to slow the descent.
Near the tunnel is also the only place I ever laid any item on the track to see the effects of the weight of a train engine. I laid three pennies, in a row, each laid slightly over the other. I did three sets thinking it would increase my chances of finding one the next day. It did.
Of the three I found one. The three pennies in that one stack were now one penny, elongated like a smeared thumb print, with the face of Lincoln and the nation’s name only slightly detectable.
I carried it in my pocket until it was smooth as an ancient river rock and so thin it seemed translucent.