In 1955, I was 21 years old and working as a telegrapher with Canadian National Railway. I spent most of my time as a relief agent, and therefore worked in most stations on the system, including two ballast pits. During February that year I was training in the various departments, upgrading to become the supervisor of student operators. One day my boss, the Chief Train Dispatcher called, and said they needed an experienced operator on Gaff Topsails for a specific assignment. They were about to raise the rail bed, thinking it would lessen the accumulation of snow from the severe drifting. They needed someone to measure snowfall, estimate the wind strength and direction and report this to the train dispatcher every four hours, and they were sending me. It was mandatory volunteering. Being advised of the immediate requirement, I went home to Hr. Grace to get some work clothes, as this was not a shirt and tie job. I travelled to Whitbourne and boarded the westbound Express the next evening. Earlier I telegraphed ahead to Millertown Junction, to ask the operator there to get the local grocery store to pack a box of groceries with items they thought I would need. It worked. The Express train stopped for about two minutes 13 miles east of Gaff Topsail, at a place called Quarry, in the middle of nowhere, the most isolated, barren place I ever saw. Watching the tail lights of that train produced a lonesome, frightening feeling. Fortunately, they had included a dish pan with my groceries, which became my shovel to clear the snow from the door. I saw a small shack almost covered with snow. A rough, tiny place the track maintenance people used to have lunch, and a tiny, tiny shed next door and across the track was a water chute. Everything else was a sea of white snow. The railway was supposed to have sent coal and bedclothes. There was no coal, and the four bunk beds had no mattresses, but there were plenty of blankets. I used the blankets to make a bed on the desk, where I bunked for 23 days. There was a telegraph key and a crank phone. I could telegraph out, but they couldn’t telegraph in, and I could hear on the phone, but they couldn’t hear me. My coworker at Gaff Topsails itself sent a telephone technician the next day, and he fixed both. He also sent me a 12-gauge shotgun and a box of shells. I couldn’t figure why. There was nothing there to shoot, or so I thought. The only live thing I saw was a fox who came once a day to drink from a drip at the water chute. Later I discovered there were hundreds of partridges, but they were white, and I couldn’t see them. Next, what to do about a fire? I discovered that the tiny shed was full of creosote shims (used to level the rails). I used my faithful pan to clear the snow to them and loaded up. Next I had to melt snow for water. There was a rather sophisticated stove (a warm morning), so I had heat in no time. Not having a kettle, I used the cans from the beans and soup. I got heck from the roadmaster for burning his shims, but my boss straightened that out. I began sending the weather reports every four hours, and missed only one in 23 days. The environment wasn’t too friendly, as the highest bush was not more than two feet high for miles around, and they were buried with snow. The drifting snow was incessant. The place made Kitty’s Brook, 25 miles to the west, with a population of six, seem like a metropolis. The temperature hovered around -10 to -15 F and the coldest I saw it was -27. I believe the altitude was in excess of 1000 feet, and there was snow, snow, snow. I’m told there was one spot where, after a train went through, the snow was so high it seemed like a tunnel. The 13 miles to Gaff Topsail itself was all upgrade, so Quarry was in a hollow. Nothing to do with the weather, but that was the year the Newfoundland Brewery put out green beer for St. Patrick’s Day, and all I had was an ad in the Sunday Herald, and a date for the Velvet Horn in Holyrood, which I couldn’t keep. I didn’t know a thing about cooking, so I spoiled more food than I ate. The grocer had supplied the ingredients for a salt beef Jiggs dinner, which was so salty and burnt from my cooking venture, I had to throw it away. Thank the Lord he included tin food, and a pocket knife, which was my can opener. My saviour was the bologna and the eggs. After a few days, the Rotary Plow came through, and I went onboard to say hello. I smelled salt beef and cabbage dinner and asked if I could have some, but the cook refused, saying it wasn’t his to give. The men had paid for it collectively. Fortunately, there was a Mr. McCarthy, the travelling engineer on board, and he heard the conversation. He told the cook to give me what was left. I ate wonderfully well for the few days. I am still indebted to Mr. McCarthy. Coal and an alarm clock arrived after a couple of days, and it became easier on me and the shims. I kept the fire going and was comfortable, but all alone. Oh, the lack of wisdom. Before the arrival of the alarm clock, when the dispatcher needed me, he would keep shouting on the phone (which I had left off the hook and near me) until I answered. One day a freight train came through, and the conductor asked if his son-in-law and a friend could come for a couple of days to shoot some birds. I agreed, and hoped they could cook. They showed me how to get the birds, and clean and cook them. He advised me the birds blended into the snow, but their eyes didn’t, and that’s how he saw them. There were times when he killed eight or 10 birds with one shot. They cooked a big “scoff,” and besides the ones he took home, he left me a dozen. Cooked. They had their own sleeping bags, and were comfortable and warm. After that, each day was about the same until I got called back to St. John’s. They were to send a fellow to relieve me, and when he got off the Express and realized he would be there alone, he asserted ”If you get on that train, I will too.” I stayed and soon they sent a second fellow for the duration of the exercise. On arrival in St. John’s I went to the paymaster's office, as he had my paychecks stopped, suggesting nobody could have worked that much time. I challenged him to find one slip without an authorization number. It again took my boss to get that “back on track.” As a matter of interest I made more money that month than some people made for the whole year. The boss gave me the remainder of the week off and I went home to get dress clothes and begin training again. Life got back to normal, but even now, I sometimes wonder what about if I had become ill out there? There was one period when not a train got through for five days. Again I say, oh, the folly of youth. Would I have done this 20 years later, or now? Not a chance. I must emphasize though I thoroughly enjoyed my time with CN and met a multitude of wonderful people, some of whom are still friends almost 60 years later.   Submitted By: NULL