Issues → January/February 2010 → Interact → 10 Things to Do →

Classic: Cog Railway

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(page 4 of 4)

According to Bray, the brakeman now had less than two seconds to get the car stopped before its first cog hit that rail. He tried, but wasn't quick enough. By the time that rear cog wheel came out, he had maybe four seconds to stop the car by applying the brakes to the up-mountain axle, where the front cog was still in the rack. A passenger lunged to help him. They made a desperate effort, but to no avail. Now the coach was riding only on its wheels, the brakes were useless, and as it pitched over the top of Long Trestle, the train began to accelerate. There was no way it could stay on the trestle. The coach toppled off and landed on its side, completely smashing one end. The number of people in the coach probably served as a cushion, helping to reduce the casualties, but eight were killed, three of them children. Many were badly injured.

Bobby Trask, train master at the Cog, remembers seeing the bodies of the victims carried off the mountain. "It's something that sticks in your mind forever," he says. "I get nervous every time I go up. You can't take anything for granted." Today, engineers are thoroughly prepared and tested during several seasons as brakemen and firemen. Nobody becomes an engineer until Trask gives the OK. "If they aren't ready, I don't qualify 'em," he says. And the trains come to a dead stop before they pass through the switches.

"The really sad part of that accident," says Bray, "is that it was a very preventable thing. Just what caused it will never be known for sure. It could have been a hiker tampering with the rail, and yes, it could have been negligence on the part of the train crew -- though I doubt it." One thing is clear, though. The accident was the result of human error, not mechanical failure.

Today as we descend, the train chugs with reassuring regularity, a steady four miles per hour. Suddenly the engineer signals from the cab. The brakeman winds the brakes. Metal screeches. The train halts. The sudden lack of motion is unsettling. A little boy shouts from the back. "Hey, what's going on?" Ed waves a reassuring hand, exchanges words with the engineer about butterfly valves. The fireman fiddles with something outside the engine. When we start again, the relief is palpable. The downward journey of our three-hour round-trip is only slightly faster than the upward climb. And today, because there are so few trains on the mountain, we do not have to wait at the switches.

In 1988 the Cog had its best season ever -- 58,000 riders; in 1989 ridership was down to 51,000, but that's still the second-highest ever. Current owners Wayne Presby and Joel Bedor insist that the Cog is a viable business venture. Others are skeptical. "It just doesn't generate enough capital to make the needed improvements," says Walter Mitchell, the clerk in charge of the Mount Washington post office. He's observed 29 seasons at the Cog. "It's been limping along since 1931," he notes.

Those who love the Cog -- including Ellen Teague who, with her husband Arthur (no relation to Henry), managed, then owned and operated the railway from 1951 to 1983 -- worry about the train's survival. They get emotional when they talk about it. "That railroad is like a zipper in the side of Mount Washington," says Bray. "If you take it down, the mountain is going to bleed to death in sorrow."

Today as we reach the bottom, despite the weather, another line of passengers waits patiently to ride. Cameras flash. Children point. The train halts and we set foot on steady ground. For minutes afterwards, I feel like I am still aboard the moving train. Late in the afternoon, after the last tourist has left, after the last train has descended, a silence hangs over Marshfield Base Station. Six little engines stand steaming, their primitive souls silent except for the hiss of escaping steam. A lone figure walks down the track toward the shop, pauses, as if listening, then disappears into the dusk.