These half-conscious reminders of legends and fairy tales attract people to steam engines of all sizes. The U.S. and Canada enjoy more than 300 operating steam engines and another 1,000 or so in city parks and museums. Although many people have never seen one operate, everyone knows one on sight and most people have a vague idea how they work.
Few are prepared, however, for the truly mammoth machines made during the last years of steam. The national champion--Union Pacific's Challenger, with a 4-6-6-4 wheel configuration--is simply awesome in size and capabilities. Slightly shorter in length, but generally with far larger driving wheels, are the Northerns, passenger locomotives with a 4-8-4 wheel configuration (four lead wheels, eight driving wheels, four trailing wheels).
Only about a dozen Northerns are in operating condition, and two of them are owned by the city of Portland. I am fortunate to be on the locomotive crew for one of the two, the SP&S 700. Our crew consists of members of the Pacific Railroad Preservation Association, the non-profit volunteer organization that restored the 700, and we share the work of maintaining and operating the locomotive. Each of us spends hundreds of hours each year restoring historic rail equipment, and our reward is that we get to take turns firing the 700 when she goes on the road.
When we pull into a town, the whistle immediately attracts a crowd. We put up a wooden stairway to the cab and welcome a line of visitors aboard. As they file through the cab, asking questions and taking turns pulling the whistle cord, they find the array of valves, levers, and gauges almost as impressive as the engine's size.
"Do you drive it?" they ask.
"No," I answer, "only a federally qualified engineer can drive. But I do get to fire it sometimes."
"What's it like?" they clamor. "How does it work? Where do you shovel the coal?"
First of all [I answer], the 700 burns oil, not coal. The oil burns in the firebox at a temperature of nearly 2,000 degrees, which is hot enough to vaporize an aluminum pop can. The firebox is inside the boiler, completely surrounded by water. As the hot air leaves the firebox, it passes through nineteen feet of tubes which are also surrounded by water. All of these heating surfaces allow the 700 to vaporize more than four gallons of water each second.
The engineer sits on the right side of the cab. As I say, I've never driven it, but it looks to me as though the engineer has a pretty easy time of it. Although you see a lot of levers and knobs, the engineer spends most of his time with just four of them. When he wants to go, he pulls the throttle back. That puts steam from the boiler into the cylinders, which turn the wheels. When he wants to stop, he has two brake levers, one for the engine and one for the train. The fourth lever is the reverse gear, which makes the locomotive go forward or backward.
The engineer also has the whistle cord, the headlight switch, levers that put sand on the track in front of the wheels for traction, "blow-down" valves to clean out the boiler, and numerous other valves and levers. Except for the whistle, however, most of these are used only on occasion.
But for the locomotive to go anywhere, the engineer needs steam pressure, which means burning the fire at just the right temperature and filling the boiler with the right amount of water. Those are jobs for the fireman, whose work can be pretty complicated.
The fireman has to watch three things at once. First is the boiler pressure: it has to be kept high enough for the train to keep going, but if it's too high the safety valve opens up releasing a lot of steam. That wastes energy and is noisy besides.
Second, the fireman has to watch the water level in the boiler, which must always be above the top of the firebox, known as the crown sheet. When covered with water, the outside of the firebox will stay at water's boiling temperature. But if the firebox isn't completely covered with water, the uncovered part metal will quickly rise to 2,000 degrees. The extreme temperature difference will cause the metal to split, and the boiler explodes.
In 1947, the crew of a Northern steam engine owned by the Great Northern Railway let the water get too low. When the crown sheet failed, the entire boiler was torn from the engine and thrown 400 feet in front of the train and then bounced another 300 feet. The engine crew was killed, so we have a pretty strong incentive to keep enough water in the boiler.
Finally, the fireman has to watch the smoke coming out of the stack. When the smoke is black, it means the fuel isn't completely burning, which is a waste. When the smoke is yellow, it means the fire is too cool, which can damage the firebox. The ideal color is white or greyish-white, which means the engine is burning almost all the fuel and making lots of steam.
The fireman has a vast number of levers and valves to control the boiler pressure, water level, and smoke color. Everyone on the crew first learns about these by "spot firing," which means watching the engine when it is standing still. No one is allowed to fire on the road until they have spot fired, and even then they are watched and advised by someone with a lot of firing experience.
My teacher was Chris McLarney, who started PRPA and was the first to begin restoring the 700. When he was 17 and the leader of a Burlington Northern-sponsored Explorer Post, Chris led his post over a fence in a Portland city park and started working on the engine. Now just 30 years old, he had accomplished something most railfans only dream about: the restoration and operation of a giant steam locomotive.
My first shift started at 8 pm, which is after dark in mid-October. Chris sat me in the fireman's seat and took a seat on the engineer's side.
"Our job tonight is to fill the boiler with water," says Chris. "Around midnight we will bottle her up--kill the fire and close all the valves--so she will still be warm and under pressure in the morning. That way we can fire her up around 5 am and be ready to go at 9."
A large lever in front of the fireman's seat, I learned, was the firing valve, which determined how much oil flowed into the firebox. It was set on a mark which past experience had shown was perfect for spot firing: just enough oil burned to keep the engine warm, so I didn't have to touch it.
More important was an even bigger lever on the floor to the right of the fireman's seat. This is for the injector, which puts water in the boiler. Since the boiler is under pressure, water won't just gravity-feed into it. Instead, the injector uses the steam pressure to force water in.
The injector isn't the only way to get water into the boiler. Safety requires at least two methods. Older locomotives use two different injectors, but the most modern ones, such as the 700, use a steam-driven pump. The pump also preheats the water with waste heat from the smokebox, so it is more efficient. But the pump works best at speed, while the injector is the tool of choice when sitting still.
Chris shows me how to use the injector: First, raise the lever (which starts at about nine o'clock) to the top (twelve o'clock high). This action, with a low rumble, "primes" it. Then, after a few moments of priming, throw the lever back to about two o'clock. If you throw it quick enough, the rumble becomes a roar as water feeds into the boiler. Sometimes--usually, in my beginner's case--the rumble becomes a hiss as the steam merely leaks out.
Injecting water into the boiler increases the water level, but it also decreases the boiler pressure since the injector uses steam pressure. The boiler pressure is displayed on a large pressure gauge that is mounted midway between the engineer and the fireman. When the injector is turned off, its needle rises slowly; turning the injector on causes it to fall somewhat faster.
The water level is visible in two water glasses mounted above the firebox, one closer to the fireman, one to the engineer. Since the glass is very thick (to hold the boiler pressure), the water line can be seen only from certain angles. Signs permanently mounted next to the glasses specify the minimum water level for the engine when it is on a steep downgrade, on a gentle downgrade, and on the level.
Losing boiler pressure or producing black or yellow smoke could be embarrassing, but the water level is a matter of life and death. "Always check the water glass when you get in the cab," Chris told me, "no matter who is firing. You won't hurt our feelings by being safe."
When the injector is turned off, the water level slowly falls as the boiler makes steam; turning the injector on causes it to rise somewhat faster. So there is a trade-off between boiler pressure and the water level. Whenever the pressure approaches 260 pounds--the locomotive's rated pressure--I turn on the injector and leave it on until the pressure falls to around 250. Each time I do so, the water in the glass ends up a little higher than before.
Numerous other valves stud the surface of the boiler backhead? in front of the fireman. Next to the knob for the feedwater pump are four similar handles. One controls the atomizer, which blows the oil into fine droplets as it enters the firebox. Another sends steam heat into the oil tank to keep the oil warm. A third heats the oil line between the tank and the firebox. The last one turns on the blower, a steam-powered fan to force air through the firebox when the locomotive is still.
On the fireman's left are blowdown valves which help clear precipitates from the bottom of the boiler. (A similar valve is on the engineer's right.) The fireman can also open and close several dampers to control the flow of air into the firebox. I am only dimly aware of most of these as I receive my first firing lessons.
Somewhere close to midnight, the water glass is full and the pressure is 260 pounds. Chris tells me to kill the fire by pushing the firing lever to the extreme left. Then we go through the locomotive to "bottle her up"--turning off all of the valves the might leak steam. Many of these are in a row above our heads: main control valves for the turbine generator, the feedwater pump, and other steam-powered devices. Some of the valves are out on the boiler itself, including the whistle. We also put a cap on the stack. Finally, we close the turret valve, which controls steam to the ?
"When you close this one all the way," says Chris, "open it up a half turn. As the boiler cools, parts will contract and completely close the valve. If you don't open it a bit, it will be very hard to turn it in the morning." I write down a list of the steps required to bottle her up, but a few days later I forget this step, causing consternation among the morning crew.
After bottling her up, I stayed late with the engine one night. A few local railrans would come down and keep us company. Sometimes we would turn on the headlight for a few minutes to allow some night photography.
One night, a man climbed on board breathlessly. "I just got off the plane in Pasco," he announced. "I'm Jim Boyd, of Railfan magazine." He looked around the cab like a kid with a new toy.
"What's this?" he asked, pointing to a lever next to the throttle. I had to confess I didn't know. "Well, you find something new on every engine. This is going to be fun." Then he left to go to bed.
The next morning, I found out that the lever he pointed to was a drift throttle, used when the locomotive was being towed or otherwise not working hard. Unlike the throttle, which put superheated steam in the cylinders, the drift throttle applied saturated steam. The lower temperature of the steam gave it a lower expansion coefficient, so it was far less powerful. I regretted not being able to immediately answer Jim's question, but I was glad to know that the 700 had a feature he had never seen before.
By 5 the next morning, the boiler pressure is down to around 100 pounds but the engine is still warm. We are counting on this heat, for the oil--a type known as "bunker C"--is very thick and won't flow below about 100 degrees. A steam line from the boiler to the oil tank keeps it warm. James Spears, a PRPA member for over a decade, pushes the firing lever up. Then he lights a few flares and tosses them into the firebox. The spurting oil eventually catches fire, and after a few minutes is burning rapidly. Three hours later the boiler is up to its rated pressure.
Our crew is fortunate to have three experienced engineers, and I am especially fortunate to have fired for each of them. Earl Slaughter is a Southern Pacific engineer who drove steam engines in Korea for the U.S. Army. Greg Kamholz is a Burlington Northern engineer who fired the steam engines that used to run on the Vernonia, Sunset, and South Park Railway, a tourist line on an SP&S branch in Oregon during the mid-1960s.
Kenny Prager, our third engineer, is special to everyone because he actually fired the SP&S 700 when it was in passenger service in the 1940s and early 1950s. He was promoted to engineer just after the 700 and other steam engines were retired. Aside from providing lots of information about steam railroad practice, Kenny is also a ham who loves to show off behind the throttle and on the ground.
My first time firing was in rather unusual conditions. First of all, it was night time. While the railroads used to run steam engines at all hours, today we mainly operate them during daylight so people can see them. But the Washington Central wanted a dinner train from Ellensburg to Yakima, and in October dinner begins at dusk. The dinner train followed a trip from Yakima to Ellensburg.
We were also running backwards, because the Washington Central had no turning facilities at Ellensburg. So I saw little scenery and most of what I saw was rushing by in the wrong direction.
Greg Kamholz was driving the train this evening and Clint Myers supervised my firing. Clint joined Chris in working on the locomotive in 1981. He soon realized that we would need a certified boilermaker to do the welding work on the boiler, so he went to school and learned from a welder who worked on the Trident nuclear submarine boilers. His teacher helped out on the 700 until Clint received his state certification as a pipefitter.
When the train pulled into Ellensburg, the engine uncoupled and backed to the opposite end. I walked up from the car I had been riding and climbed into the cab. Greg took over from Kenny, who was having dinner on the train, and I replaced James Spears.
I took my seat and checked the water glass--no problem. The boiler pressure was about 255 pounds, so I wouldn't need to add water for a few minutes. My main worry was how to handle the firing lever.
"The most important thing is to watch Greg," Clint advised me. "As soon as he pulls back the throttle, you need to crank up the oil. He'll be using lots of steam, and if the pressure runs down you'll have to play catch-up, which is real hard."
The pin on the pressure gauge crept up to 258, so I used the injector to add water. Greg got the highball just as I got done, which worried me because I would start out with a boiler pressure of only about 250.
As Greg cranked back the throttle, I pushed the firing lever over. The lever has a ratchet with, perhaps, a hundred teeth. For spot firing, it might be on the tenth tooth. Now I shoved it to around the sixtieth tooth. In the dusk I could see the smoke immediately turn black, so I backed off a bit. But as we accelerated, the draft in the firebox fanned the flames, so I was able to increase the oil again.
If the darkness made it hard for me to see the stack, at least no one else could see it either. The most important thing was that the boiler pressure wasn't falling as we pulled twelve cars to Yakima. In fact, it was rising slowly, so I turned on the feedwater pump.
When we went around a curve, I could look out the window behind me and see our tender and auxiliary water tender. The aux tender was from a Great Northern locomotive--a sister to the one that blew up in 1947--and, unlike our tender and locomotive, had friction bearings rather than roller bearings. We worried a little about running it backwards, but with its tremendous weight it had no problem staying on the tracks.
Beyond the tender I could see a bit of scenery in the tender's headlight. Having taken the trip three times already, I knew what it looked like. But in the dark Greg relied on the Washington Central pilot engineer to point out changes in speed.
"There's a curve coming up in just a few moments where we will have to slow to 30 miles per," he would say. Greg would say okay, and do something to his side of the engine. I was too busy watching the pressure gauge, water glass, and peering through the gloom at the stack to see what he did. I did overhear the pilot say that the engine seemed real quiet compared with a Diesel.
We got a radio message from the train crew: Don't go too fast. The diners are afraid of spilling their drinks, and besides, the serving crew was short-handed and needed extra time to serve all the dinners. Speeds were restricted to about 40 anyway, but Greg slowed down a bit.
As we went around corners I could see the lights of the five dinner train cars followed by market lights of seven other cars. The people in the roundtail observation car--formerly from the Reading Crusader--were getting a good view of our feedwater pump. Otherwise, most of the people in the dinner train were missing any scenery because of the interior lights. Although the lights in the other cars were dimmed, the people in them weren't seeing much more.
When we got to Yakima, Greg immediately climbed down from the cab. The fireman, however, must stay until relieved. I am sure that whatever Greg was doing was important, but it sure feels like the engineer gets all the glory while the fireman does all the work.
The locomotive was at home here on the former SP&S mainline, and Kenny looked at home in the engineer's seat. While we were waiting for the signal to go ahead, he chatted with local railroad employees, most of whom he knew before he retired just a few years before. Meanwhile, Greg took a seat behind me to work as my supervisor.
"There's a slight upgrade outside of town," Greg warned me, "and we're going to go a lot faster than in Yakima, so you have to watch Kenny real closely. He may signal you when he opens up the throttle, but he may not have a chance."
As it is so often east of the Cascades, the day was bright and sunny. Behind us in the distance I could see a BN freight train, the first of several that we would lead out of town. Ahead of us was the railroad bridge over the Columbia River which would start us on the way to Wishram.
A signal must have turned green, for Kenny yelled, "Here we go!" and pulled back the throttle. I yanked the firing lever to the right, producing some black smoke for a moment. We started slowly at first, but picked up speed after crossing the river.
Soon we were roaring along the cliffs on the north bank of the Columbia at about 60 miles per hour. According to Kenny, the locomotive was capable of doing over 100, and sometimes did when it was in regular service. Now that it was one of a kind, we wouldn't risk such speeds even if the track allowed, but occasionally Ken or Greg took it up to 70 on the mainline.
I carefully watched the water, pressure gauge, and most of all the stack because I didn't want to be ribbed by other crew members if it was too smoky. When it was a clean, white stack, I pushed the firing lever up a ratchet or two to produce more steam for Kenny. Sometimes Ken would wave an index finger at me and yell, "One notch," then pull the throttle back a bit. I watched the stack and pressure gauge hold steady and congratulated myself for having already turned up the firing valve.
Meanwhile, Greg was watching ahead and calling out the signals. "Clear block," he would yell if Ken had not seen it and yelled it first. I wondered how someone could possibly watch the stack, pressure gauge, and water glass, and keep an eye out for signals at the same time. I vowed to try, and was proud to be the first to call out "Clear block!" at least once.
Suddenly there was a yellow, not green light. "Yellow board," called Greg. "Yellow board," repeated Kenny, and he notched the throttle down some. The next block was red, so he slowed to a halt while I moved the firing valve left to the spot firing position.
The smoke immediately turned yellow. Try as I might, I couldn't get it to turn white--it went from yellow to black.
"What do I do?" I asked Greg.
"Turn the blower on," he said. "It needs more air." I opened a valve marked "blower"; in the smokebox, jets of steam shot up out of the stack and created an artifical draft. Almost immediately the smoke turned white.
We learned why we were stopped when a freight showed up ahead of us and passed on the siding. As so often happens when we met another train, the crew stopped briefly to "inspect" their locomotive and, incidentally, turn a camera or two toward us.
After the frieght passed, the light turned green and Kenny cranked her up. This time there was no slow start: He wanted to get up to speed fast. With the throttle cranked up and the reverse gear open all the way, steam entered the cylinders for the entire stroke of each piston. When the piston reached the end of the stroke, the steam exhausted with a loud "pow!" As we got up to speed, we could hear a "pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow." Kenny laughed and yelled, "She talking to us!"
In addition to controlling forward and reverse, the reverse gear determines the "cutoff," which is the proportion of the piston stroke during which steam enters the cylinder. When there is no cutoff, the steam enters during the entire stroke and then exhausts at its full 260 pounds of pressure at the end of the stroke. This is inefficient because much of the pressure isn't used to turn the wheels, but it does make for fast--and noisy--acceleration.
After getting up to speed, Kenny moved the reverse gear so steam entered for just a small fraction of the stroke. This allowed the steam to expand fully within the piston, leaving little expansion to be wasted up the stack and making far less noise.
I manage to keep up with Kenny's acceleration. But in a minute I get overconfident and make a slightly embarrassing mistake.
The engineer and fireman each have a tiny window in front of them that looks down the long barrel of the boiler. Through the window you can see a signal, if it is on your side of the track, but you can't see the track itself unless it curves in your direction. With the river on the left and basalt cliffs on the right, this view is fascinating.
So, thinking I have a moment, I pick up my camera and take a picture out the window. Suddenly the safety valve pops off, indicating I have let the boiler pressure get up to 260 pounds. I immediately put more water in the boiler to reduce the pressure.
Clint smirks in the background. "You can't fire and railfan at the same time," he admonishes. Redfaced, I put the camera away.
We pull into Wishram without further event. Kenny immediately gets off to visit with old friends, leaving me again to wonder why engineers get all the glory while firemen do all the work. Even though I know someone else is scheduled to fire the rest of the way to Portland, I don't really want to leave the cab. So I fiddle with the controls, making sure the stack stays white, the glass stays full, the pressure stays ready to go.
After we get to Portland, but before we put the locomotive back in the roundhouse, we gather around the pilot for a group picture: twenty people who have restored this Lady and taken her on a week-long road trip. Remembering that the cab should never be left unattended while the fire is burning, I ask who is spot firing? "Why," says Chris, "Doyle MacCormick." The engineer of the SP 4449, which had taken the same trip to the Washington Central the previous week, volunteered to sit in the cab while we posed for photos.
Since we are on SP tracks, the 4449 goes in the lead. Earl, our engineer, grumbles at the 30 mile per hour speed restriction the SP put on us, but with Doyle in front there is little he can do. Meanwhile, I challenge myself to keep the stack cleaner than the '49's.
At the start, however, I get off on the wrong driver. While we wait for the order to go, I notice that the stack is a bit yellow. Clint notices it too, and orders, "Clear the stack!" I try turning down the firing lever, but that only puts the fire out. Returning the lever to its normal spot-fire position turns the stack yellow again. "Clear the stack!" Frantically, I look around for something to do.
Clint points to the blower valve. Oh, yes, the blower. In the two years since I last sat in this seat, I forgot about the blower. Of course, the stack clears as soon as I turn it on.
Then Doyle blows the whistle twice and we start moving. Earl takes his cue from the 4449's stack: When it starts to really pour out the steam, he knows to pull back the throttle. I take my cue from him and move the firing valve to the right. As we weave out of the Portland area, I am pleased to imagine that I keep a cleaner stack than the 4449's fireman.
The trip is uneventful and I find I can watch the glass, the pressure, the stack, Earl's changes in the throttle, and even the signals. If something really new happens, I will be helpless to respond, but Clint is standing behind me to give hints and advice.
When we get to Salem, the 4449 uncouples and moves carefully over the temporary "panel" track that the state has built into the fairgrounds. The track blocks a city street, and officials are anxious for us to follow the '49 in. But a tree on the fireman's side of the panel track blocks our path.
Earl inches forward, hoping we can squeak by, but I can see that the fireman's armrest isn't going to make it. I pull out a screwdriver and remove it. We even try to remove a few other parts. But from the cab I can see we can't make it, so Earl backs out.
"I don't get it," says a state fair employee. "The 4449 made it by. Why can't the 700?"
"Because the 700 is bigger than the 4449," says Clint proudly. In fact, the 700 is just inches longer, inches wider, and a few tons heavier than her more famous stablemate. But it is enough to make the 700 the third largest operating steam engine in America by length and weight (after the UP 3985 and UP 844), while the 4449 is the fourth. (The now-retired Norfolk & Western 1218 was second, and the Norfolk and Western 611 was by weight, though not length, between the 700 and 4449.)
The tree is cut down, which seems to bother the state workers more because it was done in daylight than because the tree is worth anything. "This is one of the last natural oak groves in the Salem area," one tells me. "We had to remove several trees to make this track, but we cut them after dark to avoid any controversy."
After the tree is gone, we pull nose-to-nose with the 4449. Together, the two locomotives would be a powerful attraction to the state's Operation Lifesaver displays.
But before visiting the Operation Lifesaver booths, most people climb the wooden stairs to the 700's cab. "Does it burn wood or coal?" "Can it move by itself?" "Where does it live?" All of us on the crew answer their questions with a smile, hoping it gives people a sense of history, remembering the last time we fired as the engine roared down the mainline and Kenny (or Greg or Earl) lifted a finger to say "Just one more notch."