Erwin, Tenn., was in the not too distant past one of the most difficult places to reach by car. Even today, with modern four-lane Interstate highways in the East Tennessee region, the few additional mountain roads in and out of the headquarters city of the Clinchfield Railroad are steep, twisty, and slow. It was in this challenging environment that railroaders of great talent on the throttle and the air brakes ran this railroad, a veritable Rio Grande of the Appalachians, a north-south through route piercing the toughest terrain east of the Mississippi. The Clinchfield was overwhelmingly attractive to anyone who appreciates mainline mountain railroading — the backdrop of steep gorges and breathtaking ridges, a civil engineer’s dream with low grades and massive bridges and tunnels, and populated with a bevy of unit coal trains, time freights, and locals.
Thursday’s news that CSX, which runs the Clinchfield today as part of its system, will downgrade the railroad and reroute much of the traffic was unsettling to those of us who know the railroad well. The sinking fortunes of Appalachian coal have claimed a truly beautiful victim. Having ridden excursions on the line since 1978 and having photographed it many times when I lived in North Carolina, I understand the economics: Too many miles across too many mountains with too little traffic to support it. There are alternate routes with plenty of capacity that can take the Clinchfield’s trains.
To my head, it makes sense. To my heart, it makes none.
I’ve tried to comprehend the affection so many of us have for this railroad. All I can conclude is this: The Clinchfield was the embodiment of the gentle giant — tough on the outside, mellow within. It was a brace of screaming SD45s working upgrade, fighting gravity and tonnage for every inch before entering the coolness of Blue Ridge Tunnel. It was a rough around the edges coal hauler that was kind enough to field steam excursions in the late 1960s and 1970s (and diesel powered trips in the 1980s and early 1990s) and make sure that Santa came to town in coal country every November without fail. It was the gracefulness of the railroad’s low impact on nature as the mainline coursed through the rugged and beautiful Nolichucky Gorge. And it was a family of proud railroaders who welcomed you into the cab of their SD40 on a hot July day at Thermal siding for a bottle of water and a better vantage point from which to photograph time freight No. 92. The Clinchfield was busy, industrious, but it was a railroad that felt good to be around. You were always in the presence of true professionals.
Today, somewhere along the Toe River near Green Mountain in rural Western North Carolina, a deer will stroll across the rails, unbothered by another train grinding its way south. Water dripping from the roof of 7,854-foot Sandy Ridge Tunnel near Trammel, Va., will splash only on crossties and ballast and not into the void of another empty hopper. The Clinchfield’s trains don’t run here any more, but in memories, pictures, and in my heart, they always will.
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