This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2017, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

One of my earliest memories is of sitting on my tricycle on a sidewalk while a train thundered past our home in Southern California. I was probably 3 or 4 at the time.

The enormous power of the train traveled through the concrete, up my tricycle and into my butt. I was awestruck. Been in love with trains ever since.

Later, when I was a teenager, friends and I would sneak down to the rail yard and climb into empty boxcars. We would ride the train for 20 miles or so through the desert, jump off in a sandy area, and catch another one back to town.

It was all about timing and accuracy. Pick the wrong train and we might end up in Arizona. We also had to know what was coming the other way — and when — so we could ride back home. Twenty miles is a long way to walk in a waterless desert.

Being kids and therefore morons, the point of the adventure was so we could brag to our contemporaries about how daring and rebellious we were to "ride the rails" against the law.

One afternoon, Donny and I cut school and headed for the rail yard. We arrived just as our train was leaving. We ran and climbed into the first handy boxcar. Gathering loose cardboard, we retreated to the end of the car and sat in the dimness, congratulating ourselves.

We were racketing along about 50 mph and halfway through the trip when a pile of rags and trash at the other end of the boxcar stirred and sat up. A pair of glowing eyes studied us through a mask of dirt. A genuine hobo. Oh, $#&@!

No longer adventurous rogues, we were now two frightened teens seconds away from becoming a dreadful story told around campfires to scare other kids.

After a minute of glaring, the hobo got to his feet. Swaying from the motion of the rocking train, he started our way. We huddled together, too terrified to make a sound.

I don't recall which of us screamed when the bum paused halfway to us and unzipped his pants. Maybe it was both of us. We were hoarse for a week.

But instead of continuing toward us, the derelict turned and faced the open door. He put his free hand up to grab the side of the door to steady himself while he took a whiz. He missed and — WHOOSH — fell out.

For the next couple of miles, we sat in silence. Did that really just happen? Finally, we crawled to the edge of the door and looked back. Nothing but rocky desert.

We watched the newspapers for a week and never heard anything about a search and rescue operation, a body being discovered, or a hunt for two teenage homicide subjects.

I told you that to tell you this. It's rare that I ride TRAX without thinking about the hobo in the desert. Fifty years later, I'm sharing a train car with his brethren.

I'm no longer afraid, but I can see concern in the faces of other passengers forced to ride with the worst of the homeless.

Last week, a drunken homeless guy manifested loud interest in any woman or girl within earshot. He finally caught on that several passengers with a Y chromosome were seconds short of hanging him out a window by his feet.

I realize that the homeless are at a disadvantage. My problem is the disruptions they sometimes cause in front of children and the filth they may leave behind — mud-splattered seats, trash, urine, dirt, liquor bottles.

I don't know if the Utah Transit Authority plans to do anything about the homeless problems on TRAX or how bad it will have to get before doing so. All I know for sure is that there are times when I wish I was back in that boxcar.

Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.