Dear Editor,

A warm thanks to talented Steve Shay for writing the King of the Hobos article about "Inkman" Tommy Maras.

It brought back a flood of memories from 1973, when I had just graduated from Richland High School in the Tri-Cities, and convinced a buddy to come spend two weeks "riding the rails" across America. What an adventure it was.

My mom had died of cancer a bit earlier, and this was my pass into a new era of life. When word got out to the moms of all my friends, they called begging me not to go. I stood my ground and went anyway, with a back pack full of gear.

I had studied judo and akido and prior to the trip, I had carried a 65-pound pack to the summit of Mt. Rainier, so I was a strong and confident 18-year-old Eagle Scout who could do anything.

It turned out to be one of the most important adventures of my life. I did my homework before hand, and learned that we would need gloves (trains are dirty and rusty), glasses to protect your eyes, (specks fly of those old metal box cars) and lots of water (water can be hard to find in rail yards) So backpacks in hand, we crossed Montana and made it to St. Paul, Minn.

We found a U.S. Army tank on a flat car that was heading our way, with its top hatch open. Of course we got in, and traveled east ("trains don't go north or south, they only go east or west, son" as I was told by an old timer in the yard). As we came into Spokane, I was sitting in the gunners nest, atop that tank, machine gun at the ready (no ammunition thank goodness!) Oh, what a funny site that must have been.

A group of four hobos befriended us as we continued traveling east. As we road in an open box car through Glacier National Park (you only road in box cars with both doors open, because if one door accidently closed you would not be trapped inside), I whipped out my back packing stove, pots and dishes and cooked up a dinner of mac and cheese for our new found hobo friends.

They were so impressed that I could whip up a hot meal while in a moving box car, and that I had plenty of food for everyone, they gave me the hobo name "Milk Toast" explaining that I was kind of mushy, but really good for a person.

And as we were riding along through the Montana Big Sky Country, I pulled out my pack of Maraboro cigerettes, with every intention of becoming a life long smoker. As I lit one up, I looked out over the Rocky Mountains and decided then and there that life was worth living in a healthy state. I dumped that pack out of that box car and haven't smoked another cigerette since.

Thanks for the great story, Steve. Great work West Seattle Herald/White Center News!

Mark Ufkes
White Center