← Legends of the Old West
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- [00:01]
Chris Wimmer
Put us in a box. Go ahead. That just gives us something to break out of because the next generation 2025 GMC terrain elevation is raising the standard of what comes standard. As far as expectations go, why meet them when you can shatter them? What we choose to challenge, we challenge completely. We are professional grade. Visit gmc.com to learn more. Does it ever feel like you're a marketing professional just speaking into the void? Well, with LinkedIn ads you can know you're reaching the right decision makers. You can even target buyers by job title, industry, company seniority skills. Wait, did I say job title yet? Get started today and see how you can avoid the void and reach the right buyers with LinkedIn ads. We'll even give you a $100 credit on your next campaign. Get started at LinkedIn.com results terms and conditions apply. By the start of the 1860s, the dream of a railroad stretching from the Atlantic to the Pacific had existed for at least 20 years. Entrepreneurs and visionaries promoted the concept in speeches and pamphlets, even as train disasters took hundreds of lives. People called on Congress to fund the ambitious project, but it wasn't until the nation descended into Civil War that progress was made. President Abraham Lincoln signed the Pacific Railway act into law, green lighting the construction of a transcontinental railroad. Two railroad companies were charged with building it, and those two companies turned turned the project into a great race, sort of. Overseeing the construction from east to west was the Union Pacific Railroad. But from the jump, Thomas Durant, the man who controlled the Union Pacific, saw it as a way to line his pockets. When construction finally began in earnest in December 1865, he purposefully mismanaged routes and supplies as well as exaggerated the threat of Native American attacks as part of his scheme to siphon federal funds. But out in California, the other railroad company, the Central Pacific, took the race seriously. Construction had started on time in 1863 in the Sacramento area. Two years later, the railroad faced its most daunting challenge. In the summer of 1865, the Central Pacific Railroad was preparing to tackle the imposing cathedral like chain of mountains called the Sierra Nevadas. But in order to make it into the heart of the mountain range, the railroad needed to overcome Cape Horn. Cape Horn was essentially a small mountain that rose 1,400ft above the floor of the American river canyon. It was mostly covered with pine trees and brush, but in some places it was smooth, bare rock. It was nearly vertical, with no natural ledge for tracks. The railroad couldn't detour around it if the line was going to continue east. The Crew would have to carve directly into the cliffside. The Central Pacific's engineers had tackled steep terrain before, but nothing like this. Necessity is the mother of invention. And now the engineers needed to invent a way to create a ledge on the side of a mountain that could hold a train. The solution was to place workers in big baskets and lower them down the side of the mountain. The workers would then chisel parts of the ledge out of the rock by hand and use even more dangerous methods later in the process. In modern language, the idea was crazy, but they did it. High above the canyon, Chinese immigrant workers crawled into baskets dangled over the cliffs and chipped away at the solid granite. There were no safety harnesses and no secure footholds. Only thin ropes held the baskets in place. A strong gust of wind could send a basket spinning uncontrollably or send a worker plunging to his death in the river below. Watching from the ledge above them was James Strobridge, the Central Pacific's construction foreman. He anxiously paced back and forth and marveled at the methodical, precise work of the the Chinese crews. They were seemingly unshaken by the danger, but cutting a ledge into the cliff was only part of the challenge. To support the track, the crews also had to construct a massive stone retaining wall, a structure without mortar and built entirely by hand. It was made up of thousands of granite blocks, and each had to be cut and hulled, shaped and set with perfect balance. Some sections rose more than 75ft high, and one mistake could make the whole wall collapse into the canyon below. The structure, which is still there today, would be called the China Wall of the Sierra in the National Register of Historic Places. Above the wall, the men in the baskets carried out the next stage of the assault on Cape Horn. They drilled holes into the granite and packed them with black powder. They stuffed explosive charges into the hole, and James Strowbridge called out from above, powder ready. Workers lit the fuses and scrambled out of the line of fire in a flurry of swinging baskets on the side of the cliff. A few moments later, an explosion blasted bits of granite into the sky. When the dust cleared, a new segment of ledge appeared. And then the process repeated itself. For the next few months, the Central Pacific carved a path along Cape Horn inch by inch. By November, nearly two thirds of construction around Cape Horn was complete. And their reward for conquering the obstacle was to spend the next two years tunneling through the Sierra Nevada mountains. Foreign this is Legends of the Old West. I'm your host, Chris Wimmer, and this season is Hell on Wheels, the epic story of the transcontinental railroad. Despite countless hardships and obstacles, the Union Pacific and the Central Pacific did what many thought was impossible. They connected the American nation by rail. This is episode two, Mountains to Conquer. Long before the trials of Cape Horn, there was a man with a vision. Theodore Judah was not a man who entertained small ideas. Where others saw impossibility, Judah saw opportunity. And where others might see unbroken walls of granite, or Judah saw the path of a railhead. He was a slight man with greasy black hair and eyes that burned with restless energy. And he had one obsession. He wanted to build a railroad through the Sierra Nevada mountains. Judah was from Connecticut, had trained as a civil engineer, and had earned a reputation as a skilled railroad surveyor in the East. But those eastern rail companies had no use for his visions of grandeur. When California's gold rush turned the Pacific coast into a land of fortune seekers, Judah packed his bags and headed west. Before long, he became convinced that the future of America lay in iron rails that would stretch from ocean to Ocean. By 1854, he had a job as chief engineer for the Sacramento Valley Railroad, one of California's first rail lines. But he yearned for more. At the time, the Sierra Nevada mountains were considered an impassable barrier between the fertile valleys of California and the rest of the continent. No railroad on earth had ever been built through mountains so rugged, and many believed it could not be done. The peaks were too steep, the snow was too deep, and the granite was unyielding. Even the best engineers dismissed the idea as madness. But Theodore Judah would not be swayed. Judah devoted himself to finding a route through the mountains. In the fall of 1860, he set out with a small survey party and climbed deep into the Sierras. He measured elevations, calculated grades, and stretched out a path. He endured blizzards, frostbite, and exhaustion. But after weeks of investigation, he found what he was looking for. A passage through the mountains. The way through was via Donner Pass, the same area where the Donner party had suffered its horrific winter 13 years earlier. Judah was convinced that if a railroad could be built through the Sierra Nevadas, it would need to be built through Donner Pass. He returned to Sacramento, brimming with confidence and eager to find financial backing. But he was met with skepticism. Critics said the cost would be astronomical and the terrain was too extreme. But not everyone thought Judah's plans were crazy. Eventually, he found his audience, four Sacramento businessmen who had each built small fortunes during the gold rush. They were Leland Stanford, a dry goods merchant who had recently been Elected governor of California, Collis Huntington, a sharp eyed store owner with a talent for negotiation. Mark Hopkins, a meticulous bookkeeper and Huntington's business partner. And Charles Crocker, a former carpenter who had become one of Sacramento's leading merchants. They called themselves the Associates, but they became known, somewhat grandly as the Big Four. In mid-1861, as the Eastern states became consumed by civil war, Judah pitched his vision to the Big Four. If they financed the construction, they would hold the charter for the first railroad to cross the Sierra Nevadas. The rewards would be enormous. They would control the flow of trade and open the door to endless economic possibilities. Collis Huntington, known as the pragmatist of the group, was the first to challenge Judah. He wanted to know what the fallout would be if the operation failed. The Big Four were wealthy, but none of them were rich enough to afford a failed railroad. Judah had an answer. He explained that the federal government had taken an interest in building a transcontinental railroad. By that time, Congress was debating the Pacific Railway Act. Judah told the Big Four that if the bill passed, it would provide loans and land grants to any company that was willing to lay track. If the men acted now, they could be the company that built the western portion of the transcontinental line. It was a gamble, but the Big Four knew a good bet when they saw one. So on June 28, 1861, the Central Pacific Railroad was officially incorporated. After years of dreaming, Theodore Judah had won. His railroad would be built. But by going into business with the Big Four, he made a fatal mistake. The men were businessmen first and railroaders second. They saw Judah as useful, but they had no intention of letting him control their investment. The dreamer had laid the foundation. But his big gamble meant the Central Pacific Railroad might not be his to build. And even if Judah found a way to outmaneuver the Big Four, an even greater challenge loomed ahead. It was one thing to dream about building a railroad through the Sierra Nevadas, but it was another thing to actually do it. He was going to need to find men who were brave enough, foolish enough, or desperate enough to try it.
- [12:25]
Narrator
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- [14:31]
Chris Wimmer
By 1863, Theodore Judah knew he had made a serious mistake by partnering with the Big Four. The four investors saw the railroad as a business venture, not some grandiose vision of unity. They were focused on profit margins, land grants and minimizing costs. Collis Huntington was blunt. If Judah didn't like the way they ran the company, he could buy them out. Judah didn't hate the idea. So in the fall of 1863, he sailed east, determined to do just that. He hoped to find new investors, influential men who shared his vision and had the means to take control of the Central Pacific from the Big Four. He rode ahead to schedule meetings with bankers like Charles McLaughlin and barons like Cornelius Vanderbilt. Because of the state of travel at the time, the quickest way for Judah to head to the American east coast was to sail south to Panama. In Panama, Judah hiked through the jungle until he reached the east coast of the country. From there, he would sail up to New York. But somewhere in the tropics, he contracted yellow fever. And by the time he reached New York. He was gravely ill. On November 2, 1863, Theodore Judah died. He was only 37 years old in California. With the Dreamer suddenly gone, control of the Central Pacific Railroad was fully in the hands of the Big Four. It had been more than a year since the passage of the Pacific Railway act that authorized funding for the construction of the transcontinental railroad, and it was time to get to work. The Big Four needed a small army of engineers, surveyors, and laborers to bring the project to life. And they quickly discovered no one wanted to do it. Everyone in California had heard the stories of snow drifts that could bury a man in seconds and avalanches that could crush entire camps. The work would be slow, grueling, and, above all, deadly. Former miners had no interest in the hard work, and incoming Civil War veterans were more interested in spending their days mining for gold. Then Charles Crocker, one of the Big Four, made a recruit Chinese workers. The idea was controversial, but not without merit. Thousands of people fled China in the 1840s and 50s to escape devastating wars between rival clans. The added bonus of a gold rush in California didn't hurt, but lots of people had life and death reasons to leave. As it happened, a region of China that saw a major migration was home to a rock quarry. While other workers scoffed at the relatively small size of the Chinese immigrants and thought they couldn't handle the workload of building a railroad, Charles Crocker thought otherwise. If the men could work in quarries and their nation had constructed a little thing called the Great Wall of China, why couldn't they build a railroad? Leaning into stereotypes of the day, Crocker argued the Chinese were more disciplined, more orderly, and less likely to vanish into saloons after payday. James Strobridge, the construction foreman, was skeptical, but he agreed to give them a shot. He hired 50 Chinese men to work alongside white crews. Within weeks, the results were undeniable. The Chinese crews worked with quiet efficiency. They showed up on time, they didn't drink alcohol, and they didn't argue with their bosses. Throughout 1865, as construction picked up steam, more Chinese laborers were hired. Soon the workforce consisted of more than 6,000 Chinese workers who made up an estimated 90% of the crew. They faced open hostility as white workers saw them as competition and politicians described them as a threat. But in the mountains, none of that mattered. The railroad leaned on the fearlessness of the Chinese workers to dangle off the side of a cliff in baskets, to carve the ledge around Cape Horn, and to build the foundational stone wall below. For Months they advanced inch by inch, and by the end of 1865, the Chinese crews had conquered Cape Horn. Unfortunately, it was just the first achievement on the long journey east. Now they had to tunnel through the Sierra Nevada mountains, and if that wasn't enough, they would have to do it in the middle of winter. While the Central Pacific carved its way around Cape Horn, the first snowstorms arrived In November. The blanket of white hit hard and without mercy. Snow fell in waves. It buried camps, cut off trails, froze supplies and stranded work crews. Snowdrifts rose more than 50ft, but the work continued. By December, the Central Pacific was 80 miles northeast of Sacramento and up to nearly 6000ft in elevation. And the crews were still 12 long miles and 1200ft from the summit. James Strowbridge, the railroad's construction boss, stayed in the mountains and directed his crews. Of the Big Four, only Charles Crocker braved the heights. Moving back and forth between headquarters and the slopes, Crocker pushed for more men, supplies and results. The other three main investors lobbied Congress. From the confines of their homes in the mountains, Chinese laborers powered through the thinning air to clear mounds of snow so they could reach the work sites. Throughout 1866, they laid track where they could and hoped to avoid frostbite. Meanwhile, other crews were forced to carve into the mountains. Little by little, they drilled through the granite by candlelight. Black powder blasts filled the tunnels with smoke. Men coughed up blood while avoiding rock slides. And then, at the start of 1867, disaster struck. In late January, a crew of Chinese workers returned to camp, exhausted from a day of drilling. As they arrived, the wind picked up and the sky turned blue black. The men huddled in their shelters, wrapped in blankets and drinking hot tea, which was a normal night in the Sierra Nevadas. Suddenly, they heard a loud boom. The men looked at each other in confusion. It sounded like thunder. But there was no storm. Then the earth began to shake. A wall of snow, estimated at nearly 150ft wide and 30ft high, broke loose above the camp. Thousands of tons of snow crashed down onto the workers. In a flash, dozens of men were buried where they lay. Survivors tore up their hands as they clawed their way out of the snow. For the least fortunate, the snow had been compressed by the mass and force of the avalanche. It was as hard as concrete. Men below were encased in a snowy tomb, and the men above discovered that their shovels barely scratched the surface. At least 30 workers were lost, and yet construction pressed on. After a brief moment of mourning, crews returned to the tunnels. They Drilled and blasted and dug. Then, in February, a second avalanche struck. As a crew of workers walked single file through a path cut in the snow, the mountain above them collapsed. The snow tore through the line, and the men vanished in an instant. Like the avalanche in January, survivors dug in desperation. Sadly, none of the men who went under the snow were found alive. It became clear to everyone at the Central Pacific that a change needed to happen. If the workers and the train behind them were going to survive the winter in the Sierra Nevadas, they were going to need protection. After racking their brains, an engineer came up with a revolutionary idea. A snowshed. Lewis Clement proposed building wooden enclosures directly over the tracks. The long corridors of timber would shield the rails as well as the crews. If built properly, the sheds would be able to withstand rock falls and avalanches, but would also be flexible enough to bend under the wind and weight without breaking. Charles Crocker championed the idea, and James Strowbridge quickly put it into action. Hundreds of Chinese workers were reassigned to the construction of the snowsheds. They cut down entire forests of pine and hauled timber logs up the mountains by sled and cart. They built trestles and scaffolds high above the canyon floor and nailed beams in place while winter wind tried its best to rip them loose. By spring of 1867, the first snowshed was complete. And as the months passed, the Central Pacific built 37 miles of snow sheds across the Sierra Nevada mountains. When the sheds were done, the trains would be able to cross the mountains in winter without fear. For two years, the workers did what many said couldn't be done. But they weren't finished. Arguably the most difficult part, if you can believe it, was yet to come. To reach the summit of the Sierra Nevada mountains, the crew would have to drill straight through the mountain itself. A half mile of solid granite buried beneath the snow where light couldn't reach and black powder wouldn't be enough to get to the other side, the Central Pacific would again have to get creative.
- [24:36]
Narrator
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- [25:05]
Chris Wimmer
I want to get into my body and my skin. Don't you talking. I want to feel like I'm myself again.
- [25:12]
Narrator
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- [25:30]
Chris Wimmer
In order to get past the summit, known as Donner Summit of the Sierra Nevada mountains, the Central Pacific would have to burrow through the rock. The tunnel would be known as Summit tunnel or tunnel six. Workers would have to blast through 1,659ft of pure granite at 7,000ft above sea level, a feat completely unheard of at the time. Construction of Summit Tunnel had actually begun back in 1865 ahead of the rest of the rail. Crews worked the same way they had done in previous tunnels and passes, with sledgehammers, black powder charges and drills. The process was slow. Some days they advanced no more than 8 inches. By 1867, the the rest of the train had caught up, and the Central Pacific needed to think of a way to pick up the pace. They needed something stronger than black powder. They needed nitroglycerin. An Italian chemist had discovered nitroglycerin in 1847, and the liquid explosive was unlike anything before, was far more powerful than black powder, but also far more volatile. Any sudden movements, exploding, drop in temperature, or even a slight vibration could cause it to detonate. By 1866, Swedish chemist Alfred Nobel had invented a way to stabilize nitroglycerin by mixing it into a moldable clay, which became dynamite. Unfortunately, dynamite hadn't reached America yet. So the Central Pacific was left with the raw, unpredictable liquid nitrogen. James Strowbridge wanted no part of nitro. He had already lost too many men to blasting accidents, and he understood the dangers of nitroglycerin. But Charles Crocker and the rest of the Big Four demanded results. And so, against his better judgment, Strobridge gave the order. Nitroglycerin would be used to blast the summit tunnel. The first test came with dread. Workers drilled as usual, but instead of powder, they poured the liquid explosive into the holes. Slowly, carefully, and with cold, trembling hands, they lit the fuses and ran like hell. They had all heard explosions before, but what happened next caught them by surprise. The mountain didn't just shake. It recoiled where black powder had chipped, chipped at the rock, nitroglycerin shattered it. Within seconds, feet of granite disappeared. It was the breakthrough the big Four had wanted, but it came at a cost. With nitroglycerin the pace of excavation doubled, which meant the dangers multiplied. When accidents occurred, workers weren't just killed, they were vaporized. Throughout the spring of 1867, the Summit Tunnel was under siege. Crews attacked the tunnel from three directions, from each end and from a vertical shaft drilled down through the center. As the weeks ticked by, the looming threat of being blown to bits caused the workers to realize something. The danger wasn't worth the low wages. In June 1867, thousands of Chinese workers stopped working. The strike began quietly near mile marker 92. But then more than 2,000 laborers walked off the job in unison. Chinese workers earned less than white laborers. They worked longer hours, and they had to pay for their own food and tools. They demanded a raise from $35 to $40 a month, 10 hour work days, and the right to leave camp without punishment. The strike was the largest labor action in the country to date, and it terrified the Big Four. But rather than negotiate, Charles Crocker cut off food shipments. He pressured Chinese merchants who operated many of the supply chains to stop deliveries. Crocker also threatened to arm loyal men to, quote, shoot down any man who refused to work for eight days. This truck strike held, but in the end, hunger proved stronger than solidarity. The strike collapsed, and the workers returned to the line. None of their demands were met, but they did send a message, and the Big Four were now on edge about the possibility of another strike. With the strike done, construction continued again. As the summer days went by, the crews moved closer to finally conquering the Sierra Nevadas. By the start of 1867, the mountain was beginning to yield. After months of blasting from the west end of the summit tunnel toward the central vertical shaft, a crew of Chinese laborers stood deep inside the mountain and pulled rubble from the latest nitroglycerin explosion. The mountain had fought them every inch of the way. But after years of working their way up the colossus and months of deadly work under the surface, the workers could finally feel it. The unmistakable rush of fresh air. On the morning of August 3rd, a nitroglycerine blast revealed something they had been clamoring for. A clear sign that the eastern portion of the tunnel and the central shaft above were close enough to connect. Engineers estimated that only 65ft of rock stood in the way of a union of the three tunnels. As euphoric as that sounded, there was no time to celebrate. The Central Pacific was still in a race with the Union Pacific. The Union Pacific's Thomas Durant had estimated it would take the Central Pacific more than two years to blast through the summit. Thanks to nitroglycerin, it took roughly six months. Still, Charles Crocker and James Strowbridge felt the pressure to finish the job. And then, on August 28, in the eastern portion of the tunnel, workers filled granite holes with nitroglycerin and lit the fuse. The nitro exploded, and a surge of fresh air rushed through the mountain from one end to the other. The tunnel was finally open. The granite had yielded, and the impossible turned out to be possible after all. With the summit tunnel open to lay track, rail cars would soon move through the Sierra Nevada mountains. It was a thought few people would have believed in 1861, and it would have sounded like science fiction to the Donner party back in 1847. Theodore Judah was one of the few who believed it could be done, and it was his vision that helped set the railroad on the right path. At more than 7,000ft above sea level and 124ft from the top of the mountain, the summit tunnel was the highest and deepest section of the Central Pacific's route. Judah had envisioned it years earlier, and in the summer of 1867, the vision came true. While the main crew had been blasting through the mountains from the west, another crew had been laying tracks on the eastern slope. Now, with the summit tunnel open, the two lines could be connected, and one long stretch of track could be would soon run from Sacramento to the border of Nevada. But the victory over the Sierras wasn't just a symbolic or engineering feat. It was also a financial victory. With a continuous line running from Sacramento to the far side of the mountains, the Central Pacific was eligible to receive a new installment of government support. $1,152,000 in federal bonds Triggered by the completion of the mountain section. With federal funds coming in, the speed of construction could increase. More labor could be hired, and the workers would soon lay tracks across flat, open ground Instead of chiseling and blasting through solid rock. Though it would soon become an example of be careful what you wish for, Workers would quickly realize the Nevada desert ahead of them was no picnic. It was a special kind of hell all of its own. Meanwhile, a thousand miles to the west, the Union Pacific began to accelerate its own pace. And its journey was challenging in other ways. There were no mountains or canyons or avalanches, but there was plenty of depravity, corruption, and the constant threat of Native American attacks. Next time on Legends of the Old West. The Union Pacific exits Nebraska, trudges through parts of Colorado, and then enters Wyoming. All along the line, lawless towns nicknamed hell on wheels spring up and threaten the foundation of the project. Meanwhile, cracks also appear in the foundation of Thomas Durant's money making scheme and he might lose his pot of gold. That's next week on Legends of the Old West. Members of our Black Barrel plus program don't have to wait week to week to receive new episodes. They receive the entire season to binge all at once with no commercials, and they also receive exclusive bonus episodes. Sign up now through the link in the Show Notes or On our website blackberrymedia.com memberships are just $5 per month. This series was researched and written by Matthew Kearns. It was produced by Joe Garra. Original music by Rob Valiere. I'm Chris Wimmer. Thanks for listening.
- [35:11]
Narrator
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- [36:03]
Chris Wimmer
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Narrator
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Chris Wimmer
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Narrator
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Chris Wimmer
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