I actually wrote a piece similar to this years ago. I’m something of a digital packrat, so I went looking for it and, to my surprise, came up empty handed. So, I went about recreating it – my mind’s eye remembers the other with less history and more ghosts, but who knows? For the record, all the historical information here is absolutely true, and the tunnel – as well as other tunnels that comprised the San Jose to Santa Cruz line – still exist, though they were caved in and many now reside on private property. Also, I tried to find a good, free image like one of the ones I’ve used so far this month, but none came close to the images of the actual place. Not having been able to get permission to use any of them I’m going picture-less for now. But the twin-waterfall thing? That isn’t a fiction. —Jordy
When I stood before the open concrete maw of the tunnel I doubted whether I should have come at all. I thought of the delightful coffee shops in downtown Los Gatos I could easily get to in just a few minutes. Or, better yet, ten minutes hike back to the car, twenty minutes more and I’d be in Santa Cruz – both possibilities held much better psychic energy than this… Tunnel #3. Also known as the Summit tunnel and most commonly as Wright’s Tunnel, for a short period of time in the 19th century at nearly a mile long this was the second longest tunnel in California. But it didn’t come without a cost.
I passed the two waterfalls on flanking either side of the mouth of the tunnel dumping run-off from recent rains. Intended to open up the lucrative Santa Cruz mountains logging routes to the shipping ports of Alviso and Alameda, this tunnel – the most ambitious of the numerous bored through the hillsides in order to complete the run to Santa Cruz – began in December 1877. Hundreds of Chinese laborers were brought in to pick, dig, and dynamite their way through the mountain even as American attitude towards them soured dramatically; five years later the Chinese Exclusionary act was signed in to law. But despite the rising racist attitudes, the foremen knew the Chinese laborers were the best in the world. Unfortunately, they also saw them as disposable.
It’s mid-day under a cloudy sky as I cross into the tunnel. I know I won’t be able to go too far – the railroad ceased operations in the 1940s and this tunnel was subsequently dynamited at both ends shortly thereafter. Nonetheless, I turn to my flashlight as the sound of the waterfalls recede and darkness envelopes me. My light splashes onto graffiti on the walls – a leering caricature, elaborate tagging script. That’s when I hear the knocking.
It’s coming from much deeper into the tunnel and despite some foreboding, I quickly continue down. After all, the tunnel is collapsed in and there isn’t much further I can go. This is confirmed only a few moments later as the tunnel slopes upwards to the ceiling of the tunnel – the blasted cave-in. And yet, knocking continues seemingly through the solid earth.
Progress on the tunnel was slow going. The shifting geology of the mountain played havoc with picks and blasting. Sandstone and clay would slide back into the tunnels despite round-the-clock shits. Progress was measured at only five feet a day and the initial optimistic 10-month completion deadline was buried as a wistful pipedream under so much muck and mud. Methane gas started to seep into the tunnels, overcoming some workers. A year later and 2300 feet into the mountain, tar-like petroleum began oozing into through the cracks in the rock and were burned off every few minutes to avoid a buildup. Unfortunately, that regimen proved not to be enough, and in February of 1879 a foreman lighting a the fuse of a demolition dynamite charge instead set off a pocket of methane. The blast blew back out the mouth of the tunnel – past where I just walked – killing five laborers. Despite the explosion and loss of life, work continued. Another crew began boring north from the other side of the mountain intending to meet the larger contingent boring south from the town of Wright.
I turn away from the cave-in and head back for the light at the tunnel’s mouth when the sound of the knocking fades away, replaced by a rumbling noise. At first I think it’s a truck or low flying plane outside, but then I feel the rumble through the soles of my boots. I turn back to the cave-in, the direction the rumbling seems to be coming from and shining the light I no longer see the dirt rising to the roof of the tunnel but just an open chasm. Then, rushing up the chasm comes a wall of light and pure fire and fury. I close my eyes and fall to my knees as the light rushes towards me. I can see the light brighter and brighter through closed lids and I wait for the heat and searing burn as the roar overtakes me… but it doesn’t come. The light fades, the rumble dissipates. Silence. I struggle to regain my breathing. I turn back to the entrance, and, sure enough, I can make out the waterfalls at the mouth of the tunnel.
I take few steps towards it, though and the light at the end of the tunnel is blotted out by bodies running into the tunnel. Dozens of men running towards me, yelling. I shine my light on them and see they are Chinese. I turn and follow them with my gaze as they rush past me. I see them coursing into the tunnel, back down from where the explosion came from. Suddenly, a massive rumble sounds again more ferocious than the first, and again, a sheet of light, fire, and flame roils up engulfing the men that just passed me, flowing over and through me without touching me, and flowing out the opening in the mountain.
There were two blasts, they reported. The first, just before midnight in November 1879, when completion seemed close at hand – indeed the north and south tunnels were thought to be separated by less than a thousand feet – ignited a pocket of gas nearly 2,700 feet into the south bore. Twenty-one men – mostly Chinese laborers, naturally – died in that initial blast. Their fellow miners did indeed rush in to try to rescue any survivors, only to be caught in a second, more massive blast. The explosions cost a total of 32 lives and caused construction to grind to a halt – mostly due to the Chinese laborers refusing to go back in. Cornish miners were brought in to try to finish the tunnel.
When the Cornish emigrated from Great Britain they brought with them the story of the “Tommyknockers” – imps who would pester miners. As they worked their way through the mines of the West, however, the term evolved from its faerie past into a more paranormal phenomenon. Miners would report hearing pick axes and shovels down abandoned mine shafts. “Tommyknockers,” they would say. Perhaps it’s the Tommyknockers I hear as the roar dissipates to silence to that eerie knocking beyond the cave-in. After the blast, the sound of the ghosts digging is welcome, albeit something that makes my skin crawl.
Alas, unhappy with the pace of the Cornish miners – just half of the 8-feet-a-day the Chinese managed – the company raised wages and brought in a new crew of Chinese workers unfamiliar with the carnage they would be tunneling through. March 13th of the following year, the Chinese and Cornish miners punched through the last of the rock, joining the south and north bores into the single tunnel.
As I make my way past the waterfalls, the echoing of the phantom blasts still ringing in my ears, I think of the relative futility of all the effort. The railroad opened in 1880. Just over 25 years later the tunnel would close due to the 1906 quake which shifted part of the mountain five feet northwest. The tunnel re-opened three years later, but operation would fall off with the rise of the automobile and the completion of the Glenwood highway over the hills. By the time the big storm of 1940 washed out a section of track, the decision was made to abandon the line and seal the tunnels.
Just as time and Progress marched on, leaving the tunnel entrance to water runoff and graffiti, so do I scramble up to the roadside where my car is parked, and I head back to the highway that ultimately bypassed the tunnel.
