Southern Railway #4501

One could not be a railfan in the southeastern United States in the latter half of the 20th century and not be acquainted with Southern's well-traveled Mikado #4501. Following Paul Merriman's recovery of the locomotive from the Kentucky & Tennessee, my dad followed the progress of the little Mike during many of her earlier excursions — including an early trip from her former home in Stearns, Kentucky, back to Chattanooga after repairs and break-in runs. He later rode many trips out of Chattanooga, Huntsville, and Birgmingham in the years that followed her excursion debut. Later on, in the 1980's, together we road several 4501 trips between New Orleans and Hattiesburg, Mississippi. For both us, this 1911 Baldwin and a half dozen heavyweight Southern coaches make for the quintessential deep south excursion train. Mr. Merriman's Mike set the standard for every other excursion performer, even locomotives twice her size and much more sophisticated in design. She is a cornerstone in our railfan memories. I remain grateful to the Tennessee Valley Railroad Museum for keeping her alive in her fourth act.

In 1968, after just two years of excursion service following her return to steam by Paul Merriman, 4501 went back to Stearns, Kentucky, and the Kentucky & Tennessee steam shop for an overhaul by the very men who had maintained her in coal service for a decade and a half. The overhaul completed, in November of that year 4501 made a ferry move down the Southern's "Rathole" Division, back to Chattanooga and the Tennessee Valley Railway Museum to prepare for a third excursion season. Dad caught the move at Oakdale, Tennessee, as it worked its way south, seven passenger cars in tow. While waiting for 4501 to arrive, he also caught the southbound Royal Palm and the daily "Spark Plug" — a hotshot frieght to Atlanta featuring parts used in automobile production.

Slow and Steady Wins the Race

Usually our machines simply do what we build them to do.
But every now and then, they remind us how to live our lives.

Throughout the 1970s and early 1980s, the New Orleans chapter of the National Railway Historical Society coordinated with the Southern Railway to operate annual steam excursions in the fall between New Orleans, Louisiana, and Hattiesburg, Mississippi — a 225 mile roundtrip. Like many in the hobby, I owe my deep love of railroading to my father, and during my adolescent years we greatly enjoyed our riding together on these wonderful day-long steam marathons. Indeed, these trips for me set the tone for all subsequent steam-riding adventures.

Every November trip during the 1980s presented a challenge to its planners. The popularity of the voyage usually outweighed Southern's smaller excursion locomotives' more limited drawbar pull. I can remember arriving at New Orleans Union Passenger Terminal to find a train of coaches that seemed as long as 30 cars — too much for light Pacifics and Mikados in a solo role. As such, diesel-electric assistants were always called in for backing in those years. Sometimes this would be as ordinary as a GP38-2 (as in 1984 when #4501 was beset with bad coal), but on several occasions, two of the green "Heritage" FP7's played the necessary second fiddle to the celebrity steamer.

The tickets my father would purchase for us secured two seats in one of the old heavyweight coaches, but we were never found there. We preferred the tail end of the movement, always claiming a spot in "Lookout Mountain" — the steam program's beloved open observation car that racked up thousands of excursion miles over the decades. From its spacious rear platform, this young kid watched many a mile slip away along the Southern's pristine, all-welded Crescent Division, traveling northeast from NOLA. Lookout Mountain turned out to be the locale for one of my most vivid childhood memories.

It was the 1985 trip, featuring the much-loved #4501. During the lunch break in Hattiesburg, the crews turned the Mike on a nearby wye for the southbound flight home. Meanwhile, my father and I managed to gulp down the greasy box lunches that came with our tickets ... a meal always too cold and too meager. Soon the classy FP7's took there place in front of Man O' War (another well known excursion car, always at the head end on New Orleans trips). After brake tests, the 4501 once again took her rightful place on the lead. Dad and I hustled our way back to our favorite spot on the rear of the train, and with our comrades in the hobby waited for our collective departure.

Now this is what I remember: The heavy man next to me, weighed down with multiple cameras and also smelling of box lunch chicken, happened to have a radio scanner clipped to his generous belt. Suddenly it crackled to life. My young ears tuned in with great interest. It seemed the head end crew was experiencing a moment of spontaneity. "How about we let 4501 get us underway?" asked the engineer. A pregnant silence followed. The boss of the FP7's broke in with what seemed like hesitant agreement. The conductor's voice came next. His, the final word. Apparently he had no opinion on the matter, except that it was time to get underway. "Highball 4501."

My mind was electric. No one had to explain any of this to me. I knew exactly what all this railroad chatter meant. The classy little Mikado we all loved was being handed a great challenge: 16 over worn heavyweights, all loaded to the gills with railfan fathers and sons like us, and a few patient wives. This was to be a superlative moment. Feeling as though I had just broken the Enigma code, I quickly tugged at my father's sleeve. I felt he just had to know this news before any one else. No sooner had I finished uploading the information when we heard a whistle. Two breathy blasts from afar signaled the start of the fight. As the slack ran out and the drawbar tightened, the whole train lurched. Everyone was immediately quiet. In the absence of Lookout Mountain chatter, what I already knew now became clear to others: No EMD prime movers could be heard getting underway; only the deep, throaty chug of a Baldwin stack drifted back to our ears. Inches turned to feet, each one a victory. Feet became yards, and slowly the old city of Hattiesburg began passing us by. But still no noise that resembled FP7s. The message was now clear to all concerned: We were starting on our way home, with no help yet from anything that ran on diesel oil. It did not take long for our forward motion to apogee, a velocity I imagined to be no more than 8-10 miles per hour. Paul Merriam's old machine had managed to get this heavy train underway, all by herself.

My budding railfan imagination was now in full cutoff, working hard. Understand: Southern's 4501 had held in my callow mind the status of true hero for some time. To be sure, I was raised a Presbyterian, therefore taught well the dangers of idolatry. But this little Baldwin was a true temptress. My many indiscretions were obvious: I had memorized David Morgan's book. I was the only kid in my middle school who knew who Walter Dove was. I could recite light Mikado statistics to anyone who asked. (Painfully, no one ever did.) Given this adoration, I understood well that this feat now taking place before me was perhaps more than her Baldwin designers ever imagined, at least at her age. Even from the tail end of the train, my mind's eye could see every aspect her effort: Eight 44" drivers "digging in", Walscherts gear at full cutoff, sand coming down like rain. I could picture her fireman shoveling hard; her engineer, poised, simply hoping for one good grip after another. I had to imagine all of these sights, but I could feel their results. For what seemed like many a slow mile, as the city of Hattiesburg gave way bit by bit to Mississippi piney woods, the little Mike did her thing, and did it well. Nothing fancy, mind you. No speed to thrill a dynameter chart. No J class ease. But we were on our way, by golly. Sixteen or more coaches and two idled EMDs inching down the line. And just like me, those covered wagons were merely passengers on this ride. Their reversers in neutral, while the steam kettle they replaced slowly and steadily took care of business.

The end of this promethean struggle for acceleration was soon signaled by another crackle on my neighbor's revelatory speaker. "Engineer 4501 to engineer 3497, how about some help now?" At least, that's what I remember he said. Two blasts from a Nathan 5-chime were quickly followed by the unmistakable resonance of 567 prime movers finally getting dressed for work. Another lurch — this time a little stronger — and the clickety-clacks soon picked up in rhythm, the way a jazz trio gets its thing together. We were taking on speed, quickly now, making our way back home to New Orleans with a little help from the Electro-Motive Division. Sheer steam determination had, I suppose by necessity, given way to diesel-electric ease.

As a Presbyterian minister now, I find I mostly view this life as a gift of immense grace to be received and shared, not so much a thing to be conquered through sheer will or dogged grit. But even a crack theologian can concede that every now and then gritty determination has its place among the virtues. And what's more, sometimes even our machines teach us the dignity of staying in the fight.

Can staybolts and seams be our heroes? Does a boiler with brakes posses a will? I'm not sure. Is my memory of these moments a bit puffy with time? The details, distended in hindsight? Perhaps. But in my childhood memory there remain a handful of charmed minutes when an outclassed little steamer bravely took on weighty odds … and persevered.

"Slow and steady wins the race," said the tortoise to the hare.

Slow and steady indeed.

written by RWH for the Blue Ridge Chapter NRHS newsletter, 2005

By the time I was in college, Southern #4501 was an old friend. So it was a treat to hear the news that she would be spending the night nearby during my sophomore year. I had just moved to Bristol, Tennessee, to attend a liberal arts college there. Although railfanning was not at the forefront of my mind in those college years, the word that #4501 and Norfolk & Western #611 would be tied down together overnight between weekend excursions was enough to get me out of the dorm and down to Bristol yard for an inspection. As I say, 4501 was like an old friend by that point, but I had only ever seen the big J in print or on a few VHS tapes from the early 1980s. Nothing prepares you for an up close encounter with her impressive stature and stylized lines of the J, and it was great to see them together on the side tracks for servicing. I remember that weekend well — October of 1993 — as I had only just met and begun dating my eventual college sweetheart, later bride. Her family was in town that weekend for other reasons, and I was delighted to discover that they all had a soft spot for trains. We all ventured down to the old N&W yard and inspected both locomotives, idle for the evening. The photo above shows my father-in-law-to-be inspecting Paul Merriam's project ... and my old friend.