Dennis McCarthy – Daily News

Former Orange County resident turned Alaskan “off the gridder” Barbara Cyer enjoys a laugh aboard the Hurricane Turn. (photo by Casey McCarthy)

The last flag stop train in America slows to a crawl at mile marker 239 outside Talkeetna, Alaska, where recluse Jimmy James waits by the tracks with a .44 revolver strapped to his hip, and a steel hook for a left hand he blew off cleaning his shot gun.

Ever since appearing on the reality TV show Alaska Railroad, James and his wife, Nancy, have become reluctant celebrities in these parts.

“I told him it was a mistake to go on that TV show, but he wouldn’t listen,” says Warren Redfearn, conductor of the Hurricane Turn train — the only way in or out of this stretch of Alaskan wilderness for 60 miles.

“We worked out a deal that when somebody wants off at his mile marker, I blow the whistle to let Jimmy know he’s got some uninvited guests.”

That gives him time to grab his .44, walk to his property line, and convince whoever wants to see him it might be best to catch the next train out of Dodge.

No one knows the landscape and 60 families living off the grid out here better than the 61-year-old Redfearn, who started riding the Hurricane Turn as a boy, and has been a conductor on the Alaskan Railroad for 38 years.

There are still a few whistle stop trains in America that make scheduled stops in small, rural towns, but only one flag stop train that will stop anywhere, anytime along the tracks to pick up or drop off passengers — or just to enjoy the sights and sounds of the Alaskan wilderness.

“We stopped for 40 minutes last week just to watch a mama bear and her cubs,” Redfearn says. “We don’t really have a schedule. My rule of thumb is as long as a bear’s in sight we don’t move.”

Almost on cue, he looks out the cargo door and shouts the words every visitor to Alaska wants to hear — from the safety of a moving train.

“Bear at 3 o’clock!”

Wendy Larson, wife of the train’s engineer, Gordy, drops her needlepoint and rushes to the open cargo door. She used to live out here with Gordy before they moved into town.

A mama black bear and her three cubs are about 30 yards off the tracks in a clearing. Mama takes off running when she hears the train slowing down, followed by two cubs. The third cub seems confused. He stops and looks around, not sure what to do.

“Get to mama, baby,” Wendy yells, in her Southern twang as the cub finally spots its mother waiting in the tree line, and runs to her.

“Good boy, but mama’s going to spank your behind when you get there,” she says, smiling like a mother whose spanked a few behinds in her life.

“I loved living out here,” Wendy says, walking back to her seat and picking up her needlepoint. “I’ve got no problem with outhouses.”

A few miles down the tracks, 70-year-old Barbara Cyer waves the train down. This wisp of a woman has been out in the wilderness alone for three weeks, hiking and photographing bears (from inside her cabin) waking from the long winter hibernation.

The former Orange County resident heaves two empty coolers and a duffle bag full of dirty laundry onto the train and climbs aboard — greeting Redfearn with a quick hug as she sticks her .44 in the duffle bag.

That’s one of the first things you notice about people living off the grid. Everybody’s packing.

“My husband and I lived out here for over 20 years,” Barbara says. “He died a few years ago. What was I going to do, quit?”

No chance. The isolation, the beauty, and, yes, even the danger of running into a mama bear protecting her cubs, all add to the adrenaline of living off the grid.

These hearty people gladly give up many of the comforts of life to have bears and Moose for neighbors, instead of us.

Three hours out, the train comes to the turnaround point on scenic Hurricane Turn Bridge spanning 300 feet above the raging Chulitna River. The historic bridge was built in 1921 and looks its age.

A middle-aged couple sit by the tracks with their two old dogs waiting to be picked up. They had run out of dog food and coffee, so they were going into Talkeetna for supplies and a hot, restaurant meal, a rare luxury before heading back out to their wilderness cabin the next day.

“Anyone want to stop at Mary and Clyde’s place on the way back to buy a book?” Redfearn asks the dozen passengers on board. A few hands shoot up.

Mary and Clyde Lovel have lived out here since the late-50s when they started homesteading their land from the federal government. They’re both in their 80’s now and their kids are hinting that maybe it’s time they move into town, but they’re fighting it.

The Lovels are the closest thing to real celebrities out here. Unlike James, they welcome people to stop at their place – Sherman City Hall, a turquoise painted house located just a few hundred yards off the tracks. You can’t miss it.

“Where’s Clyde?” Wendy asks, giving Mary a big hug as she opens her makeshift bookstore by the tracks.

“Down by the creek clearing some wood,” she says, autographing one of her books for a passenger. If you want to know in detail what it’s like to raise a family in the Alaskan wilderness, this is where you find it.

“Thank you all for stopping by,” Mary says a few minutes later, closing her bookstore and walking back to Sherman City Hall to do a little writing before dinner.

The Hurricane Turn has one more stop to make before heading back to Talkeetna for the night. One of the passengers wants to get off at mile marker 239 to look around.

Redfearn smiles and tells Gordy to get ready to blow the whistle. They want to give Jimmy time to grab his .44 and make it to his property line to say hi.

Dennis McCarthy’s column runs on Friday. He can be reached at dmccarthynews@gmail.com.