Southern Pacific was trying everything humanly possible to effect a rescue. So were many others. The Sixth Army, under Major G. C. Cotton, loaded weasels on flatcars and took them to the farthest point of penetration. But they couldn't make it. The Pacific Gas Electric Company's Sno-Cat got through, but one double-trucked track-laying vehicle could not take 226 people out. So it brought supplies in — and word of rescue efforts by rail, highway and air. Jay Gold, who later died of sheer exhaustion, Charley Swing and Roy Claytor manned the Cat. Claytor was the first man from outside to contact the isolated train, and his mere presence gave the passengers a needed lift.
The men of the California Division of Highways were hard at it too. They thought they could get through to the train from Emigrant Gap and Herschel Jones' Nyack Lodge.
Would one of the rescue trains make it first? Nobody knew, but everybody prayed and hoped.
The telephone company was on the job all this time, keeping the lines of communication open and answering as best they could the frantic appeals for word of loved ones aboard the stranded City. It operated a mobile two-way radio-phone automobile which helped to locate and save a truck of precious foodstuff for Nyack Lodge.
Assistant Road Foreman of Engines Charlie Carroll meanwhile recognized an essential but irksome task. He organized a latrine patrol, and with cans from the baggage car of the City he and the engineers, firemen, conductors, a brakeman and a baggageman performed the necessary operation.
The night of January 14 the steam-heat generators gave out, and the big Mallet behind the train took over. Soon snow-choked exhausts around the train's air-conditioning equipment under the cars caused obnoxious gas to enter the Pullmans. That night and the next day Dr. Roehll and an Espee doctor now aboard the train tended to the ill and reported no serious cases. Everybody was on the job helping one another. Sid Paradee of Chicago, a passenger, dragged [E.Z.] Hardison and Bill Murray from a sleeping compartment to fresh air at the car's vestibule end.
"My legs just crumpled under me," said Hardison. "It was a Godsend that Mr. Paradee found us."
January 16 broke calm and clear. The wind had died. A Coast Guard helicopter soared overhead. Visions of food, supplies and perhaps a doctor descending by parachute with accurate news of a real rescue went through the mind of every person. Supplies, medical aids and food were dropped, but the doctor could not be safely parachuted.
"Look out, Colonel!" someone shouted, as an Army man made ready to catch some food stocks floating earthward fast.
"I'll catch 'em," he answered. And he did. Eggs! Some new stripes were added to his already spangled uniform.
Yet no rescue was in sight. Was it the calm before the next storm? A minor one broke at that moment.
"Dat cook! My third cook! He's crazy—look at him go!" This was from the chef in 101's dining car.
[E.Z.] Hardison heard and saw the gaunt scrambling figure of the terrified Negro dive through an open diner window into the slithering snow beside the train. Deep, fresh drifts of snow on the nearby highway all but engulfed the third cook.
Where it came from no one knew, but Hardison produced a ball of twine, strung it out so he wouldn't get lost himself, and started in pursuit of the terror-stricken man. Careful cajoling persuaded him to follow the drift up to the diesel on the head end. He returned to the train — and unbelievably to his duties in the kitchen.
Tension, partly a product of the dead calm following all the howling wind and furious snow, was high. Still no rescue. While the City of San Francisco lay snuggled helplessly against a mountainside, rescue was creeping nearer.
At the train a committee bent on rescue was formed, but to the group Bob Miller said, "Your idea is fine, but first let me go to Crystal Lake again. I'll find out what Mr. Jennings has worked out for us. I know they'll get us out of here."
On this venture through the wind and snow Bob Miller collapsed again and was cared for in a trackside shanty by other crewmen.
The snow trail to the turnaround near the stalled train had been packed hard by the weary, persistent tramping back and forth of Nelson's men. It was ready for eager feet. Steam heat had played out in the dead Mallet behind the City. January 16 was silent, calm and clear as a bell.
"They're through! They got through! We can get out down the highway!" broke the silence. The hopeless inertia of more than 200 imprisoned humans transformed itself into movement.
"The Highway Department got 40 open," reported a crewman returning from the highway turnaround. Highway 40 is the transcontinental road over the High Sierras. Dogged determination on the part of the state highwaymen had blazed a way clear. It was just a short distance through a perpendicular cut through solid ice and snow to freedom.
Highway Department cars and private automobiles from Herschel Jones' Nyack Lodge crawled up the canyon, swung into the turnaround, and waited to effect the final rescue.
Women and children made the jubilant exodus from the train protected from the stinging cold by pillowcases with eye holes cut in them. Blankets wrapped them against the weather. There were a few stretcher cases — none serious.
The autos took the passengers, crews and officials out down the sheer-walled canyon to the Lodge and to the waiting train at the Gap. Most of the people went directly to the rescue train. Steaks and the trimmings were on the house and beds were ready. Doctors and nurses took charge where they were needed.
Leaving the City, Dr. Roehll turned to the Army colonel. "Colonel, we can fight an army, but we can't fight the elements."
Powerful caterpillars and bulldozers from A. Teichert Sons and Luntz Construction Company in Sacramento dragged the diesel units and the cars free up there on the mountain. But her human cargo was safe.
At the headquarters of Espee in San Francisco the news of the freed train eased tired minds. Wrote newly elected President Donald J. Russell: "The people of Southern Pacific again have lived up to their proud tradition of proving equal to every emergency. During the time the City of San Francisco was caught in the Sierra snow by one of the worst storms in history, all concerned worked together in the unceasing round-the-clock effort to liberate the passengers and the train. It was an inspiring demonstration of teamwork that wrote another epic chapter in the history of Southern Pacific. Every man and woman who participated in this successful endeavor has my sincere thanks and deep appreciation."
(Found at: Central Pacific Railroad Photographic History Museum)