By Justin Smith
Staff Writer

I don’t know why I walked down the middle of the railroad tracks heading north out of Carrboro that Sunday afternoon.

Maybe I was subconsciously inspired by a paper I was writing about Carrboro’s mill town history for an American Studies class.

During my research, I read in a book called “Orange County Trio” that the town started as a small settlement that formed during the late 1800s around a 10-mile rail spur. In the back of my mind, I think I wanted to know what Carrboro looked like today from the railroad tracks.

We all know what Carrboro looks like from its streets, but if passenger rail service existed in the town today, what would a rider see if he was passing through the town?

I started my journey where the railroad tracks intersect with Weaver Street. As I advanced north, every so often, I would look back over my shoulder to see Carr Mill Mall becoming smaller and smaller.

Eventually I hardly could see downtown Carrboro at all. Green bushes, trees and those purple flowers that grow in my grandma’s yard this time of year surrounded me.

Other than the sound of birds chirping, my railroad walk was quiet. So much so, I began hearing sounds that didn’t exist. Several times, I thought I heard a faint train whistle. The sound put me on alert because I was walking down the middle of the tracks.

My fears subsided when I realized that if a train in fact was barreling toward me, it would be pretty obvious, and surely I could dart off the tracks and avoid a brush with death.

As I scanned the landscape ahead, I spotted a man wearing jeans, a blue work shirt and a white ball cap in the distance walking toward me. As he slowly grew larger in the landscape, I hurriedly thought of how I would handle my interaction with this stranger.

Immediately, I thought he must be a criminal or other sketchy character. Why else would he be walking the railroad tracks? Surely he isn’t writing a newspaper column, too. He could beat me up, steal my wallet and leave me for dead, I thought.

“Hello, how are you?” I asked, as we passed on the tracks.

The stranger responded, “Good, good,” as he looked down and continued walking.

Whew, I got through my encounter alive. That could have been ugly.

As I continued walking, I came across a massive apartment complex on my left, which I later learned was Estes Park. The back side of the complex faced the railroad tracks, and the apartment doors probably weren’t much more than 40 feet from the tracks.

Because the weather was nice this weekend afternoon, I saw residents sitting in the breezeway in front of their front doors or milling around the complex. I felt like a sleuth as I watched people through the trees between the railroad tracks and the apartment complex.

A group of Asians gathered outside an open door and were speaking a foreign language. Outside another building a little girl held a boy down as another boy tickled him. A woman called to the children from an open door, yelling in another foreign language. Whatever she said seemed to work, because the girl let her captive go.

I continued walking along the railroad tracks until I crossed Estes Road and realized where I was. I turned to the left and saw a wooden “Welcome to Carrboro” sign and turned to the right and saw a green “Chapel Hill” sign. All of a sudden I realized that the railroad tracks divide the two towns — they don’t just blend together. There is some sort of separation between Chapel Hill and Carrboro.

A short time after crossing Estes Road, the railroad track turned into a bridge allowing trains to pass over a creek. A “no trespassing” sign threatened criminal charges for people caught walking on the bridge, but it seemed so tempting, even for a scaredy-pants like me.

I was just about to walk across the river, but then I asked myself: “What happens if a train comes?” In order to avoid certain death, I would have to jump off the bridge into the rocky stream several dozen feet below. That risk, I decided, wasn’t worth the adrenaline rush of breaking the rules.

So the bridge was where my adventure ended. I turned around and headed into safe old Carrboro. About halfway back, I saw the stranger I passed earlier. The man in blue jeans and blue coat was carrying several white shopping bags from the CVS pharmacy near Carr Mill Mall.

Maybe he lived in Estes Park apartments. Maybe the railroad was like a sidewalk that connected him to the downtown stores. That’s when I realized that the stroll along the railroad tracks, which was a fun diversion for me, is part of everyday life for some residents.

Just then I felt the cell phone clipped to my belt vibrating. I had a new voicemail. It was my roommate asking me to join her at a wine tasting at Weaver Street Market. That was the Carrboro I knew. That’s the Carrboro you’ll see from Weaver Street – a different Carrboro than the one you’ll see from the railroad tracks.