During the summer of 1974, with a satchel of cameras, I hopped a freight in Chicago, headed Northwest and wound up circling the country, searching for the whereabouts of railroad tramps. I stopped and scoured railroad yards at the slightest hint of their presence. Make no bones about it, mainstream America and its growing population was gradually overtaking the track-side sanctuaries tramps called home. Often times, days, weeks passed without encountering a single tramp. Subsequent journeys in 1979 and 1980 steered me West of the Mississippi where patches of forsaken land provided a temporary outpost for a transient culture. A small path at the end of a rail yard often led to a jungle, maybe a clump of trees, where a man could cook a meal and lay his bedroll on the ground for a night or two.