The Great Hiwassee Handcar Massacre
Back in the early 1970s, when the winters bit a little harder and common sense took more of a backseat to adventure, Frank McGuinn and his fishing companion—another Frank, known simply as Frank W—spent their days chasing trout along the wild stretch of river between Reliance and Big Bend.
It wasn’t easy water to reach. You either earned it by hiking the railroad tracks, balancing ties like a tightrope walker with a fly rod over your shoulder, or you took the trail and hoped your knees held up on the way back out. Over time, somewhere between long casts and longer walks, a dangerous idea began to take root.
A handcar.
Not the kind you see in museums—no polished relic of railroad history—but something… improvised.
Frank W, who owned a machine shop and had a talent for turning wild ideas into steel reality, made the first move. One day he called Frank McGuinn and told him to come by.
What Frank saw sitting in that shop would’ve made any sensible man turn around and leave.
But not these two.
It was a handcar.
A welded angle-iron frame sat low and sturdy. Axles machined from heavy shafting. Wheels cut from thick pipe, flanged by hand. A growling gas motor salvaged from an old cement mixer was bolted into place, connected to a belt system that could be disengaged—if you remembered to do it in time. The brakes? “Minimal” was a generous description.
And yet, somehow… it worked.
They tested it on a side track. It rattled. It shook. It screamed like a banshee in spots—but it moved. And more importantly, it stopped. Most of the time.
Still, it sat idle.
Because even for two men willing to build such a contraption, there were limits. The railroad wouldn’t approve. And getting caught—or worse, meeting a train head-on—was enough to keep their invention parked.
Until opportunity came knocking.
A railroad strike.
No trains. No traffic. Just empty steel stretching through the mountains like an invitation.
Frank called Frank W. No long discussion needed.
It was time.
The morning they chose was cold enough to freeze the guides on a fly rod. February in the mountains. The kind of cold that settles into your bones and stays there.
They unloaded the handcar without trouble, set it on the rails, and with a cough and a roar from that cement mixer engine, they were off—rolling upriver toward Big Island.
The ride was half terror, half triumph.
The river ran beside them, steel-gray and quiet. Frost clung to the rocks. The mountains stood still, watching.
And the fishing?
Perfect.
They caught trout after trout, laughter echoing off the ridges. By midday, they were hungry, frozen, and proud of themselves in a way only bad ideas gone right can make you feel.
So they turned the car around and rattled their way downriver to Webb’s Texaco.
Jim Webb was there.
They told him they had something to show him.
Jim smiled before they even finished explaining.
And of course, he climbed aboard.
The three of them headed back upriver, the handcar clanking and buzzing like it had something to prove. The afternoon passed the same way as the morning—fish in hand, stories getting taller, pride growing by the minute.
Until the mountains answered back.
At first, it was just a sound.
Faint. Distant. Confused by the ridges.
Then suddenly—
Real.
A train horn.
Too close.
Too loud.
And impossible.
There weren’t supposed to be any trains.
Then came the second sound—a high, violent screech of steel-on-steel brakes, echoing through the gorge.
And finally…
The crash.
The three men were wading below a steep bank when it happened. Instinct took over. They pressed themselves into the earth, tucked low where they couldn’t be seen from the tracks above.
Silence followed.
Then footsteps.
The engineer climbed down, scanning the wreckage. He knew. There was no way he couldn’t. A machine like that didn’t just appear on the rails by itself.
Below the bank, three grown men held their breath like boys hiding from trouble.
Minutes stretched.
Finally, Frank W exhaled, stood up, and made his way up the slope.
The conversation that followed was part explanation, part apology, and part pure desperation.
“There weren’t supposed to be any trains,” he insisted.
The engineer looked back at the twisted remains of the handcar.
“Damage to the car?” Frank McGuinn added, stepping up now. “Tell you what—if you don’t report this, we won’t hold the railroad responsible for it.”
The engineer stared at him.
“Damage to the car?” he repeated. “I probably flattened every wheel on this train!”
But the three men didn’t look like criminals. Just fishermen. Cold, tired, and clearly in over their heads.
The engineer sighed.
“I’ve got to explain the delay,” he said.
“Tell them you hit a fallen tree,” Frank W offered quickly.
A long pause.
Then a reluctant nod.
And just like that, they thought it was over.
The handcar was gone—destroyed beyond saving. And despite all their effort and pride, it would never be rebuilt.
Time passed. Quietly.
Until one day, a railroad detective showed up at Frank W’s shop.
Turns out, secrets don’t always stay buried.
But Frank W had another skill besides welding.
Hospitality.
A bottle was brought out. Stories were told. Glasses were refilled. By the time the visit was over, the detective seemed convinced that whatever had happened… wasn’t worth digging into any deeper.
He was even invited back.
And that—finally—was the end of it.
For years afterward, if you knew where to look, you could still see the remains. Down near the old sidetrack below Little Rock Island, bits of twisted metal rested quietly beside the rails. A ghost of an idea that once roared to life.
Now it’s gone.
No trace left behind.
Except the story.
And among those who know it, it still carries its name—
The Great Hiwassee Handcar Massacre.