Well...in 1978 I was walking home along the tracks in the town where I lived then. "My, what a nice looking chunk of rail!" I thought. It was just a cutoff chunk that somebody had tossed to the side. Picked it up, carried it home. Except for almost ripping three toes off on it in 1980, it's been all good.
Now, that was in another country in another century and one could still do things like that. Here in Canada, you don't go on the rails unless you're looking to get at least a strongly-worded lecture from a rail cop. In fact, I see signs in all the scrap yards notifying customers that they will take indentification information on anyone who brings in rail, and turn that information over to the police. Fake ID? Hah. Better have a fake face to go with it; they take pictures.
Six Degrees of Separation works. Ask around. Somebody you know knows somebody who knows how to get a chunk of rail. A flat of two-four or a bottle of Jim oughta be sufficient to create a trade.
O.H.
Now, that was in another country in another century and one could still do things like that. Here in Canada, you don't go on the rails unless you're looking to get at least a strongly-worded lecture from a rail cop. In fact, I see signs in all the scrap yards notifying customers that they will take indentification information on anyone who brings in rail, and turn that information over to the police. Fake ID? Hah. Better have a fake face to go with it; they take pictures.
Six Degrees of Separation works. Ask around. Somebody you know knows somebody who knows how to get a chunk of rail. A flat of two-four or a bottle of Jim oughta be sufficient to create a trade.
O.H.