In January of 1880, Charles Fayette McGlashan was the new owner and editor of the Truckee Republican newspaper. He took the first opportunity he could to participate in news making events, including riding in a  Central Pacific snowplow train clearing the tracks going up to the Summit.  As a reporter, he had already reported extensively on the railroad’s efforts to keep the transcontinental line over the Sierra open at all costs. Here is his account of a death defying experience published in the Republican.
    "For severity and violence, the storm of last week equals anything ever experienced on the Sierra. The snow came down steadily, unceasingly, and the wind blew with uncontrollable fury. Fortunately, there had been very few storms during the winter, and the old snow gave little difficulty to the railroad men.

    With the first burst of the storm it was evident, however that a battle was to be fought. The snow plows were put in working order, and everything was placed in readiness for a regular siege. On Thursday night the light drifts filled up the cuts, so that the plows were set in motion, and made trips to the Summit.

    On Friday the storm fiends held high carnival. Every mountain side seemed to give birth to an avalanche. The gale increased until it became a hurricane. Early in the day it became evident that a new and unheard of danger threatened the Central Pacific. It was a danger that caused the bravest men to turn pale. The snow sheds showed indications of falling. These sheds are over thirty miles in length, and for years have withstood every shock of the elements.

    Before the storm of Friday, they trembled and tottered and threatened to fall. The west-bound Lightning Express  plunged into a slide near Yuba Pass, and seriously injured George Hamilton, the engineer, and his fireman.

    Soon after noon one hundred feet of corrugated iron shed blew down near the same place, and freight train No. 6 went crashing into the ruins.  The collision caused another large section of shedding to fall, and the doomed train was buried beneath a mass of broken timbers and deep piled drifts. Three men were completely hidden from sight, but providentially suffered no serious injuries.

    Buckley's snowplow ran to the wreck with a full crew of workmen, and by great exertion succeeded in drawing the rear cars of No. 6 back to Cisco. Meantime five hundred feet of snow-shed fell between Yuba Pass and  Emigrant Gap. The snow drifted heavily through the openings in the sheds, and accumulated so rapidly that Buckley's plow train could not return to the Summit. It was literally imprisoned at Cisco.

    A storm on the Sierra means toil and danger to hundreds of poor fellows. The engineers and firemen, the conductors and brakemen, the operators, train dispatchers, foremen, and superintendents all have multiplied toil and exposure. The warfare between the these men and the elements is worthy of being better understood. It is a warfare wherein brain and muscle are arrayed against cold, darkness and avalanches, against death in a thousand forms.

    William Hackett, a brakeman on No. 6, Friday morning was knocked off of the cars, and falling beneath the wheels, was crushed and killed. Three of his companions were buried beneath the falling sheds as described above. Hamilton and his fireman were both placed in imminent peril.

    In order to meet any emergency, two crews were placed on the plow, Joe Coburn's and Henry Wooden's. Fred Graham, M. Norton, George Hamilton and William Dolan comprised these crews. Believing that he who writes the description of a battle, must catch the inspiration on the battlefield, the Republican editor was on  this plow.
    A night storm on the Sierra is a grand spectacle. The fury and power of the winds, the blinding snow dust, the piercing cold, the bleak, awe-inspiring mountains, the prenatural gloom, the ghostly ice-clad forests, the dark shadowy gorges, and the dreadful loneliness and helplessness of the situation are calculated to awaken the  sublimest emotions.

    Of late years no headlights are placed on the plows. From the moment the hoarse whistles indicate the start, all in front of the plow is profound darkness. There is no limit to the speed of the snow-plow train, and when flying in the teeth of a hurricane, it is impossible to face the darting snow granules, which cut and sting the eyes like needle points. Up over the mold-boards of the plow come huge masses of snow which sometimes seem ready to bury one.

    The screaming engines give warning  to the track walkers, and luckless is he who fails to hear the signal. It is a true saying that one half the world does not know what the other half is doing, and few people have any conception of the constant perils of these railroaders. As an example of these perils perhaps the following is not amiss.

    It was intended that the engines should wood up at Coldstream. Just below the woodsheds were reached, however, the plowing became so heavy that Coburn pulled the bell rope for "off brakes." This meant that more power was requisite and the head engine no sooner sounded the whistle than every throttle was wide open and every engine was working under a full head of steam. The speed was something alarming.

    It not only cleared the track, but caused the engines to shoot clear through the long wood shed and far out into the storm and darkness. When the momentum was finally overcome, it was necessary  for the engines to back down to the wood piles. A snow-plow cannot be backed without being thrown from the track, for the loose snow gets under the apron and lifts the ponderous plow, bodily from the rails. Accordingly, the plow was uncoupled and left standing while the engines went back to the sheds.   
    In due time they were supplied with fuel, and the whistles sounded off brakes. The darkness was so intense that none of the engineers save the head one, knew that the plow had been detached. As a result five of the engines started out of the sheds at full speed. While the engines were wooding up, the two crews came down from the top and were standing inside the plow.