Trip Reports by our Clients:
AMTRAK IN APRIL
by Frank Stanley
Last Fall, fearing the results of the Amtrak Reform Council's forthcoming report, as well as eyeing the approach of a "Monumental Birthday", I decided that a self indulgent, first class, long distance rail trip was in order. "Time's a-wasting, as Li'l Abner would have it. So, a consultation with Ted Blishak quickly resulted in well-crafted reservations for early April.
Windsor Locks, Connecticut, was my point of departure. Since, probably, few know this somewhat interesting spot, I shall describe it. This is the first Amtrak stop South of Springfield, Massachusetts, on the line leading to New Haven. The "station" is am "Amshack," more suited to be a city bus stop. Across a well groomed, single track is the bank of the Connecticut River, which is twenty or so feet below.
Fishermen's paths cut through the brush here and there, and one can look across the rippling river to a similar bank to the East. Very tranquil, except for the roar from I-91, which crosses the river just to the North and heads South a few hundred yards behind this "station". A relatively new, four lane highway heads West from I-91, directly behind us, to Bradley International Airport, a growing facility which, like the roads, seems to be in a constant state of investment and expansion.
Windsor Locks is named for the old structures just South of here. These locks permitted river traffic to bypass shallows and and rapids. Flanking them is the Stanley Works, which, until it was acquired, was the oldest company listed on the New York Stock Ex- change. The locks are, of course, now unused.
So, there you have it: four different modes of transportation. Two are growing, one is gone, and the forth may be on the balance.
I wait on the small platform with perhaps a half dozen others on this chilly, bright April morning for first stop). Nine cars, including one coach sporting the old "Northeast Direct" logo. At the rear are a cafe car(43359) and Business Class car (81510). (I should note here that this account will have little "technical" information - consists, signals, and the like. On the other hand, I hope it will have some of the flavor of my trip by rail.)
Only one door opens on the small platform, and a cheerful train- man helps me hoist my large bag on board. I follow with my small one and head back through the cafe car to the Business Class coach, select a seat on the left, hoist my bags onto the over- head rack, and settle in. In order to create more leg room, this car's seats have been repositioned with the result that some seats no longer line up well with the windows. However, the car is sparsely occupied, so there is no trouble securing a good view. The car features tables with four facing seats on each side of the aisle, as well as a luggage rack, in the front. To the rear are a similar table set-up, handicap space, and rest rooms. The viewing out the rear door is excellent.
After my ticket is collected, I head up to the cafe car to get coffee (complementary) and a Danish (not) before we reach Hartford, where a goodly number may board. The cafe car, as is the case with the Business Class car, is sparkling. There are black silhouettes of Amtrak trains (semi-technical note: led by pre-Genesis loco- motives) above the windows, and posters illustrating the food and beverages available. The attendant, as well as the two man crew, is friendly and helpful. A great start!
Back at my seat, I leaf through "Arrive" (Vol. 3, #2), a slick pub- lication tucked in the pocket on the back of the seat in front of me. It is good to see the return of an interesting magazine oriented toward Amtrak travel.
We go through the yard North of Hartford and through the trashy approach to the station. Once there, the compact skyline and handsome state capital are a sharp contrast. The Hartford station is another object of constant work, and that and the fair number of people boarding de- lay us awhile. When we leave, we are on our way to the "BMW" stops (Berlin, pronounced BURR-lin; Meriden; and Wallingford). We continue to parallel I-91, travelling through commercial and industrial areas, but we also pass through trees and by ponds. North of New Haven are marshes, and side tracks with many empty Amtrak cars designed (I guess) to carry welded rail, as well as empty Amtrak gondolas.
Soon, we slide smoothly onto the Shore Line and begin to see signs of massive rail investment: retaining walls, catenary, road bed, ties, and more. And this reconstruction is far from completed, as can be seen further down the line. However, despite all that is new, this train observes the ancient and honorable rite of changing engines in New Haven; the Springfield line is not electrified.
This ritual does not take long, and soon we are on our way with a significantly larger crowd. We zip down the line, across the Housatonic, and on to the curves (improved but still there) in Bridgeport. Further West (or,technically, South) there are "gang planks" extending out from the high level, commuter station platforms. Work is being done on the outer, "local" tracks. We are passing MetroNorth, Acela, and Shore Line trains. The last has a diesel locomotive in New Haven Railroad colors, black, red, and white, pulling former RDC cars. They are on a newly established run to Stamford (the last major stop in Connecticut), where a new, colossal Metro North/ Amtrak station is under construction.
Next are blooming forsythia, magnolias, and other signs of Spring as we glide through "bedroom communities" on our way to New York City. Just beyond New Rochelle we tenderly cross the other three tracks of the Shore Line on our way to Hell Gate. Here, we encounter and endure the first attack of that modern plague, "cellus phoneyitis". Two guys across the way start yakking into apparently defective 'phones. At least, they seem to have to yell to get their "How ya doin?" messages across.
This car is about half full as we climb to the Hell Gate Bridge. The stage of the tide is such that there is hardly any movement of the water below us, between the East River and Long Island Sound. The Manhattan skyline, to the right, is clear and clean. And the gap in the downtown profile is apparent. Perhaps by chance, but appropriately, there is silence in the car.
The train glides on, and we catch a glimpse of the Barnum & Bailey circus train just before entering the tunnel to Penn Station. The stop here is not long, but the car fills up, and we leave at 9:40, five minutes late. After Newark, we pull into "Newark Internatio collection of platforms and escalator - staircase enclosures. It is connected to the airport by an elevated, automated "air train", and we see one pull in as we wait in the station. This could be a very handy facility for fliers who do not want to be bothered by renting or parking cars. Or using cabs or shuttles.
We next zip along on welded rails and concrete ties, and once more the view from the rear is enjoyable. Trenton, the next stop, always brings to mind late night transfers to the Fort Dix bus. This is the only place on earth, we believed, where one could stand in mud, with snow up to the knees, and have sand blown in your eyes.
Next, the depressing neighborhoods of North Philadelphia, a glance down the Schuylkill, and the ever-traffic jammed expressway adjacent. The crews rowing in the river seem to make better time. We have an uneventful pause in Philadelphia, leaving, to all intents and purposes, on time. However, we do stop just outside the station, to let an Acela pass us. It had pulled into the station after we had arrived, and now it leads us South. This could be one reason for their speedy schedule,but ours really is not a slouch either.
Wilmington, and then we whiz on to Aberdeen and Baltimore. The smooth, speedy ride through the early Springtime along the shore is quite pleasant. As usual, we creep through the long tunnel South of the Baltimore station; this is perhaps the biggest bottleneck on the Northeast Corridor. BWI and New Carlton, and then we pull into Washington right ontime.
Washington Union Station seems absolutely jammed, and it is far from being rush hour. I deposit my bags in the Metropolitan Lounge - or is it now the Acela Lounge? - and head for lunch at the restaurant, America (I believe it is called). It, too, is jammed, but I head up to its third level, where I am able to sit at the feet of a centurion, looking down at the crowd and up at the sunlight shining through the translucent light in the vaulted ceiling. Observe this phenomenon on a late, sunny afternoon, and you can watch the light progress from one end of the building to the other. A turkey club is just the ticket, followed by a trip to the book store (never have enough) and some other stops, and a return to the Lounge to relax until the Capitol Limited is announced. It seems that everyone in the lounge has listened to the Blishaks advice on their web site and wants Red Cap assistance. Bags are stacked higgledy-piggledy on a cart and we wend our way to an escalator (he to an elevator), and then along the platform to "Georgia", my car. I am in C, and a look around shows what will be pretty much standard on this trip: "clean, complete, and comfortable" although faults and glitches do show up from time to time (and I shall note them). Here is one: Tony, who proves to be an excellent attendant, announces that there is no coffee pot in our car, but we are free to use the one in the next sleeper. (It, by the way, is one of those refurbished cars with brown, corrugated walls.) Why have I chosen this indirect way West? Because, in my opinion, there is no better, practical route. The Lake Shore has its ill timed and interminable Al- bany shuffle, and while the scenery up the Hudson or through the Berkshires is first rate, the Corridor and West of Washington is not shabby. These accomo-dations are better and meals more convenient. The PRR route has little attraction in regard to schedule and equipment, and I shall take the Cardinal East. Perhapsthe ideal route West would be the Corridor, the Crescent, a night in New Orleans,and the City of New Orleans North. But there are limits. In conclusion, no route West is as scenic as it is East, but Westbound this seems best to me. So, here I am.
We leave Washington on time. I have not headed West on this line since B & O days, so it was a particular thrill once more to burst from the tunnel before Harper"s Ferry and see the rivers and bridges. It now is cloudy and dull, but the route to Cumberland is full of good viewing, no matter how gray the sky. It is always surprising how quickly the "Megalopolis" is left behind for rivers, farms, and hills.
I may have misunderstood, but I thought I heard that dinner reservations were available only for 5:45 and 8:15. I choose he latter and sit back to read, gaze - and doze a bit until it is 8:15. I duly head to the dinner where I join a very small "crowd", perhaps eight. I share a table with a district sales manager of a major air line. His father had been employed by the Norfolk and Western, and he has fond memories of riding on the George Washington (which I believe was C&O), and particularly of its dining car. He has intended for some time to try modern rail travel, and as with so many, 9/11 spurred him to act. He is going to Los Angeles and flying back. A very interesting and informative companion. For one thing, I learn how his airline keeps airplane food hot or cold prior to serving. I listen as I enjoy my roast beef (just the right "doneness") corn, and potato, thinking his bill of fare is K rations compared to this. To be fair, I did find the salad want- ing, a not infrequent reaction on this trip. But it really is too early to expect "garden fresh".
So back to the room, which Tony has prepared for sleeping. I leave a call for 5:30 for 6:00 breakfast, and rock gently off to the Land of Nod.
I slept quite well but awoke at 5:00 with a feeling of "uh oh". The power was off, and we were not moving. As my head cleared a bit, I realized that we were in Toledo, probably dropping a material handling car or some such. Right on time! I doze off, and exactly at 5:30, Tony rouses me. A fabulous shower - hot, steady stream , and a decent roadbed. Off to the diner to share a table with a gentleman from Iowa. We talk about his two hundred acres, with a river, beaver, and deer. We also dis- cuss raising peppers, a favorite activity of his; tomatoes; and other items. Weed and other unwanted vegetation is discussed; we agree they are all but indestructible. Delightful. Two for two with companions.
I pick up a cup of coffee in the egg crate car on the way back to my room, where the "Toledo Blade", a very satisfactory newspaper, awaits me in the made-up room. It is comfortable and quiet as we pass from rural to increasingly built up areas. Then Burns Harbor and the other steel mill complexes. We do not stop at Hammond but pro- ceed on toward Chicago, and at 8:55, we are backing into Union Station.
After thanking Tony, I went into the station and stashed my bags. If you travel First Class, you have two alternatives: public lockers or the Metropolitan Lounge (I didn't note, but I can't believe they would call it the Acela Lounge in Chicago). Lockers are not always available, or if they are, there may not be the size you wish. I gather that photo i.d. and presentation of a ticket are required for use. They are expensive; you will need many quarters to redeem your bags.
The Lounge has a baggage storage area, which is often full. There are no baggage checks or the like for this area, but I have never heard of any theft. Often, bags are checked into room 341 (for instance, see the account of the Blishaks' latest trip). This is just down the hall from the lounge. You redeem your bags from a Red Cap just before your boarding time.
With bags disposed of, I head out. Chicago is brisk and breezy, but not uncomfortable enough to preclude some sightseeing and shopping, including, of course, for books. I write some post cards and lunch at the Berghoff which is A-1 as usual. Then it is back to the Lounge for the next leg of the trip.
I am ticketed on the California Zephyr, which is scheduled to leave at 2:45, but that time comes and goes with no word as to what is going on - or not going on. This is not the fault of the Lounge personnel. They are as in the dark as we are, and I suspect they are prohibited from inquiring about the train's status. It is not until 3:45 that "those desiring Red Cap assistance" are asked to come to the front of the Lounge. In short order there begins what might be called the Metropolitan Lounge Helter- Skelter. Some people rush to the front of the Lounge; others rush back to seated travelling companions. The entrance to the baggage area is jammed with some trying to get in and others trying to get out with their luggage. Others head for Room 341. The whole area is just not big enough or well designed, and compounding the problem is the lack of information as to the status of the train. Is it about to leave? How much time do I have? Will I be left behind? A calming announcement would cure a lot of concerns.
None of this is meant to criticize the Lounge personnel. Every time I have seen this phenomenon, which can be aggravated when departure times are close together, they are pleasant, calm, and polite. But a little better "crowd control" by way of announcements and assurances that there is plenty of time to board would do a lot of good.
Be that as it may, an eager and enthusiastic Red Cap at Room 341 checks baggage tags and starts to load a cart. He is soon joined by another Red Cap. They pile bags on the cart, but it seems that there just will not be room enough for all, so I take mine and pass by the waiting coach passengers, through the gate, and down the platform to 32034 and room D. This is an older car, but it glistens.
At 3:40 there is an onboard announcement that we shall have a delayed de- parture due to "mechanical difficulties". At 4:00, Danny, our attendant, stops by; the "mechanical difficulties" seem to be that the dining car supplies are not yet loaded. About 4:20, a second announcement and an apology is made; we should be leaving in about ten minutes. In about two minutes, we start out of the station. Making up time already! Jimmy Hollands, the dining car steward, who turns out to be one of the best, comes on the p.a. with another apology: "mechanical problems and loading supplies". He does not know when dinner will commence, but as soon as the chef tells him when he will be ready, an announce- ment will be made and reservations taken.
So off we creep to the yards where we attach non-passenger cars. Finally, at 4:46 we "highball", apparently two hours late. However, since that yard work must be built into the schedule, lets call it an hour and a half. This tardiness is of no great concern to me. It is the beginning of the trip, and despite the adage that "Late trains get later", there is a lot of padding in the schedule, not only at the end, but also dur- ing the trip. For instance, from Roseville to Sacramento (my destination), the schedule allows an hour and a half Westbound, and thirty-four minutes Eastbound. In any case, at present things are good as the sun heads toward setting beyond bare fields and dinner is announced for 6:30, 7:00, 8:15, and 8:45. I take 8:15, the same as last night.
Just before Princeton, about 6:20, we pass what may be the Eastbound Zephyr. If so, it is about five hours late. Oooof. No better if it is the Southwest Chief, which in time I shall be on. At 6:50, the lounge car attendant closes up shop for a dinner break. This seems to be a nutty time to go off duty, just when at least some passengers may be hitting the peak of hunger and thirst. There is a Western Business Group comment card in the room, a great idea and opportunity to note the lounge car closing, and the lack of information in the station as to why boarding was late, or when departure would be. At dear, old Fort Dix, the saying was, "Keep the troops informed". Amtrak manage- ment surely have a lot on their minds, but adopting this slogan to passenger relations would be most welcome. This is no time for dissatisfied customers.
Dinner was dandy - rack of lamb! Company was again fascinating. I sat next to a retired explosives expert; he still does consulting work at age 82. He talked knowledgeably and interestingly about Chinese projects ( disasters ) and an Egyptian scheme to introduce the Mediterranean Sea into the western desert, so as to change the climate of the area. I checked under the table to see if my leg was being elongated but found no sign of it. We also discussed problems caused by levees on the Mississippi, but when I asked the couple across the table what they did, we stopped. He was a retired machinist from the Quad Cities and she had been with the Corps of Engineers. Whoops.
After dinner it was time to turn in. I left a call for twenty of six, Mountain Time. The train changes time zones before breakfast; the rest of the world apparently changes near Denver. After a good snooze another excellent shower, I head to the diner, where I sit with a lady from Michigan who spends little time over her meal. So I soloed for most of the meal. A conversation develops across the aisle between a lady and the steward. She asks if there is any wildlife in Nebraska. "Yes, at the University".
It is extremely foggy as we cross the plains, at times so thick I can only see perhaps a hundred feet. But at one point I see a track-side shed, near a house, on fire. A man is playing a garden hose on it,but it looks pretty hopeless. (At 8:10 there is a "breakfast break" in the lounge car. Hold your appetites!) By 8:30 the sun begins to shine through, and shortly we are creeping to and fro so as to back into the Denver station. We arrive about 10:30. The Ski Train is parked on the track next to us; at least one car (number 3, "Pike's Peak) sports the slogan, "Sure Beats the Bus, Gus". The train is painted and lettered for the Rio Grande and looks great in its fresh yellow and silver. Our windows are washed here, a very nice touch before we get to the Rockies. There is plenty of time to stroll on the platform and visit the station. I picked up "Denver Post" in case one is not delivered to the room. (It was.)
We leave at 11:00, exactly two hours down. The only problem with this for me is the likelihood of missing some of the scenery, particularly Ruby Canyon. Nonetheless, the climb from Denver is, as ever, spectacular. Three deer watch us as we inch by, watching them. We stop as a monster coal train passes us, going down hill. It has three engines leading, a helper in the middle, and two more on the rear. After it passes, we start up slowly. "I think I can, I think I can." There is very little snow to be seen from the lounge, but it is clear, and the view back down or on either side as we ascend through short tunnels into the mountains bring lots of comments and snapping cameras. The "Post" lies unread.
I head for the diner around one thirty and am seated at a table which has just been cleared. As I pick up the menu, we enter the Moffat Tunnel. When we emerge, a young enthusiastic couple join me. They "wow" at the skiers at Winter Park. I wonder if the slopes have artificial snow, as the ground is generally bare. Lunch of chicken gumbo and Caesar Salad with chicken is right up to expectation (an exception to other salad exper- iences). The young couple bubble with enthusiasm for the train. ( If this isn't their honey- moon, they have an extraordinary marriage .) They are heading for Reno and plan to drive on to California. At the end of the meal they are discussing the possibility of canceling their rental car and rejoining the train.
I can not describe the next few hours. We glide above the Fraser and Colorado Rivers, across from amazing rock formations and slides, through tunnels, above precipitous drops. There is little sign of life other than vegetation and trees, except for occasional geese and a few other birds, some rafters and kayakers , and a few fishermen and women. There are a few ranches and farms, but for the most part the landscape is arid, although at times the pines are thick. In most places, except for the railroad, it must look as it did when the first adventurers saw it. It is beautiful. Words, even photographs, can not do it justice. If you have made the trip, you know what I mean. If you have not, call the Blishaks - NOW.
Just before arriving at Glenwood Springs, which we do at 5:00, we meet the Eastbound Zephyr, which would seem to be some four hours late. (Yikes! What lies ahead?) Both trains stop, and some crew members shift from one train to the other. I had overheard this maneuver being discussed at breakfast, and I gathered that this a normal swap, but the transfer is usually in Granby. That would have been quite a (paid?) wait in this case. Around 6:00, we pass a train of gondolas, most empty, some filled with what I take to be gravel. The cars are painted green and appear to have small solar panels mounted on one end of each. Power for what? Or are they something else?
For the record, we have three engines. Eight money-makers (I hope) tag along behind a baggage car, "transition dorm", two sleepers, the diner, the sometimes open lounge, and three coaches.
Just before Grand Junction we pass a low dam with backed up water diverted into a canal. This is in a narrow and otherwise arid spot. In time, the canal, which more or less parallels the railroad tracks becomes a source for irrigation for fruit trees with blossoms and perhaps other trees or crops. Is this the first such use of Colorado River water? In any case it becomes greener and more open as we continue West, with mountains off in the distance. Leaves are out on trees as we enter Grand Junction. Among them are tall symmetrical trees in numerous house yards. Perhaps they are pecans; whatever they are they are quite handsome.
I thought at first that dinner was going to be a disaster. I was seated across from two active boys who I guessed to be about nine and eleven. I was expecting whines, wiggles, and worse from them. A man I took to be their father sat next to me, but it turns out he was grandfather. He turns out to be a fascin- ating guy and the lads reasonably well behaved; when granddad spoke, they reacted right away. He is raising them alone; "Got the youngest when he was one." His was quite a checkered youth, and it seems amazing that he not only took on the task of raising these lads, but has apparently done a good job. He lives in a remote part of Southern Utah; in the winter he drives the boys by snowmobile to meet the school bus. He builds cabins and the like for "summer folks". One story is worth repeating. He was building a cabin for a Californian and noted that the 'phone often rang in the main house, but every time it only rang once. When the job was done, and to the owner's satisfaction, he was shown a photo album. There were pictures of the cabin under construction. The owner had rigged cameras in the tree. They were activated by the single ring of the 'phone - "computer controlled" he explained. The owner was checking up on him, to be sure that he was on the job.
This is the first train trip in a long time for him. He has been visiting a daughter, the mother, I think, of one of the boys. She lives in the Midwest, and when he has visited her before, he has driven. No more; if he can help it, future trips will be by train.
Dinner kept up the high standard, the only flaw being that it was getting quite dark as we got into Ruby Canyon. A waitress and I exchange "what are you going to do" shrugs; we had agreed at lunch that this is the best part of the trip.
By 9:30, I am ready to turn in. We have been making slow progress, apparently following a freight. The ride is smooth and the car quite, perfect conditions for sleep, and I take advantage of them after reading for only a short while. As I doze off I reflect that one of the great aspects of the Zephyr is that the traveler has TWO days of fascinating and varied scenery. Another full day of viewing is just on the other side of sleep.
Early breakfast with a couple from Wisconsin who are headed for a vacation in Reno. We have a pleasant chat about Wisconsin, where one of our daughters lives, and gambling spot. Breakfast is my favorite meal on Amtrak, indeed, one of the best features of Amtrak travel. I like to be be in the diner right after it opens. I almost always find interesting table companions, the service is good, and the pace generally leisurely. I do note one oddity on this trip: I do not think toast was ever available. Is this an economy move? Do toasters frequently break down or blow up? I don't know, but biscuits do quite well in substitution, and that roll of many pronunciations, the croissant, is also available. Call it a "crescent" and be done with it.
Back in my room, which Danny has rendered habitable, I settle back for some viewing. Danny, I should note, is another winner. He seems to be available at all times, and beverages and ice are kept in good supply. Outside are the Humboldt River, flat land, adjacent highway, and in the near distance, a more or less parallel rail line. I can not recall whether it or the line we are on was the Western Pacific, but I suspect we are on the U P. The short truss bridges on the other line look, in the distance, like perfect Lionel accessories. We reach Winnemucca just after nine, so we are just about two and a half hours late. Not too bad, and as note before, there is padding ahead.
We continue along the Humboldt to the place where it begins to disappear into bogs and mud. Perhaps not "scenic" in the usual sense, but fascinating to observe and think about. Next, we pick up the Truckee and roll into Sparks at 11:43 - due in at 10:01. The magic of padding at work! On to Reno and the famous street running. This is a busy stop with many passengers leaving and perhaps an equal number boarding.
I go into lunch before we commence our next climb and sit with a couple from Dallas. He was employed by the Burlington Northern, and they are returning from the East, where they visited family. They are now on the way to Spokane for the same pur- pose. Clearly not the most direct route, but they are continuing a long held enjoyment of train travel. The fourth member of our group is a young lady is a pole vaulter and has hopes of being in the next Olympics. She is not as keen on travel; time and cost are her considerations. I believe she prefers the bus.
I do not want to overdo this, but lounge service stopped at 12:55, to resume at 2:35.
We climb beside the Truckee (what great names Nevada has!) with its winding, turbulent, green and white rush. It looks COLD. The traffic on the nearby Interstate easily passes us, but like pin balls in a slot. I hope that young couple chucks their rental car reserva- tion to hop back on the Zephyr. I do not see how one could enjoy this scenery from the road. For one thing, I do not note any turnouts.
We pass flumes, some of which seem to be in better shape than the last time I saw them, quite some time ago. The river is quite close to us, unlike the Colorado, which generally was well below the train. After Truckee, a funky looking town, we encounter forest, and snow. Up and up, until Donner Lake appears below us. It stretches for quite a distance, deep blue, with many houses on the banks. Further along is a ski area: lots of snow, but no people. There is, however, a Norwegian flag waving in the breeze at the edge of an empty parking lot. Then, a tunnel. When we emerge there is another contrast to the Rockies. Here,too, there are huge mountains, bit there are more open vistas. The snow, blue sky, and make a beautiful sight as we wind back and forth. Snow sheds and steep, steep drops. Once again, call Ted. All I can say is that this stretch of mountain country is as awesome as any other part of the trip. Perhaps even Ruby Canyon in daylight.
We arrive at Colfax. There is an old passenger car (Southern Pacific) beyond a parking lot. Apparently it is now a bank. Leaving town, the train is raced by some youths on all-terrain vehicles. They are winning easily but run soon run out of trackside space . It wasn't much of a contest, as we are just inching along, about an hour and a half late. I am glad there was no crossing available to them.
An announcement is made that we are following a freight, and connections to other California trains will be made by detraining at Sacramento and taking a bus. Not being familiar with the connections, I do not understand the details, but it certainly sounds thorough. The announcement is repeated just before Roseville, which is identified as being about thirty minutes from Sacramento. Padding certainly lives.
We skirt the huge yards at Roseville (I saw this under construction some years ago. The rumor was that excavation was dangerous, due to World War II explosives buried in the area) and stop at 5:00. We are quickly on our way, and while I do not note the exact time of our arrival in Sacramento, that pa announcement could not have been far off the mark. I say goodbye to Danny. He,the dining room crew, and all others with whom I have had contact have been first rate, very "customer oriented". This was not what I had expected from employees facing possible job losses. Hats off, and thanks, to them.
I should also mention one innovation I have noted on this trip which strikes me as being very helpful: that is the system of scheduling meals in half the dining car at a time. This seems not only to allow more dining times, but also, I am sure, more efficiency in the kitchen and better service in the dining car. In short, it makes "dinner in the diner" an even more enjoyable experience.
My only real concern about arriving late into Sacramento was that it might be dark. I have a terrible sense of direction, worse than "Wrong Way" Corrigan,and I feared I would not easily locate the hotel. Ted had assured me that it was handy to the station, but he has never observed me in action. In any case, I was lucky, it was light, and somehow I walked straight to the hotel. This really wouldn't have been any kind of an achievement for the average person, as Sacramento - at least, downtown - is laid out in a very user friendly grid. My short stay was delightful - after a very wanting hotel dinner. Amtrak had spoiled me, I guess.
The city is very visitor friendly. The downtown area is well suited for walking, and walk I did. The highlight was, of course, the California State Railroad Museum. Ted had arranged my trip both to accommodate the Cardinal's three times a week schedule, and to allow me to visit the Museum on a relatively quiet day. He was successful. It is easy to see how the lines could grow at the exhibits, but I was able to see and do everything I wished. Where there was a line, for instance to board the cab-forward steam engine, I went elsewhere, and soon the line disappeared. The staff and volunteers. however, were looking forward to huge crowds later in the week. A three or four day Tommy the Tank Engine event is scheduled, and it should be a capacity crowd. Apparently all tickets were snapped up as soon as available. "There shouldn't be any trouble getting them ON the train," one volunteer said. "But, getting them OFF!?!" The central character, himself, was already there, indoors and covered by a blue tarp.
I also visited the capitol and just about every available shop, took a self guided walking tour described in an in-room publication, and had an excellent dinner at the Fourth Street Grill. Before retiring, somewhat foot sore and surely well fed I set the alarm for an hour before the Coast Starlight's scheduled departure, I called the very efficient 1-800-USA-RAIL and learned that the train was running just over a half an hour late. This permitted an unhurried checkout and a leisurely stroll to the station. I got a very welcome coffee and doughnut at a lunch wagon parked in front of the depot and sat in the almost empty waiting room. About ten minutes before arrival, the track is announced. A very helpful Amtrak employee held the door for me and asked which car I was on. He then led me to the appropriate spot, across idle tracks, not through the pedestrian tunnel. While waiting, we chatted, and he described possible develop- ment of the area to accommodate more commuter or light rail traffic. There is also the possibility of converting empty railroad buildings to office or other uses. Very knowledgeable about Amtrak and other rail operations in California. He is optimistic about passenger travel here, no matter what happens on the national level, due to strong state commitment and financing. It is hard to disagree, so far, and on the rest of my travel I California, I see evidence of new facilities and equipment. I hope it is an example, not an exception.
The Coast Starlight pulls in, and there is a modest amount of confusion in boarding my car. The door is at a point where the platform is constricted, and perhaps not all the bags are at the door for those who are detraining. So there is a certain amount of back and forthing. During a lull, I place my big bag in the downstairs rack as the attendant comes down the stairs. He takes my ticket, and I go up to my room to stash away my other stuff; my two bags have been augmented by stuff bought on the trip which I couldn't fit in. Then through the Parlour Car (I like the English spelling) to the diner for breakfast. Just in time! Shortly, there is a waiting list.
The lady whom I joined for breakfast had been visiting her son. He is one of two "organic food" wholesalers in California, though, she says, a rather distant second. Amazingly long hours, but the business is growing, and he loves it. She is originally from Vancouver, and a very nice, interesting lady.
Appropriately, we had fresh tomatoes with breakfast, and I do mean fresh.
Outside, there are flat fields full of growth, and at one spot, bee hives, apparently imported for pollenation. One field is a solid yellow: rape seed or perhaps mustard - I guess. The weather is clear and bright, and the window in my room clean, clean, clean. The lady at breakfast said the ride last night was very rough, but now it is quite smooth. My car is "Iowa" and appears to be in first rate shape (but a flaw is discovered later on. Stay tuned.) Suisan Bay with those massive bridges, along the shore with increasing signs of industry, and into Emeryville at 9:26. This makes us just over an hour late, which, at least for me, is of no concern.
This area seems to have grown considerably since I was here last. A local pulls in beside us, and I gather that at least some detraining passengers have to cross in front of us to reach the platform, so our departure is delayed, and we leave at 9:50.
We now travel through a rather unattractive area with junk that may rival the East, but in time we begin to alternate between water, "flats", junk and commercial and perhaps industrial complexes of various attractiveness. Mountains are seen across the Bay. "Alta- mont Express" trains show up: white top, purple middle, and blue bottom. Hmmm. The stop at San Jose, at 10:03, affords a chance to get off and take a look at the train. Our sleepers are Iowa, Arkansas, and Illinois, a pretty good geographic cluster. There seem to be all kinds of commuter trains here with all kinds of cars. Alta- mont, Amtrak California, Cal Train, maybe others.
We leave at 11:10 and go on to the Santa Clara Valley. It is green, and even I can appreciate that it is very fertile. But new houses seem to be everywhere. Urban-suburban-rural stresses exist all over the country it seems. At the end of the valley, the train begins to climb through Chittenden Pass, site of the "Granitrock" quarry, a truly enormous operation. It occurs to me that this might be the birth place of all our interstates. But the surrounding countryside is beautiful. I see a red wing black bird, the first of the year for me. (It is one of the few birds I can identify.)
Then onto the "salad bowl". Such vast greenery! To my Eastern eyes, it is extraordinary. Our supermarkets sell produce from this area, and I am grateful to the farmers, packers, and railroads who want to get it to the Midwest and the East faster. May they succeed!!
It is disappointing to learn that some of the "Local Brands" are no longer offered in the Parlour Car, victim to standardization in the name of economy. However, lunch was quite satisfactory. Excellent soup and a 6.8 pasta (scale of ten - the recent good meals, after that hotel dinner, and the sight of all that fresh produce popping up have made me too critical, I fear.) My companions are Mom and Dad, and a somewhat pre- cocious lad who solves math problems, sometimes correctly.
We have been progressing slowly for some time, and around two o'clock dinner reservations are taken. I make one for five o'clock, in case arrival in Santa Barbara is very late and with hopes that I can cancel it. The steward says we may actually be close to on time into Santa Barbara, as, once again, there is a generous amount of padding. (Good for Amtrak! Face reality.)
We pass a bunch of oil well pumps, all working, producing power. You can't help but wonder if those wells would have been drilled, had the oil and/or gas not been discovered until recently. In any case, here they are, work- ing away to keep us mobile.
The afternoon wine tasting is announced and is, as expected, well attended. Our Parlour Car host knows his stuff, and his stuff is up to snuff. None- theless, somewhat like the Ancient Mariner, I sippith one in three. Not bad at all. Most of the time I spend in my room, as we approach what I recall as being an entirely different, perhaps unique, bit of scenery. Not the well named "Rockies" with their rushing rivers, nor the high Sierras with their high, wild, wide vistas, but something quite different - and equally dramatic. Here are round, steep, verdant mountains, without trees except in gullies or other spots which, I guess, must be difficult of access to wild or domestic animals, and blessed with some water. And all very green.
And steep. We twist and turn as we ascend, and even more so as we descend. The views are spectacular - and for me, indescribable. And it is also fun to note our tracks so far above, and so far below us. I refer you to the admirable Coast Starlight Route Guide, which identifies these as the Santa Lucia Range. I suspect these Guides may be in limited supply in these austere days. The Capitol Limited and California Zephyr also had Guides in Sleeper rooms, but they seemed to be very abbreviated versions of earlier Guides.
We see cattle on these hills, and I suspect there may be sheep in the fields also. The "Horseshoe Curve" before San Luis Obispo is fun - and confirms that we have no revenue cars on the rear.
After San Luis Obispo we roll along beside the ocean. However, it is quite hazy, and the sun is obscured, which make things dull and gray. (More oil pumps, working to keep us happy.) There are not many people on the beach, but those who are there seem, without exception, to be es- corted by dogs, as is proper. Perhaps "dull" is not the correct word: surf; a far-off, sunlit horizon,, and the undulating, gray water; it is quite dramatic, particularly for being so close. From time to time there are houses of every description, and all cheek by jowl. It is easy to see why one might want such a place, and some are quite elaborate. I wonder, being from the Hartford area, about insurability.
I decide to skip early dinner on the train, in hopes of a decent arrival time in Santa Barbara, so I go to the diner to cancel my reservation, in case there is a waiting list. That done, I go to look for some ice, but it turns out that there is none in this car. The ice drawer at the service area is effectively locked with a nut and bolt, and I see no ice chest. So, I check the other two sleepers. The first has a steel plate over the space where the drawer should be, and again no cooler. The last car does have ice at the service area, and the attendant says to help myself. Which I do. Perhaps there was ice stored in a room in the other cars, but if so, I did not see it.
Back in my room, I hear an announcement that there will be a "meet" which should be short. This conductor has been very good about keeping us in- formed. This is something Amtrak should work on with all conductors in the hoped for, happy days ahead. The oncoming train is, I gather, Amtrak 775, San Diego to San Luis Obispo. It is a "push-pull" train. So I sit back, relaxed, thinking of the great variety of countryside we have seen - seascapes, mountains, marshes, the greatest variety in one day so far on the trip. There is no wonder the Coast Starlight is so popular, and I have not seen the wonderful scenery of Northern California, and Oregon on this trip. (Happily, I have earlier.)
Then the conductor comes on again, thank heavens, as she announces Santa Barbara in thirteen minutes. I have managed to unpack a great deal of my stuff, so the announcement sets me off on a frenzy of organizing and packing: look around, pack, search, pack. No sign of the attendant until the last minute, by the way. I believe we pulled in around 7:15, and I detrain with my two bags and a couple of bags with all my possessions in them, I later discover. I say goodbye to the attendant, almost a stranger to me, and hail a cab,
We head off to the hotel where Ted had made a reservation for me, but it turns out that the driver is not sure where it is. I am amazed that I re- member enough from one previous stay to help us get there. If the cabbie only knew how poor I am at navigating, he would be astonished, and grateful.
The El Encanto Hotel is a simple but very comfortable place. The cuisine is excellent, and I enjoy a very elegant dinner. Then to bed and a very sound snooze. The next morning I try to bring a bit of order to the increasing amount of clothes, books, and other stuff I am lugging around. Then a leisurely stroll to the Mission. Along the way, I encounter a van from a tv station, which stops in the middle of an empty intersection in a residential area. A window rolls down, and a pretty lady leans out to ask me, "Can I ask you a question?" "Yes, but I probably can't help you." "Were shots fired in this neighborhood last night?" "I don't know anything about it." "Thank you." And we go our separate ways. Just think: if I hadn't slept so well, would I have been in line for five minutes of fame? Oh, well. Back to the hotel, check out, and a cab to the depot.
My "Pacific Surfliner" rolls in at 1:56, right on time - and it should be. As with Windsor Locks on the other coast, this is the first station stop after the point of origin. The consist appears to be similar to the train we met yesterday: push-pull and bilevels. The business class car stops right where a sign indicates it should, and I board and haul my bags to the upper level. This car appears to be new. Their is a service area, with a sink, at the rear; it is unatten- ded, but coffee and pastries are available. Seats face fifty percent fore and fifty percent aft, befitting a push-pull set up. Rest rooms are at the current front of the car. The seats are very comfortable, and there is lots of leg room. Everything is clean, quiet, comfortable - and empty. Very few occupants.
There is some sort of automatic system for announcing stations. The first alert is startling, since it says "The next and final stop...Goleta." The conductor, who is another vigorous, cheerful, keep-'em-informed, Amtrak employee, comes on the p.a. just before Carpinteria to straighten us out. He promises to fix things, which he does.
I visited the cafe, which was on the lower level of the adjacent coach. It is a U shaped arrangement with signs and pictures, and a good variety of choices. I took a fruit plate, which hit the spot.
It is once again overcast and foggy as we go along, right beside the beach, until in time a road intrudes. Many folks with dogs. We arrive at Ventura slightly ahead of schedule, and the conductor advises that there will be time for a short cigarette break. At Ox- nard, we also sit awhile, about six minutes, apparently because we were supposed to meet a Northbound train, which didn't show up. After we leave, we pass three Northbound locomotives (no cars) two lettered for UP, and the dirty third, for SP. This, of course, was not the expected train, for at 3:08 we stop, and the conductor tells us that we are at a red signal, waiting for that other train. He is not sure how this will work out: "Whatever the signals in- dicate." It turns out that we have pulled into a siding where we sit while the Northbound stops at Camarillo. (California is also far from being shabby in regard to place names.) It leaves and passes us, allowing us to back out of the siding and proceed to Camarillo. This station has more than one track, but only one is served by a platform. Hence the gavotte.
Leaving, we roar through more fields of vegetables. We are really rolling and rocking, perhaps making up time. We whistle constantly, one set of two shorts, a long, and a short blending into the next to the extent that it becomes a continuous warning. At 4:00 a small box of snacks is handed out, as well as grape or apple juice. A very nice touch. My box ends up in a suitcase, to demonstrate to those back home yet another way in which train travel is made enjoyable. Maybe Amtrak will reintroduce the wine and cheese baskets of yes- terday, when the clouds roll by...
Once again we slow to a stop, and our excellent conductor announces that it will be only a momentary wait to allow a Metro-link train to pass. The wait does indeed last only a few more minutes, and we soon arrive in Los Angeles, right on time.
I take my bags on a short walk around this station, spending some time looking at the now empty and inaccessible ticketing area. Many years ago, I bought tickets home at one of those windows, after a frustrating business trip. The Santa Fe and New York Central soon put me right.
This is a great station. Union Station in Washington is grander, and there no doubt are others worthy of note, but does any other waiting room feature art deco easy chairs, not to mention the patios and architectural features? I spend a little time reading in a patio, which I have all to myself, except for a few folk walking through. Then on to catch the train. Once again, station personnel are very helpful, and I soon find myself on a Red Cap driven cart which is stuffed with bags and people. Nonetheless, we glide down the tunnel and up the ramp to the platform. Once there, we have to stop, as cars which will be added to the Southwest Chief roll by. This is a safety rule.
The "Chief" is to our right, and soon I am at the door of my car, "Pennsylvania", the state where I was born. I board, and at 6:45 we back and forth as we add those necessary, welcome revenue cars to the end of the train. All the while, a lady in the aisle outside my door is yammering into a cell 'phone. Shortly, she leaves, and I head toward the service area. A quite attractive young lady asks me where she might find some ice. I show her, she thanks me, fills a couple of glasses, and repairs to her room, not to be seen again (at least by me) until Chicago.
Dinner at 8:35 with a lady from Maine, a WWII/Korea veteran, and a lady from New Jersey. Lots of good conversation, laughs, and finally "Maine" twists my arm into sharing a dessert with her. My dinner had been a rib eye steak (perfect), mashed potatoes, and more carrots than Bugs Bunny could put away in a year. Great food, great folks, great service, and great fun. After a bit more conversation, we head for our respective accommodations and a good night's sleep. At least, mine was.
I awake to slow movement. Looking at my watch, I am confused by the relationships between Daylight Savings, Pacific, Mountain, Standard, and Arizona times. However, a look out the window shows that we are pulling into Flagstaff. We are right on the advertized time, it turns out. This is a town I have visited several times, and as we pull out, it is fun to see familiar sights, and sites, from mountains (grand) to motels (not so).
Breakfast was with my veteran friend from last night and a couple from Seattle. We had a wide ranging conversation: Norway maples, various bugs, New Orleans levees (again! This time I make sure there is no one at the table from the Corps of Engineers), and earthquakes. The couple from Seattle were living in Los Angeles when an earthquake occurred. He saw his car bouncing in the garage and the land "waving like the sea".
After breakfast, I enjoy the desert scenery, including the buttes and mesas with their fascinating rock striations. Orange, yellow, white, red, and shades in between, but all separate and distinct. It is very pleasant to sit back, sip a coffee, and enjoy the scenery while reflecting on what extraordinarily different views this trip has provided.
I should mention Paul, our very hard working attendant. He always seems to be busy, always present, and always responsive. Everything is in order - including plenty of ice. Paul picks up the great service experienced coming out West.
At Gallup, I look for the establishment I know as "el Rancho Hotel and Motel". This is a very comfortable spot with a lobby in Hollywood - Western motif, pictures of stars lin- ing the corridor walls, and the like. As we leave, I am just able to spot it across what was Route 66. I have decided to skip the Indian Guide talk in the lounge for leisurely viewing in my room. I have heard these talks before, and they are excell- ent; if you travel on the Southwest Chief and have not listened in before, by all means join the audience.
Almost immediately after leaving Gallup, I spot a lone person - I can't tell whether man, woman, boy, or girl - herding perhaps twenty sheep in as arid a field as you might ever see. Now, we pass through communities where many dwellings, including mobile homes, have a traditional outdoor oven. We are still in the desert, with the hills and cliffs continuing to radiate those brilliant colors. We also see those strange black stones, lava flows, mostly off to the South.
In due course, I cross the Continental Divide again, but it is a very different countryside we pass through, being still - well, "Southwestern" - words fail. Soon, to the North, we see a huge, double stack train stopped on a nearby track. Then, just before this line joins ours, there is another train, with SIX engines, also stopped. We zip through the junction while they wait. THANK YOU, BNSF! There has been a lot of traffic on our line, but "meets" have been smooth and easy, at least from our point of view.
All, however, is not as one might wish. At times, the right of way is littered with shattered glass, apparently from bottles.
At 11:50, it is announced that arrival in Albuquerque will be in fifteen minutes - on time! As noted, it has not been all that clear to me as to our where/when/what with Mountain, Pacific, Daylight Savings, local, and Standard times. Thank goodness the railroad has no such problems. And it is pleasant to be able to get an accurate fix on "real" time. As we inch into town, I see a sign advertizing gas at $1.29, the lowest I note on this trip.
Albuquerque is a famous stop, and ours is up to expectations, even though the old station is gone. There are three or perhaps four tables on the platform from which Native Americans are selling jewelry and other items. Below is the apparently world famous burrito truck. Also available are all kinds of souvenirs, snacks, and more tables of Native American offerings. All this is jammed near the cramped, temporary station. It is fun to shop, and I am surprised to learn that at least the vendors I talk to are from Taos, well North of Santa Fe. I believe vendors used to be from Isleta or Acoma pueblos. In any case, I think, again, that this is one of the most interesting examples of econ- omics I know. Consider: captive markets, but only for a short while; then, the customers depart. No re-alluring them tomorrow! Prices must attract, but be profitable. Concessions on price are dangerous, as such could institute an avalanche of discounts in the moments remaining. As a result, as word inevitably gets around, passengers would not buy until the last minute - or would buy, not having "gotten the word", thus helping to maintain price stability. Economics have always confused me.
But enough of Economics 100.5. I buy a few items for the family, the most "expensive" being bought from a lady who would be right at home in Tiffany's sales force: grace, courtesy, and beauty. My guess is that she is at least eighty.
A stroll West shows material handling and other revenue cars ex- tending beyond the platform. I estimate that there are twenty such cars; later, a look back on an "S curve" suggests twenty- three. Meanwhile, our windows have been washed, and now the whistle double toots. Back on board after a very satisfactory walkabout in 67 degree F weather, I head to the diner for lunch with Sam and his wife. They are from, of all places, New Hartford, New York. They have visited Connecticut's new casino, the Mohican Sun. Very pleasant, as have been just about all dining companions. (In the interest of accuracy and impartiality, I must report that my Caesar Salad left more than something to be desired. The lettuce had not seen those California (or any other) fields in quite some time.
Now we are heading for Lamy and for me, beyond it, the very best of this segment of my trip. But it is sad to arrive at Lamy, at least looking from the left side. The church, adjacent buildings, and The Legal Tender are all literally boarded up. What a fine saloon the last was! Santa Fe may be expanding, but this quaint junction is pretty dormant. Nonetheless there are some folk boarding, or meeting and greeting. And soon we are on our way, I guess leaving a very quiet community behind.
Soon we enter Apache Canyon where, notoriously, the walls of the cut are at times just inches from the cars. Has one ever swayed into the rocks? Maybe, but not us! We proceed on to Glorieta Pass where we climb through vivid reds, oranges, tans, and yellows, with shades of green from the sometimes scattered, sometimes dense stands of trees. All in all, the landscape is fairly open, and we weave back and forth as we ascend. This gives an opportunity to note that we have four engines. After we pass a very faded Santa Fe Railroad sign identifying "Pecos Mission", we pass our counterpart, Number Three, heading West. They have five engines and twenty-seven cars, eight of which are passenger.
Next, we travel beside the Pecos River, where I spot a novel erosion control measure: junk cars apparently tipped hood first down the river bank. They end up almost vertical. We enter the S curves where despite the excellent opportunity to look for and aft, I am not sure of my count of our cars. But there is a mess of them. As noted, I decide the engines are probably hauling twenty-three cars. I do This note that this route is controlled, at least in part, by semaphore signals (that is about as technical a note as I can manage).
As we approach Los Vegas, a round house is seen to the left. It, too, is boarded up, and there are no tracks leading to it. Much more alive is the Castenada, a former Harvey House, which appears to have been fully restored. Roman arches front a porch or gallery which appears to go all around the U shaped building. It is two stories tall, with an open cupola atop the center. A few cars are parked beside it; I hope it is prospering in some new role.
Now the landscape becomes drier and flat. There are telegraph poles with new wire, some poles with new cross bars. Other poles are supported by guy wires, clearly newly installed. Why? I thought everything was buried, or by radio. It certainly looks like these wires are being put to use - which is?
I dunno. The weather becomes heavy, clouds all around. Rain had been ahead of us; I can see trucks kicking up spray on the ad- jacent Interstate. Sooner be here than there!
Apparently someone with a ticket to Raton but confused as to the time, had signed up for a 5:30 diner reservation. We are due to arrive in Raton at 5:40 and are pretty much on time. PA: "If you are going to get off at Raton, you should go to your room - not the dining car. " It is the only message I hear on this trip which is delivered in an exasperated tone. Apparently, every- thing worked out ok.
As we leave Raton and begin to climb, we are advised to keep a look-out for elk. We do not see any, but the scenery is grand, and the pace perfect for appreciation. Why hurry? No elk, but some years ago, I did see a bear in this area. He - or she - was scurrying away, up a cut, at high speed. No trackside rail fan that one.
Shortly, we arrive at the tunnel which is seven thousand feet high, though one does not comprehend the altitude, as in the Rockies. It is more open and less - well, dramatic, and perhaps stark. Another Santa Fe Railroad sign still stands at the East end of the tunnel, identifying "Raton Tunnel. Highest point on the Santa Fe." It may say something about the climate that this sign is still legible after all these years. Or has the sign been touched up from time to time? Another such sign shortly identifies Dick Wooten's Ranch. It seems to be in great shape. It is fascinating to think how recently he and other explorers began to open the West, to be followed by the rail- roads. We think we live in a time of rapid change!
We arrive in Trinidad, just about on time. When we leave, the land stretches away, with only a few bushes now and then, and mountains 'way off. No sunset tonight; too cloudy. So, off to dinner, which once more was enjoyable. Sat next to a lady from Palm Springs who had not yet lost her grand Southern Illinois accent. Her husband (6'2", blue eyes) had escaped from Cuba in 1962. They are "in real estate" in Palm Springs, successfully, it would seem.
Toward the end of dinner, out goes the hep. We sit in the semi-dark, which is, selfishly, no real inconvenience to us, as we have finished dinner and wait only to pay for our wine. Having done this, we head back to our various accommodations in the semi-dark. Then there are two unsuccessful attempts at restart, but before REAL concern sets in, on come the lights, and then the ac, and off we rocket. Paul knocks to inquire if I would like the bed made up. I ask him to come back in ten or fifteen minutes. This gives me time to finish the van- illa ice cream I snuck out of the diner. (Delicious)
When he returns, I ask Paul to wake me at six, which he does. I slept fairly well; twice during the night there came one of those inaccessible rattles. It comes and goes, and can't be cured. Ah, well. As I get up, we are backing and filling in a very dense fog. It appears that we are dropping off road railers West of Kansas City, I assume to avoid con- gestation at the station.
Breakfast with an Austrian gentleman who now lives in California; a former New Jerseyite who now lives in Orange County, and a lady who had formerly been in California, but now lives in Binghampton, New York. We talk about travel, the various States, this and that, and we all agree that eating early is most pleasant. Back to my room, which Paul is making up. and confirmation of the suspicion that we are, indeed, running early.
The Kansas City station, "the slot in the parking lot" as one friend puts it, has quite a few people waiting to board. Sadly, the station's news- stand is closed, and only vending machines, a ticket window, and some seats remain. Well, maybe in the happy days ahead, they will move to the grand, old structure next door.
Our train stretches back, around a curve, due to the large number of revenue cars still attached. It is foggy, with drizzle, as we leave and wend through through more yards. Once clear and over the turgid Missouri, we appear to be on one of two main tracks, the other being off to the North. After an hour or so, the fog begins to burn off, and the sun peeps through. We learn that a crossing gate ahead of us has been reported as malfunctioning, and our conductor announces that because of this, there will be a short stop. He is among the better about "keeping the troops informed". We do stop, and then creep across a street, where there is a BNSF truck and a worker. Apparently, all is now in order, and we pick up speed to La Plata, arriving only a comfort- able fifteen minutes late.
At 11:52 we arrive in Fort Madison, where a large crowds is waiting. Since we are so close to on time, it is probably not a great inconven- ience for them. Fort Madison is "good viewing". Old buildings; rail- road activity; a Burlington 4-6-4 with (I think) a post office car, and a caboose attached; the reconstructed fort where there always seems to be something going on; and, of course, THE river. This is crossed by (to quote an old Route Guide) " the world's largest double- track, double decker swing span". It would be interesting to know the whys and wherefores of the construction of this type of bridge. It certainly is impressive, but perhaps the Huey Long is a more dramatic crossing for views, height, and automobile proximity. In any case, I am now back in the Eastern half of our country.
Just after crossing the Mississippi, there is a "last and final call" for lunch. This is a welcome surprise, as I had understood that there would be one call only, and when it came, I had ignored it. So I went to the diner and sat across from a couple from Windsor, Connecticut, the next stop after Windsor Locks. Imagine meeting them so far from home. They turn out to be retired antique dealers who have "worked" shows I have attended. We also discover a friend in common.
When we reach Galesburg, about twenty minutes late, I have com- pleted a huge, highly satisfactory loop. After it, we travel on the familiar route to Chicago,arriving at four o'clock, early. Ah, that padding.
Chicago.
Having deposited my bags, I go to the main waiting room of the station, and it was quite a sight. The benches had been removed, and at one end there were tables covered with red cloths. They were set up for a silent auction to benefit a charity. The other end had many round tables with red or black covers, all set for dinner. There were palm trees in pots, loudspeakers, lights, flowers, spark- ling silverware and glasses; quite a handsome sight. And right in the center, there is the square pillar with the clock and arrival and departure screens for commuter and Amtrak trains. It is unobstructed, perhaps to remind those lingering at the party of their departure options.
After a bit of this and that, I go to the Lounge, where boarding for the Cardinal is announced at 7:30. Here we go again. Those trying to get into or out of the baggage storage area in the Lounge almost created gridlock. The same Red Cap was present, and he was quickly overwhelmed with bags and questions. I do think that this time a few passengers compounded the problem, both here and on the platform. On the other hand, I also think that announcements that there is plenty of time to board would be of great help.
In any case, we board and depart at 8:00. Dinner was announced about forty minutes later, so appetites were probably at peak. There was certainly no disappointment, at least in my case: roast beef done "just right", corn , and potatoes, with a satis- factory salad supplying the greens. Very good. The company was again interesting. One companion, a rail fan from Richmond who would have retired from his business - if it had not been for the stock market. He seemed anything but bitter, and his business sounded both fascinating, and strong. Another diner was a theology student from Kansas City who also works for a large corporation. He says he has "miles" of model railroads in his basement. He is heading East to pick up a high performance car for a friend. He will drive it back to Kansas City. Fortunately, it is an expense paid deal; the car, he says, gets eight miles to the gallon. The final member of our quartet is a young man on his way to Atlanta. Once again, interesting chatter over an ex- cellent dinner. It will be my last on Amtrak for this trip, so I linger awhile. Then off to bed about 11:00.
This is an "old" car, number 32047, but it appears to be in very good shape. However, after rising, I find a major flaw in the room: the shower doesn't work. It would operate only if strong pressure was kept on the button controlling the flow. Any relax- ation, and no water. This is the first major mechanical failure of the trip. Otherwise, the car and room seem to be in good shape. I guess that the upholstery, curtains, rug, and "leather" are original. But the chair is blue! Could it have come from a Heritage sleeper?
I ate breakfast early and alone, until near the end, when a pleasant lady joined me. This is my last Amtrak breakfast, alas, on this trip. All have been dandy, though perhaps not what the doctor would prescribe. Grits all the way, Tobasco always available, and for me coffee NEVER tastes better than in the diner in the morning. And I should not forget the company and the staff, who, despite the early hour and long day ahead seem always to be cheerful, friendly, and efficient. (I do still wonder about the lack of toast.)
My sleeper is "backwards" so I do not have a direct view of the "Beau- tiful Ohio" on the left. But I am somewhat rewarded, as we pull into Marysville, by handsome houses to the right. As my coffee craving has not quit, I go to the service stand. Coffee, but no juice. Another, small fault, but I should also note that our attendant, John Black is superb. All car attendants (with one exception) have been beyond expectations on this trip, but John probably is the best - and that is saying a lot. During this trip he performs every function in excellent style - including making general train announcements from time to time, including as we approach Washington. The boarding in Chicago had been a bit chaotic, but he handled confused passengers and an avalanche of baggage with competence, energy, and good spirits.
Last night the luggage stored downstairs was in something of a jumble, but when I go down in the morning to see if my big bag is accessible, all is in apple pie order. Thanks, John.
We follow the Ohio with all its industry - and locks. These put poor old Windsor Locks to shame. Those were for nineteenth century commerce; these are Big League. On to Charleston, the capital of West Virginia. It is tucked into yet another version of mountains. Compared to the West, these are hills, but they still were significant barriers to our nation's ex- pansion. They are part of what an old French map I once saw called (in translation) "The Mountains without end". And so they must have seemed, North and South, and East to West. They were challenges to the railroads, too; only the New York Central enjoyed a "water level route". These "hills" are impressive: steep slopes forming valleys; occasional bits of flat land; a geology that still gives us gas, oil, coal, and other minerals; trees to the top of the ridges; and rushing water ways below. Beautiful.
Today, unfortunately, is not the best day for viewing, being overcast and rather gloomy. Not the mood of the mountains one would prefer. One good feature is that trees are just coming into bloom, so one can see through them to the river and the hills beyond. The river is high, muddy, and swift, yet there are quite a few rafts and kayakers. Must be cold!
I went to the lounge for better viewing to the left. There are not too many people there, but those who are, are enthusiastic viewers. Some are quite familiar with this route, and there is a lot of pointing out, camera-snapping (I hope they are ok in this haze), and explaining, particularly as we shoot under the New River bridge. At this point, I return to my room to view from the right. The river is more placid, but the day remains gloomy.
Going into lunch, I join the same lady with whom I had briefly shared breakfast. Then two of last night's companions join us for a chatty conversation about train travel and a discussion about the country through which we are travelling. Last lunch; up to par.
Beyond John Henry's tunnel and White Sulphur Springs, we tunnel under the Allegheny "highland" and head into the Commonwealth of Virginia (trivia questions: what are the four Commonwealths among our fifty states? What four states have capitals named after presidents? Hint: I have been in two of them). Beautiful travelling for perhaps a hundred miles to Staunton, a very pretty town. We continue into lovely country, "the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginny, and the Shenandoah Valley. Ahead is Charlottesville, one of the most interesting sites on this - or any other - route.
The train travels through and by the University of Virginia, a handsome campus at least partially designed by Thomas Jeffer- son. The pace is slow, and there is time to admire the brick buildings and streets which are no doubt shaded by trees when the sun is out.
This is the station at which one may connect with the Crescent with confidence. I see our young friend from dinner last night on the platform and surmise that he will have quite a wait, as the Crescent is due at 10:02. Maybe he can make some new friends at the University.
Beyond Charlottesville, we continue to travel through history. This area can share with Boston, Lexington, and Concord, the designation of being the "Birthplace of America". Madison, Jefferson, Monroe, Washington, Henry - and both Lees; this was was also the central stage for the rebirth of our nation. What- ever it is called - the War of the Rebellion, the War Between the States, the Civil War, or the War of Northern Aggression - here is where the character of our nation was settled. Some- one once defined it simply as, "Before the War, we said, 'The United States are.' After the War, we said, 'The United States is'." It is moving to look at this beautiful, bucolic countryside and think of the tremendous battles and destruction which occurred here such a short while ago. One reminder is a glimpse of the Confederate Cemetery in Culpepper. Then, on to Manassas and beyond it, Bull Run.
Back to the present. After Manassas, we pass the Barnum & Bailey Circus Train, which I had glimpsed at the beginning of this trip. It is enormous; I wish I had counted the cars. It must be quite a sight when it passes.
Before Manassas, we had passed the Virginia Railway Express yard. Very handsome equipment. We also pass Metra yards, and John announces arrival in Washington in fifteen minutes. He points out the Pentagon and Reagan National Airport, and gives out information about connections. Very thorough.
We arrive on time, and it is an easy job to roll and tote my bags to the nearby hotel where Ted had booked me, the Hotel George. A good night's sleep, breakfast in Union Station, and a walk down the Mall to look for cherry blossoms, but it is too late. I went on to the Ellipse and came across an Army show. There was a fantastic close order drill team, a parade of state flags, a fife and drum corps, and more. The crowd, unhappily, was sparse, and the whole thing was quite informal. This allowed me to get close to the action, and I spent a pleasant time chatting with a sergeant on horseback. I then returned up the Mall, which was quite uncrowded. Looking up to the Cap- itol, thinking of yesterday's trip, and of 9/11, it is inevitable to think what an unusual nation ours is and how much we owe to those who created and preserve it.
About 11:45 I am at the gate for Train 142. Of course - or as usual - the gate is not opened until fifteen minutes before boarding time. There is quite a crush when at last it is opened, and the "seniors", parents with children, and those with "special needs" have scant chance to exercise their priority in boarding. Once through, there is a long walk to stairs and a narrow escalator to the platform below. Some folks with big bags had trouble with the escalator.
I settle into the Business Class car in a good seat; the car is sparsely occupied. A cheerful conductor advises that the cafe car is open, and if we want anything, now is the time. When he announces that it is open, he says, "The line will be two cars long." Up I go. This cafe car is of a design new to me. The rear section has lozenge shaped tables with stools. There is a passage way beyond, past the enclosed service area. Then an open space with more tables and seats, but with room for a line to form along the wall to the left, to get to the service window. There is a bar along the wall to help those standing in line. This is car 85000; the Business Class car is 81001. It is similar to the one I rode coming down.
I shan't describe the trip North, except to note that the cars and windows are very clean, and regretfully, I am back in cell phone land. One lady chatters nonstop North of New York, arranging and conducting meetings on what seem to be multiple lines. There is a "quiet car" (no phones), but it is the first coach. We are the last car.
The weather is benign, and as I head North from New Haven, I think back on this long trip and all I have seen and people I have met. This is, indeed, a great country. Get on a train and go see it. May Amtrak survive and thrive - with smoother boardings and lounge car attendants on duty!
AND THANKS, TED AND SYLVIA!!
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