#27 The Journey's Conclusion and Some Candid Thoughts

 May 18, 2023

Having slept quite well on this last night on the train, I awakened to the familiar landscape of eastern Washington.  The broad waters of the Columbia River slid placidly along beneath the glow of morning light.  Our dining car was now en route to Seattle, having parted ways with our train in the wee hours of the morning.  Thus my breakfast was a quick muffin and coffee from the café car.  

Though I've lived most of my life on the "wet coast", these scenes of the dry side of Washington (and Oregon) still speak of home to me.  Having traveled by car to North Dakota and back every summer of my childhood, the river with its many dams, the sagebrush and tawny hills all speak comfort to me.  Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in our trusty station wagon, about now I would be pondering how my garden had grown in our absence.  And how tall the pesky pigweeds had grown.  I ached to get my bare feet on the cool soil and my fingers in the dirt.

Newcomers on the scene are the graceful, if somewhat controversial, wind turbines.  Today, the nearly ever-present gorge wind is absent, and their arms stilled.  The river is a perfect mirror beneath the drab sky.  

There have been some sour notes on this last leg of the trip that, while causing me no harm, made it less than pleasant.  My attendant clearly would prefer another line of work.  Apathetic at best, she made no effort to solve issues that came up (beginning with the flood in my room).  Halfway home we ran out of bottled water.  The water from the sinks is potable but they don't suggest drinking it. Then there was a stretch where the toilets in our car quit functioning.  Our attendant (name intentionally withheld) said, "I don't know.  Maybe they are just full."  She then suggested we use the restroom in another car.  There were several other situations that aren't worth recording for posterity, but that marred the experience.  But are experiences more valuable when everything goes perfectly as planned or expected?  Probably not.  However, I have often sung the praises of train travel, so perhaps a bit of transparency is in order.  Things quite often are not as expected.  The truth is, most of the train cars are quite old and things don't always function properly.  

Mid morning I had gathered my sundered belongings and sat down to watch as icons of the Willamette Valley came into view.  The deeper, blue-green of the evergreen-clad hills and the thousands of logs waiting to be shipped out to ports around the world.

And then at last the snowy peak of Mt Hood over the gray waters of the river.  Though it would still be some time before the train would pause in Vancouver long enough for me to get down, I brought my little carry-on down by the door.  Then, backpack on, I sat on the edge of my seat for the final minutes.  I was nearly home.

#26 Empire Builder, Day Two

 May 17, 2023

When I pushed back the blue curtains in the first light of morning, it was to the flats of eastern North Dakota.  This small grass-rimmed lake reminded me of summers spent swimming in the lakes of ND.  We bombed down the dusty gravel roads, packed like sardines in our old station wagon, sweating away without air conditioning.  The cool water felt so delicious. And then we stood up and discovered leeches stuck all over our skinny legs!  We did survive, and then, after the dusty ride back to my aunt and uncle's house, we got hot all over again.  Good times.

As I breakfasted on Railroad French Toast with strawberries, the sun rose and began to turn the grass to gold.  The flat, wet expanses were broken up here and there by winter-drab clusters of windbreak trees.

Too early or wet for spring planting, most of the surrounding land was covered with grazing cattle or the stubble of last fall's crop.  The wispy clouds of morning soon grew heavier and darkened the sky.

Most station stops are listed on the schedule as zero minutes.  The train will only pause long enough to let passengers on and off.  But occasionally there is a longer stop for crew change or the taking on of supplies, fuel or water.  Minot, ND is one such stop.  So after breakfast I decided I'd take advantage of the stop to use my en-suite shower while the train wasn't rocking and rolling.  But when I turned the handle, nary a drop fell.  Recalling a scenario in Scotland where I wasn't able to get into our room for the night because I didn't get creative enough with the key, I tried every knob and handle.  But all to no avail.  I got dressed again to go find my room attendant.  She was enjoying being outdoors, way down the track, and not too interested in helping me figure it out.  She off-handedly suggested that possibly the crew had turned the water off because we were in station.  I'd taken many showers on the train while in station, so I knew it wasn't common policy.  They do shut off both power and water at times, but always announce it ahead of time.  

I gave up and just walked up and down the track.  As I did, I noted that what had been clouds was now more smoke.  The air was brown tinged and something more than a bonfire was on the air.  I asked my attendant if she knew and she said she thought a nearby house was on fire.  I doubted that, as the smoke was so widely dispersed.

Two sharp blasts of the train's whistle and a call of "All aboard!" got us back up the narrow steps and into our train.  When I stepped through the door into Room B, it was to running water and a flooded floor.  Apparently she was right, they had indeed shut off the main water.  And without any notification.  I hurried to crank it off, and then assessed the damage.  I had left the shower door open, so the carpet was soaked.  My suitcase was also open on the floor in the middle of the room, so many of my clothes were wet.  And my backpack was sitting on the soggy carpet as well.  I really wanted to sit down and cry, but knowing it would solve nothing, I went to track down my attendant instead.  I want to note here that I've always tried to be an easy, undemanding, and appreciative guest.  I've even made up my own bed at times if the attendant forgot or just got too busy.  But I couldn't solve this on my own.  Clearly she was either weary of me or, more likely, just her job in general, because she simply told me to throw my towels on the floor and mop it up.  So I did.  And when they were wet I went to the downstairs shower and got more.  By the time I had dumped a dozen soggy (and very dirty) towels in the hamper, the carpet was reasonably dry.  I'd have to wear shoes in my room the rest of the trip home though.  

By the time I was ready to open the curtains again, we were paused, right on time at 10:46 am at our whistle stop in Stanley, ND.  I recognized the blue water tower in the distance.  While now it was shrouded in smoke from the wildfires of Canada, I had seen it recently in the icy grip of winter when I traveled to an aunt's funeral in March.

That trip, I had boarded the train for home from the Stanley station.  The train was far from on time, but it was a sunny, albeit chilly day.  As we continued on our way, I reminisced about that wait.  Though unattended, the little station was open so I could go in to warm up.  

As time grew long, I got tired of just walking in and out.  I dared not stay in the station for long due to the quick stop, so to keep warm, I borrowed a snow shovel that I found leaning against a drift, and cleared the icy walkway to the front door.  At last, with a metallic screech, the train hove into view and paused long enough for me to board. 

Back to the present, iconic North Dakota scenes, turned sepia by the smoke drifting south from Canadian wildfires, slipped past the windows as we we made our way ever westward. 

Milk River, with its myriad twists and turns creates the ruffled northern border of the Belknap Reservation.  We crossed it many times as we continued westward.  Like a latte spilled out over the miles, its waters take on their milky hue due to fine clay and silt sediments that erode along the river basin in Alberta, and remain suspended in the water.  White patches here and there along the banks appear as snow, but are actually dried mud.  On May 8, 1805, Meriwether Lewis journaled, "the water of this river possesses a peculiar whiteness, being about the colour of a cup of tea with the admixture of a tablespoon of milk."

Freight trains are a big part of passenger train travel. Most tracks are owned by freight companies, so trains carrying oil and other commodities always have priority.  The only exception is section of track called the Northeast Corridor, running between Washington DC and Boston.  This is owned by the federal government and operated as Amtrak.  All that to say, it is not uncommon to be pulled onto a siding to wait for a freight to pass.  Sometimes it's mere minutes, but it can stretch to hours if there's a problem with the freight.  But at many station stops its a chance to see the various freight cars close up as they are parked on adjacent tracks. 

During lunchtime, we rattled from North Dakota to Montana with no fanfare or obvious change of scenery.  Fields, dotted with cattle and their surrounding shelterbelts, made up much of the landscape.  And in Montana, just as in North Dakota, useless vehicles become vintage sculptures along the byways, and scattered across farmland. 

Oft clustered near the rural tracks were silos and elevators of various shapes and sizes.  Such icons in the heartland of America, they've also been called prairie cathedrals or prairie sentinels.  

The morning clouds had melded with the smoke to become a thick bronzy shroud over all the landscape.  Now as evening was upon us, the clouds gathered and parted, allowing beams of gold to pierce through.

When old snow began to appear, clinging to the hillsides and gorges of the Flathead River, I knew we were in Glacier Park.  We would repeatedly cross and follow the river as we continued our westward journey.

As I had studied the train schedule prior to my trip I had conjectured that I'd miss most of the beauty of Glacier Park, as it would be too dark.  Trains are so conducive to sleeping with their repetitious clack and sway, that I usually turn in early.  I was about to do so when I looked out the window across the hall from my open door.  The sun had burst from the clouds in all its God-given glory as we had stopped briefly in East Glacier Park.

For the next hour, the beauty of the sun, enshrouded in the smoky haze, midst trees and mountain peaks would continue to enthrall as it sunk below the horizon.  

One extra perk of having a bedroom is that you have access to your own window, but also the window that runs along the hall outside your room.  It a roomette, you only can see out the one side, and sometimes that isn't where the best view is.  Occasionally the room across the hall isn't occupied so I've slipped in and taken a few pictures from that vantage. 

As we wend our way through the mountains, there are times when we can look back and see our train, or even the tracks and bridges we've previously crossed.

When at last the sun was set, the afterglow lingered long.  I chatted my neighbor who stood in the hall next to me.  We took turns oohing and aahing over the beauty.  When the last vestiges of golden glow had dissipated and dark enshrouded the train, I retreated to my room and climbed into my cozy little bed for my very last night on the train.  One last night of being lulled to sleep by the click, click, clack and sway of the train.  One last night of hearing the soft whistle as we roll through crossings of slumbering little towns.

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