In my former life I was a jaded, air-only traveler, disdainful of other transportation modes. That attitude changed when I became a rail roadie, taking Amtrak cross-country from St. Paul, Minnesota, to Seattle, Washington.
In my search for cheap adventure, I’d opted to ride the rails instead of flying, my usual choice. Though the trip came with spectacular scenery, its highlight was the on-board camaraderie provided by cowboys, ranchers, youth-on-the-move, and international vagabonds. These friendly folks were going places planes don’t go, to towns deep in America and some so small you’d miss `em if you blinked–where a railroad’s vital and more than merely quaint.
But waiting to board the train in my hometown of St. Paul on a sticky, hot summer evening, I doubted my sanity. What provoked me into thinking I could ever travel by train? A clock-watcher, I gnash my teeth at twenty-minute plane delays and seethe when I’m aloft in a holding pattern. Now, my coach seat would cradle me for the next thirty-five hours. Sequestered from civilization like a babe in the woods, I questioned my survival. Despite my trepidation I climbed on board, and a woman usher guided me to my roomy seat.
The train lurched from St. Paul’s station, taking a northwesterly course towards North Dakota. Eight hours earlier, it had snaked out of Chicago, Illinois–the start of the route–and would cross the Northern Plains, Rockies, and the Cascades until it arrived at the West coast, the end of the line. Amtrak dubs this train route the Empire Builder.
After tossing and turning, I awoke just after dawn to prairies thick with purple wildflowers and flatland fields of golden wheat, or fields of mustard so bright and yellow they startled me.
Soon an odd effect enveloped me when time, so precious before I boarded, lost its hold over me. Lulled and soothed by the train’s motion, I shed my stresses and removed myself from society’s usual interruptions. I’d parked my cell phone and laptop computer at home, and while their absence left me quivering with lingering withdrawal pangs, I bit the bullet and faced reality. Instead, I learned the old-fashioned art of communication by talking to my neighbors. My jet-setting mindset faded into the horizon.
Ahead of me sat Slug, a forty-year-old Dakotas cowboy, sinewy, lean, and so gregarious that he befriended half the passengers before he detrained in Sandpoint, Idaho. Four seats in front of Slug were Sam and Mike, twenty-year-old Brits, who, with other young riders, set about to rail and backpack across America. Shave thirty years off rock star Sting’s age and you’ll get a good picture of Mike.
After sizing up my companions, I sidled up to the dining car where I ate a full-course breakfast. Returning to my seat, I continued my reverie until 8:30 a.m., when our train screamed to a twenty-minute stop in Minot. Prodded by the thought of fresh air and the chance to stretch my legs, I leaped to firm ground and rushed to buy soda and snacks, as did many of the passengers. Is it any surprise food becomes a consuming interest on train trips? Meals are inexpensive and not-to-be-missed social events.
Aside from talking and eating, I slept. By stretching in a quasi-fetal position, I crunched and curled in my coach seat to sleep but the discomfort saved me money. The alternative, sleeper cars, cost much more but offer privacy and beds, and the rate includes meals. I suspected the sleepers harbored signs of sophistication, maybe a Louis Vuitton bag, or a palmtop computer hidden in Calvin Klein underwear. Though as the miles faded beneath me, these high-priced frivolities lost their appeal. What was happening to me?
Scenery flashed before my eyes. The rugged Badlands–a favorite hiding place of bygone outlaws on the lam–jutted crookedly from parched ground in western North Dakota. As the train rumbled into the Big Sky country of Montana our track near Wolf Point paralleled the Missouri River, and thoughts of the nineteenth century Lewis & Clark expedition sprang to my mind. A Western movie fan, I recalled big-screen train robberies and the “Wild West” era. Where was Clint Eastwood or Robert Redford? Who cared? Real cowboys surrounded me.
Fred, another one of those fresh-faced, eager riders I greeted, compared the train journey to a spaceship ride. How this young man came to that conclusion is beyond my grasp, though I realized our age gap contributed to our at-odds viewpoint. Fred was out of sorts but happy, heading to California. “Go west, young man, go west,” Horace Greeley’s nineteenth century advice, echoed through my head. People haven’t changed: the lure of a better life draws them like a magnet.
Early in the evening we glided into Shelby, Montana, hankering to see Glacier National Park in the Rockies, a few stops away. Sam and Mike, my British friends, and a dozen others disembarked at the park for a few days of trekking in the mountains. By this time I was back in the dining car, sharing a table with three since the standard table accommodates four diners. At each of my four meals my dining companions changed; a flexibility that appealed to me, so unlike air travel. Stuffed into a narrow airplane seat, who can switch dinner partners?
Cowboy Slug, who quipped “I don’t eat where I have to tip,” and his like-minded friends ate snack-bar sandwiches. Drinking attracted its hangers-on with alcohol served in the snack bar, lounge, and dining car, but the smoking section drew the die-hards. Crazy to puff, smokers frequently disappeared to the lower level of a car encased by one-inch steel bars. “Hey, man–this smoking car’s like a moving jail cell,” Fred said, his blue eyes widening in amazement.
During the evening movies played in the lounge car, and I cruised like a vulture waiting for an empty seat. Some sort of a Drew Barrymore movie rolled on, but not wanting to appear like a dinosaur to the exuberant and youthful audience, I withdrew to my own coach seat. At least, I sniffed, my pride was intact.
In the middle of the night the screech of cars switching jolted me awake and I looked out at the garishly lit yard. We’d reached Spokane, Washington, where the route forked: some cars went to Portland, Oregon, and the other cars continued onto Seattle. Portland lured a big proportion of the under-thirty-year-olds. Was it a trendy destination?
Shortly after five in the morning, Wenatchee, Washington, appeared. Goaded by hunger, I rushed to the dining car for breakfast that I ate against a backdrop of the Cascade Mountains’ towering fir trees. Three hours later our whistle-blowing train crawled into Everett to begin a scenic tour along Puget Sound through Edmonds to Seattle. We arrived before schedule at 9:30 a.m.
Seattle’s huge depot bustled with a rowdy queue forming for the Coast Starlight, Amtrak’s West coast route to Los Angeles. Surveying the waiting passengers, I contemplated the heart-stopping scenery down the Pacific coast to L.A., but I turned my back and left the station. As a converted railroad fan, I knew there’d be other opportunities to travel America by train. Time permitting.
Real Travel Adventures 