#92, May 1, 2002
I'm on the California
Zephyr to Green River, Utah. "Not many people go there," said the
ticket agent. "That's okay," I told him, "as long as it slows
down enough for me to hop off." Yesterday I called up the address for the
Green River Amtrak station (i.e. platform) on Mapquest. The map showed the
little yellow star in the middle of a big blank box.
I caught the train in
Martinez, one-time home of John Muir, whose Range of Light is now glowing
outside my window. It's the day after May Day, so snow still paints the peaks
and lies in dusty patches along the tracks. But it's melting, and every little
ravine sports a sparkling little stream, bound for San Francisco Bay.
Steady as she goes. The
train is not given to sudden movements. She's slow to start, and she moves in
long arcs up the western slope of the Sierra. Unlike the interstate, whose
asphalt twists and dips with greater abandon, the rails express the patience of
train travel.
Why did I take the train?
If you guessed because of its low ecological footprint, you're only part right.
It's true that train travel is very efficient, considering its land use as well
as its fuel use requirements. It's far easier to pull a steel-wheeled vehicle
containing 200 riders over steel rails than to push 200 spongy-wheeled vehicles
across rough pavement (forget about trying to keep a 100 ton vehicle suspended
in the air for 90 minutes!)
I'd thought about driving,
but 16 hours solo behind the wheel for me spells "dying in my sleep,"
or an extra day each way to recover from caffeine shock. The nearest commercial
airline landed in Salt Lake City, four hours away. Plane fare, plus airport hassle,
plus rental car fees and hassle equals "not worth it." I was planning
to "ride the dog," but when I checked the prices and travel times,
the train looked like a better deal.
For me, hour for hour,
there is no better travel experience. I'm sitting in coach class with more leg
and hip room than I've ever seen in first class air. I can go sit in the view
car, or go downstairs and play my harmonica to the rhythm tracks. The dinner
was great (including cloth napkins), but it's okay with Amtrak if you eat out
of your backpack. And when you're not snoozing or looking out the window, you
can catch up on your reading or writing (as I am doing now.)
Traveling by train has a
soulful, relaxed character. Amtrak advised me that its new security measures
required picture ID, and that I should arrive an hour early for ticketing. The
Amtrak bus from downtown Petaluma dropped me off a couple hundred feet from the
ticket counter at the lovely new Martinez station. Five minutes later, I've got
my ticket and I'm ready to board (compare that to the SFO experience. Flying
may get you there a half a day sooner, but it takes half a year off your life.)
Then there is the scenery:
you're frequently traveling in places the roads don't go, looking out on it
from 20 feet above the ground. Not only do you get new views on rivers and
mountains and meadows and canyons; you get to peek into the back lots of
industrial America, and wonder at the odd variety of stuff waiting for the next
train to market.
The people on the train
seem different, too, with more of a "getting there is half the fun"
attitude. I ate dinner with a friendly couple from El Cerrito. He is a
technical writer and unrepentant punster. She is an artist. It turned out I've
seen her work in a Santa Rosa show. One of her current projects is the
"BraBall" (www.braball.com), a three foot diameter (and growing)
accretion of donated brassieres.
I'm glad I took the train.
Before the auto-oil-freeway lobby gutted our rail system, trains were the
preferred way to travel in America. We'd be better off if we got back on track.