The joys of chugging along

By Rhonda Wray

Irecently had the delightful privilege of traversing this breathtaking state of ours by train, from Denver to Grand Junction. While I’m very thankful I can drive, it’s not on my list of favorite activities. It’s a means to an end. And as flying has grown increasingly unfun, it was a welcome relief to travel casually. There was no need to bring travel-sized liquids. No long security lines. No shoe removal. No need to show IDs when we boarded.

Our train, the California Zephyr, runs between Chicago and Emeryville, in Northern California. The route is just over 2,400 miles long with 35 stops along the way, including six in Colorado.

After leaving Denver’s Union Station, we rumbled west through the six-mile moonless-night darkness of the Moffat Tunnel. We emerged to the ground blanketed white, truly putting the winter in Winter Park (and I was doubly thankful I wasn’t behind the wheel). Next came blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Granby. We got a 10-minute “fresh air break” in charming Glenwood Springs, which wasn’t nearly long enough. I’d love to stroll its streets and bask in its hot springs.

Sitting in the observation car and gazing out those giant windows was a real-life nature film. Enormous rock faces, forests, cabins and wildlife vied for attention. The internet was spotty but that didn’t matter, between the postcard-worthy sights and time to read. I’m the queen of queasy—I assumed I’d outgrow motion sickness but never did. I didn’t even feel a flicker of it. Another win. What I didn’t do was sleep—my FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) kept me from it—but of course you could. The train treats you right, from the fresh roses and linen tablecloths to the delicious food—even steak dinners.

The people made it even better. The personable conductors take time to chat. Strangers become friends. A precocious kindergartner sitting nearby filled her princess journal with long lists of creatively spelled words.

“Sound it out,” she admonished us, when we had trouble deciphering her intent.

There were only two mishaps. One was a boulder on the tracks. The other occurred when my coworker and I were on the lower level of the train by the small café/ store. We heard a metallic crunch and turned to each other, sau - cer-eyed—something on the track knocked the air hose off. But the competent crew treated them as minor inconveniences, and we were soon, well, back on track.

My grandfather was a railroad man. We took the train from Fort Madison, Iowa, to La Junta, where he and Grandma lived, a handful of times. He began as a switchman for then-Santa Fe Railroad (now Amtrack) in 1942. His starting salary was $7 per day.

“I thought I had all the money in the world,” he wrote in his life story. Due to a labor shortage, he often had to work 16-hour shifts. Two years later, he saw the regular 3-11 p.m. yardmaster stumbling drunk into a tavern.

“I’ll bet the phone is ringing at home,” he told his family. It was. The errant employee was fired and Grandpa moved up to become yardmaster for 32 years. Train travel connected me to my roots.

Eight unhurried hours later we reached our destination, where spring gave the landscape a glowup. Grand Junction’s trees were abloom, and tulips waved a welcome in the gentle breeze.

A slow and meandering pace suits me. The destination is wonderful, but so is the journey. Amid the world’s need for speed, I hope the train will remain. There are tickets to buy and trips to take. ■