Tracks to Eternity

“Did you hear that?”

“No, what?”

“That popping noise. Like gunshots, or fireworks. Seems out of place somehow.”

That was the last thing I remember before I woke up. We had finally gotten through the circus of station activity, now that the trains were once again running. All we had to do was show our vaccination slips, wear a mask, and not congregate as we usually did in the observation car. That was most of the fun of any trip, besides the scenery, of course.

The old woman perched on her bench across from me went back to her crossword puzzle, no longer content to be confronted by conversation.

You meet such distinct individuals on a train, if I may use that term, distinct. But they do seem to lend themselves to the description. I have met priests, self-proclaimed agnostics, card sharks, and people who were so distraught by liquor, they could barely remain coherent long enough to carry on a civil conversation. A veritable variety pack of humanity stumbling down the tracks.

We passed the occasional town. Most were scarcely noticed but for the reduction in speed and the train whistle, that shocked the calm into the reality of modern civilization. I find riding the train not only a unique experience, but one that allows for the socialization that one does not find on air planes, buses, or, well there is no or, unless you count the personal vehicle, which can hardly be described as a unique experience. Trapped in a small space, unable to move for hours at a time, surrounded by either the air around you or if accompanied, the need to provide a sense of companionship, or minimally recognition of the fact they suffered the proximity to another that you did. 

Now of course with the restrictions on gatherings, the observation as well as the majority of the train was less crowded. A couple sat near the front of the car; an elderly woman sat across from me content to look out the window into the darkness and shuffle her thoughts, and me, just enjoying the serenity of the time. The cars gentle rocking motion, the sound of the wheels clicking along the rails, the occasional whoosh of the air door opening as a train employee passed through the car making sure all was orderly, anticipated.

I was riding the train to Seattle Washington. The trip began in the late afternoon. We passed through a prairie landscape of wild flowers, rivers, and grain silos; although interesting, it was not awe inspiring. It wasn’t until we got to the foothills of the Rockies that the topography began to change incrementally. The higher we climbed the more the vegetation and geography was altered by the climate and elevation. 

The train broke through the nothingness before morning, to an expanse of snowcapped mountains that exploded with a majesty I had not experienced before.

A few of the small towns we passed appeared deserted, left to the cold and isolation of the mountain. Periodically a carcass of a mountain goat or sheep could be seen escaping the grip of winters snow, the all too familiar result of the trains trespass into their realm. Their frozen remains reminded me for some reason of tales left us by Conrad. I could see myself reaching for the last match as the snow extinguished life.

The old woman across from me had settled into sleep, her chin resting on her chest, wispy sounds erupting from her rhythmic cadence. The couple in the front of the car, her head on his shoulders as the car shook erratically as the train followed the curvature of the track. I could see the engine ahead as the circumference of the circle closed, the mountain dictating the route.

The silence, interrupted only by the rhythmic rocking of the car, was as far removed from the human pressure of civilization as the moon, faintly glowing in the morning sky. 

There is something about the way the stone slabs have been pushed from bowls of the earth, resembling a deck of shuffled cards splayed by practiced hands, that makes you cautious of each breath. The trees now sparse, as the climate is no longer appreciative of the intruders. 

Looking down the steep mountain side I realized we were but a few feet from disappearing into a blackhole of nothingness. Being left to the ingenuity and perseverance of past generations who had sacrificed life, to build this steel trail through the most incredibly beautiful, but harsh environment. Hundreds if not thousands of people sacrificing their lives so that I could ride in comfort, protected from the environment by the safety of a train car. 

It was similar, now that I look back, to being awakened from a deep sleep. A rudeness permeating the tranquility of body and mind, to pull me into a place I had not imagined, could have existed. The dreams of purple mountains majesty, the glistening reflection of the gurgling creek water below, imagining a sky it could only experience by the repeated occurrence of its everyday existence. 

It wasn’t until I found myself looking out the window where everything had ceased to move, as if frozen in Russel painting, that I felt the stillness. Opening my eyes prompted a shock that took hold of me, accompanied by a cold that reminded me of a time I’d spent on the frozen water of a Minnesota lake. I looked towards the front of the car, where there had been a couple entangled in each other’s dreams, there was now, nothing. 

The end of the car now resembled a picture window looking upon the snow-covered rocks. I looked to the elderly woman across the aisle for clarity, understanding. She was slumped against the seat back in front of her, only a red stain and a fractured window remained observant of her postured pose. I looked out the window at the sharp drop towards the stream and could see amongst the jagged rock the twisted remains of a train car. 

I looked once again towards the front and saw in the distance a large rock, the size of our train car itself, sitting on the track. I couldn’t see the engine ahead, only a boulder sitting as if it had been placed on the track, by the hand of destiny. 

I don’t remember anything after that. I must have lost consciousness as my next remembrance was that of a hospital bed and the view from the window. A bird feeder hung outside the window from a budding branch of a willow tree. The feeder was being attacked by finches, their yellow forms darting through the new light or morning, afternoon? The mountains in the background appeared more vibrant, three dimensional in feeling, plastered against a slate gray sky. 

I was told by the doctors and staff how fortunate I was. Three cars had been swept into the ravine by the slide; the spring thaw having loosened the mountains grip on the rock that pillaged the cars. 

I did not want to hear of the casualties, the number, or those that survived, as I was consumed by the question that always follows reflection, why not me? 

As I looked at the mountain I could see no reason to question its intent, or feel animosity towards it for its action. I could not find a reasons to hate or mistrust, as I looked at the white capped peaks. I could only marvel at the beauty and the blessings that it brought. Even dying could not detract, from the magnificence of life.