CHI to PDX Train #27 (Part Two)
New Friends in North Dakota
The sleeper for Portland is the last carriage on the train. I’d read that the last car was the jerkiest. For the run on the Texas Eagle from San Antonio to LA, I was also in the last car and I didn’t notice much difference in the ride compared to earlier in that journey from Chicago, where it was placed earlier in the consist.
So I wondered what the issue was.
But now I know!
Maybe it was the track, but that couldn’t be the reason for some of the odd movement I was experiencing this time. It seemed to judder front to back, especially at top speed of 130kph, and whip a little more.
I understand the physics of it, as I see that when following the three-trailer trucks, called road-trains, which drive up and down the Stuart Highway, 3,000kms or so from Darwin to Port Augusta, north/south in the middle of Oz. The last trailer in the group swings wildly to the right and left of the lane by more than a car-width at a time, as the truck barrels along at 120kph, even although the prime-mover is following a steady path.
The train is on rails, so its lateral movement is restricted, but I expect the forces are equivalent.
It wasn’t something to worry about, more a point of interest. I got a decent night’s sleep regardless.
I awoke before sunrise, well into North Dakota.
I had already noticed I would miss out on awake time when travelling through Fargo, the setting in one of my favourite Coen Brothers films, and the TV series of the same name. I had seen on the map the other cities and towns mentioned in the TV series, and when I had my evening online discussion with Niki, she was disappointed as was I, that Fargo would be passed through in the dark and while I was asleep.
We were at Rugby when I regained consciousness, and so I dressed to be ready for breakfast before the PA announcement.
I was seated first, and then three young men, two of them teenagers, joined me.
Jacob, Jeremiah, and Mark were their names. The eldest was Jacob, or Jake. He was a concreter in his family’s business in Middlebury in Indiana, and a carpenter too. He had the strong hands of someone who did hard physical work for a living. He also had a very open and easy manner. It was apparent he jumped right into life.
Jeremiah was the youngest, just 14 years old. Mark was between them in age, and was moving to a new home to be with his parents who had moved their earlier. Mark was either to be a carpenter or a welder, so we discussed the merits of both. It was Jake who identified that being a welder was better during the winter, as there was a better chance of staying warm.
All were getting off at Whitefish later that evening, part of a big contingent going to a wedding.
They told me about their Amish community and were happy to field my questions about how life is for them.
There was a sizeable Amish presence on the train and it was a pleasure for me that these three members were as interested in my background as I was of theirs, and were happy to engage. I mentioned I had seen some Amish farms near Philadelphia early on my travels, and that my Scottish early life had been in farm country where Clydesdales were the motive power in the fields.
They confirmed that they had two breeds of field-work horse: Belgians, and Percherons. They claimed both were bigger and had more strength and stamina than Clydesdales. I did not challenge them on this - they were younger and more numerous, and at least Jacob was much stronger than I.
Mark and Jeremiah left, and then Jake’s older brother, Ervin, appeared at the table and joined in the discussion. Ervin was just 20 years old.
After a short time we were evicted from the diner as a large group of others arrived for breakfast and our table was required. Ervin and I moved to the SSL to continue our conversation.
Ervin was a teacher, looking after the kids in their first school years, and then some others in their last school years. He told me school ceased at Grade 8, which is to age 15.
Ervin told me all the classes are taught in the English language, and so a new oral and written language has to be learnt by the children who speak a dialect of German at home. Swiss-German is a bit like this as well - the written version is similar to the German which appears in German newspapers, but the spoken idiom and pronounciation is different.
Ervin was a very interesting fellow to talk with. He told me he was to be married later this year, and that his bride-to-be was also currently a teacher, but would cease teaching upon marriage. He invited me to his wedding, an astonishing and humbling offer, which I had to decline.
I had a few Oz coins I had in my pocket, which I showed him, then offered them to him for his educational use as they had native animals on the reverse. He said he would certainly use them in his classes. He gave me a business card of his father’s concrete business with his address.
I said I would be happy to send him some picture-books about Australia for use in his school, once I had returned home. I’ll see if I conscript a few friends and rellos in the teaching profession to assist.
Ervin mentioned that, in his study of English, he had become aware that there were certain spelling and grammar rules which did not apply in all circumstances, comparing it to his form of German, which did. He said someone had told him that the English language was like life: there were rules and standards which did not universally apply across the whole language. There were exceptions - times the rules consistently applied, and times they did not.
Things which work in one set of circumstances do not apply in others. You shouldn’t assume they will.
That observation resonated with him, and it was something he brought to his kids’ attention when he was teaching them, and starting them on the path of understanding that there was an Amish life, and a life outside in the “English” world.
Ervin had jokester dining-car attendant Peter for his breakfast and remarked that Peter kept returning to the table with a new joke. Ervin then thought to one-up Peter by saying that the Amish only brush one side of their horses, and asked Peter to work out which one.
I said the only side of a horse you brush is the outside, an answer which met with Ervin’s smiling approval. That answer had eluded Peter, and even when explained to him it seemed to confuse him. Ervin had assessed Peter being miffed as a result.
I figured Ervin enjoyed playing with word puzzles, so I asked him “How far can a dog run into a forest?”
He thought for a second, then came up with the correct answer: half-way.
If Ervin were an Aussie, he’d fit right in.
Another Medical Event
We were at a scheduled stop at Minot, and I thought I could take a photo of the station sign and ask my Oz friends how long they thought I was at that station, with the answer being “A minute”.
Now all USA-born forumites will recognise that joke doesn’t work when you know the town’s name is pronounced “My No”, and our French friends would similarly scratch their heads because it would be pronounced “Mee No”. But were are talking about far less sophisticated Aussies here, and they’ll fall about laughing, no worries.
But we were there longer than a minute. It’s a scheduled work stop, but this time there were lights and sirens. The first-aiders had been called to attend to an ill passenger. A fire-engine and an ambulance were quickly alongside and their crews went about their work.
During the extended stoppage, I was also able to complete another vital part of my mission at Minot: confirm the lead loco number.
This time, I was not thwarted. I can advise that we are being pulled along by loco # 173, with loco #73 in the lead. I’d imagine that if we needed a third, it’d be loco #273.
On reboarding, I had a short chat with Nelson and Edna-May, a young married couple also heading to Whitefish for the wedding.
Another Mighty River
As we neared Williston, I saw we were about to encounter the Missouri River. The tracks were on the river’s northen bank, so I would have a good view out of my south-pointing window.
Before Williston I’d spotted a large natural gas flare in a field, and wondered if I’d see more. There were a few oil pumps dipping up and down here and there, but I saw no other flares over the next forty kilometres or so.
The tracks neared the Missouri again as we crossed the border into Montana. And just before the border, at the confluence if the Missouri and Yellowstone Rivers, stands a stockaded trading post and fort: Fort Union, which also seems to be a visitor attraction.
We continued past grain-crop fields and pasturelands as the country became more undulating, rolling hills now replacing the North Dakota plains. More oil pumps appeared amongst the fields. The long trains hauling coal we had passed by on the Zephyr were now hauling oil wagons.
We touched, then parted from the Missouri several times over the next hour as the train sped along at near maximum allowable. We were clearly in the river’s flood plain, as the track was elevated, even when the river was far off. There were reminders of previous rail alignments from time to time, built a couple of metres lower, and likely abandoned over time for safer higher ground.
A Few Moments in the SSC
I decided one of the purloined apples would be plenty enough for me until the evening, so I went forward around midday, but only to the SSC for a little while.
On the way, I saw Ervin in his seat and stopped by to say hello again. He proudly showed me a sketch which was made for him by a fellow passenger who was sketching for tips. Ervin paid five dollars and he was pleased with the deal. He asked me if it was a good like ess and I said it was.
He was writing as I approached and I asked what it was He said he was keeping a journal. I said I was, and that he is in it. He replied that it was fair enough, because I was in his.
I stopped in the SSC for about half an hour or so looking north, the opposite side of the train my roomette was on. There was a very slow section not long after Wolf Point, and then there appeared to be an explanation. There in a field, arrayed neatly in bunches of five or six, were the mangled remains of what looked like gravel wagons, perhaps twenty of them, buckled and warped as if they were made of tinfoil.
There was a pile of axles and wheels, tidily lined up together as if they were still on rails.
The soil around the site was freshly graded, but had obviously been severely churned up.
There must have been a major derailment here, with catastrophic results. I hope no-one was hurt, and that the landowning farmer, on whose fields these salvaged materials rest, is making beer money from the relevant railway company as a storage and disruption fee.
Around the same time, either before or after, I now forget which, I saw another amazing sight.
I’d mentioned earlier about my happiness at spotting a Texas Longhorn and comparing that for geo-specific identification purposes with sighting a Hairy Coo, which would place you in the Scottish Highlands and Islands. But there, in a nearby field, were two or three of them!
In Montana, a long way from the bagpipes and the heather. How confused they must feel.
And then I spotted Glasgow was upcoming. With the assistance of SCA Michel-Antoine, who opened a window for me on the lower deck, I was able to get a shot of the station sign as the train accelerated after its brief halt there.
It was Glasgow, but not as I know it.
Late - Would We Catch Up?
We were down by an hour and that seemed likely to mean our climb up the eastern face of The Rockies might be in darkness. I’d hoped we’d see a bit while there was still light enough.
We did, and a magnificent ride it was. I spent the early part of it in the diner where I was seated with two women: Ricky and Vanessa.
Vanessa was a chef in Chicago who was on the train to visit her grandchildren in Portland. Ricky did not say much about herself, leaving the bulk of the conversation to Vanessa.
I asked for the steak and sea dish, but waiter Jay came back to the table with the news that the last one had gone. He suggested the naked steak as an alternative which I chose.
Vanessa, perhaps because of her background at the dining coalface, where some customers like to make a big issue out of such things, was taken by my no fuss response. I said she should make a trip to Oz as most of us are relaxed about such trivialities.
We discussed the operation of the tipping system, and how some places make it work when it’s included as an addition to a credit-card payment. Of course, in some less reputable places, she said, the wait-staff are left short, or late.
We discussed the best ways to cook mussels, freshly pulled off the rocks. My preferred way is to open them in a pan with a little butter, garlic, and lemon. Vanessa’s involved shallots and a good Australian chardonnay or pinot grigio.
Under their influence, I tried a table sauce they asked Jay to bring, called A1 from memory. It was a little like Worcestershire sauce, but a little more citrusy. I quite liked it, and added a little to my rice and dipped my steak in it.
Dinnertime was up and I sat in the SSC with my takeaway cup of tea, watching the mountains, still covered in snow, as we made a descent by what I thought might be one of the forks of the Flathead River into Whitefish.
I bumped into Jacob, Mark, and Jeremiah again and bade them well. They said they’d seen some deer or elk earlier that evening, they knew which it was, it’s just that I’ve now forgotten which it was that they said they saw.
I had a chance to walk the platform at the Whitefish stop and see a large proportion of the passengers disembark for the wedding. What a celebration they’ll have, gathered in such numbers from so far afield.
It became dark, and it was time to end the day which began on the plains, and would end up with me crossing the divide once again.
