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January 11, 2009Thanks, God!Not once but twice.FIRST, FOR MY TRAIN ATTENDANT DON,who cordially moved me from Room(ette) 3 (left-hand side) to Room(ette) 10 (right-hand side), a move I told him will be reflected at the end of the trip. I’m a right-handed writer. My body language points left, and on the left-hand side, I bump into the wall and window. There’s no freedom of movement, whereas here the entire room is my field of operation. My experience of the trip is entirely different on the “wrong” side of the train, like I want to re-do the trip “right,” as when I compromise on my movie seat to accommodate a friend and sometimes go back to see it again the way I want to. Second, our first stop was Naperville, Illinois, where the mass of people waiting to get on obliged me to thank God again, for not being one of them angling for a seat in coach. I’m snug as a hug. Thanks for the means to do this trip on my own terms. On a train one passes so many interesting spots one would like to explore, but they’re gone as soon as you notice them. What did that sign say? What was the name on the station we didn’t stop at? Someday I hope to get a haircut at Hercules Gallery of Hair in Aurora, Illinois. Good thing it’s not Delilah’s Gallery of Hair. You’d walk out bald. We pass a few small towns and move on to a beautiful golden light flooding burned fields waiting for the ice to melt so they can grow green again. How frigid it looks out there, with bales of hay frozen to the ground in bases of ice. MY GOD!Must invoke Him again. In and around Galesburg, Illinois, is the most massive, disturbing display of chemtrails (not to be confused with contrails) I have ever witnessed. The planes are spewing them as I write. The view from my double window for a while was nothing but ground and sky, and one plume was so long I couldn’t see the beginning or end in my window frame. Beck even has a song called “Chemtrails,” containing the lyric “I can’t believe/What we’ve seen outside/You and me/Watching the jets go by” OUR SKIES ARE BEING FUCKED WITH,people. In the Space Preservation Act of 2001 [HR2977], Dennis Kucinich names “chemtrails” as an “exotic weapons system,” but in the rewritten Space Preservation Act of 2002 [HR3616] the reference disappears. Someone somewhere somehow silenced him. Someone’s going to have to tackle this. But I’m not devoting this trip to being pissed off. I’ll save that for another column—because you know what I do? When I have an ax to grind, I grind it with an Ax File. [The author first mentioned chemtrails in the Ax File of 11/29/06 “All Signs Point to Yes” - Ed. “Or of course, it could all be a government implant, a ‘bunch of new-agey smarm,’ as my friend Bill put it, transmitted to my brain via the ethylene dibromide, nano-particulates of aluminum and barium and cationic polymer fibers with unidentified bioactive materials I have absorbed by breathing in the military chemtrails dispatched from HAARP by the New World Order.”] But I use it instead to eat some chocolate ice cream, capping off dinner in the diner with Greg, Kathy and Amelia Frances, as personable a crop of luck-of-the-draw dining companions as could be hoped for. “Community seating” is one of the blessings of train trips, because “you meet such interesting people” with stories galore of their travels and their lives. As I said to Denise, the retired nurse, over oatmeal this morning (on the Capitol Limited) one of the best things about train travel is that you can tell people anything you want, because chances are you’ll never see them again. Some blush-worthy intimacies can come to light in the course of a casual conversation in the dome car. Denise heard all about my recent bout with still-fresh family frustrations. She had her own horror stories. Greg, a former TV news reporter and Kathy, a retired emergency services chief, are also on their way to their home of San Francisco. Amelia Frances, a darling senior on her way to Sacramento, is what you’d call a “hoot.” She’s been living on her own for the past twenty-five years. WE START OUT WITH THE USUAL,where we’re coming from, what we were doing there, where we’re going, other travels, family, those sorts of things. After a bit, you can tell when the tenor of a table raises a pitch, when people start getting interested in each other. We talk about the intimacies of passing people’s homes, looking into their backyards, their kitchen windows, their lives. I speculate that some may make note of the passing of the Zephyr and want more than anything to get on that train, but never do. Still others are washing dishes, thinking “hm, the Zephyr’s running late tonight.” Kathy makes a comment about Mark Twain being associated mostly with California. And that when studying for her B.A. she had to read Emily Dickinson, whom she could not relate to at all. “Actually, she’s one of my favorites,” I say, but add quickly, “I have a degree in English” (so that explains that!). She says when she made the comment about Twain and California, she thought to herself, I’m probably sitting here with some Twain expert. Not me, I assure her. “I just consider him a national treasure.” I’m no Dickinson expert either, but her sensibility is my own. I ask Kathy if she knows the poem “After Great Pain.” No, she doesn’t. After great pain/A formal feeling comes/The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs was all I could think of. But I told her I’m writing a novel by that name, that it came from the poem. (That will be my “serious” novel.) There’s already a biography of Dickinson by that name, but so what. Amelia Frances says she always wanted to see Sausalito because her favorite poet lived (or lives?) there—Rod McKuen. I mishear the name as McQune. I’m not familiar with him, I say. But wait—did you say Rod McKuen? I feel my eyes roll back in my skull as disbelief plays over my face, and a flush of amusement passes over Greg’s as he catches on to it. But I did not tell the old joke, “Rod McKuen is my second favorite poet. The first is Everyone Else.” What happened to him, someone asks. He got a clue and died, I respond. Say, what do President Ford, Henry Fonda, Fred Astaire, Marlon Brando and Malcolm X have in common? They were all born in Omaha, Nebraska. WELCOME TO OMAHA is written in bright lights on all sides of some large weirdo structure I can’t make heads or tails of, like some overwrought pyramid wedding cake on the skyline. Hm. We’re at another “location.” Track 3, Location 10. 6:30 A.M., MONDAY, JANUARY 5, 200945 minutes early into Denver? Don’t know as that has ever happened to me in my career as an Amtrak passenger. “It happens now and then,” says Don. My first sight of the city is some most beautiful pollution, a cream and rust-colored building catching the morning light and in front of it a plant with four smokestacks belching smoke into great billowing clouds orange with sunrise.
I’m not big on taking pictures of the sights. I don’t want my memories to be constricted into snapshots. No picture conveys the scope of what you’re looking at. I am not a photographer, nor a Boy Scout, because I am never prepared. The perfect shot always eludes me because I’m never ready to take it. I take my pictures with the shutter of my eyelids. That’s why I freeze-frame things in words. THE PATRÓN TEQUILA EXPRESSparty train sits on the track next to ours, operated by the Gulf Mobile and Ohio, “The Rebel Route.” I scheme to someday ride that train, as long as they don’t make me drink tequila, my personal poison. Burlington Northern Santa Fe. That’s where the BNSF boxcar I saw last time comes from. I have breakfast with Mary, Steve and Eva. Steve is a walking encyclopedia of train lore. He knows about abandoned tunnels, track gauges, who bought what line when, the like. He probably knows what a 4-4-0 configuration is. But he doesn’t know that Tunnel No. 41, “The Big Hole,” is coming up on our route. He’s never heard of it. I’ve ridden a lot of trains, but I’m in the bush leagues when it comes to hard knowledge, so I was most satisfied I knew something he didn’t. OOH. AAH. ROCKY MOUNTAIN HIGH.Rocks here, rocks there, all manner of rocks, everywhere. That’s why they call them the Rockies. Blackout! We have entered the famed Moffatt Tunnel at 9:10 AM. Patrons are requested to not open the doors between cars because it will let in diesel fumes and coal dust. You can smell the fumes regardless. I don’t know what you’re doing right now, but I’m crossing the Continental Divide at 9,000+ feet through a 6.2 mile tunnel. What?! There’s no cell phone service inside this mountain? We emerge at 9:19. I used to love the opportunity for total disconnection from the outside world that train travel affords, but since I finally broke down and got a cell phone (mostly for travel connections), those days are over. I could just turn it off, but it’s fun to surprise someone with a call from Winter Park, Colorado (“Icebox of America” for its minus 50° temperatures). I never even used to bring a walkman with me, all through my 20’s-40’s, because I wanted to listen to “the music of the train.” Not such a purist anymore. What I am really missing, though, is my internet connection. I utterly rely on it for speed-of-light information at my fingertips. I want my email, I want to check my blog stats, look up the Patrón Tequila Express, any number of things. Sweden has WIFI on its trains—why don’t we? Why is America’s train system, of all countries, so underfunded and disrespected? I’m going to petition Joe Biden for Amtrak funding and the restoration of the Pioneer line and other service cuts. Also, we want the Katrina-destroyed New Orleans-Orlando Sunset Limited line restored! And a SF-NY direct train. No schlepping, no layovers, no train changes, no Chicago. OK PEOPLEI’ve seen them in Philadelphia, Illinois, San Francisco—and now even over the Rockies? Chemtrails. We are being fucked with, people. Write your congressman. A deer darts sideways up a hill away from the train. So beautiful my eyes tear up. Reminds me, though, of asking friends, do they know what the Killers’ song “Human” means when they ask, “Are we human or are we dancer?” “Dancer? You mean like Prancer, Donner and Blitzen? Are we human or are we reindeer? If we’re reindeer, let’s eat ourselves.” “Yes, I love venison!” Are we human, or are we cancer, would make more sense. Out of nowhere comes a snow-laden fence with three campaign posters on it. How bizarre they look in this rural western setting. ROARING FORK RIVERmeets the Colorado here in Glenwood Springs, burial place of gunslinger Doc Holliday and resort destination of Teddy Roosevelt. I step outside with no socks on to feel how cold it is. Not overly. Not as cold as walking out from the Chicago waiting room to the platform was. “I’m going to take a dip in the hot spring,” I tell my attendant Don, “I’ll be right back. Don’t let the train leave without me.” See, that’s why I need my own train. THE JESUS CHRIST IS LORD TRAILER TRUCKis Christ the King of the Road. I feel like I’ve seen it before. Or is it just another message from God, the Father?
Billboard outside Fox Chase train station, Philadelphia Hurray! We’re running an hour late due to switching problems and I hope we don’t make up the time. The lengthier the delay, the longer the train trip. Don’s not having any of that. He wants his night off in his hotel room and then he starts back for the SF-Chicago run the next day. LONG-HORN BULLon your right! We caught up a half-hour getting into Grand Junction, and finally, there is some snowfall—the ugly driving, horizontal kind and yet with a sunset happening behind the mountains A flock of geese flies headlong into the gusting wind—then turns around and goes the other way. We’ll be in Utah within the hour, as darkness falls at 5:30 p.m. The majestic mountains turn into hulking, menacing shapes. But I like that too. We’ll see if the weather lets the moon come out tonight. I do see it slipping in and out of the clouds. It’s 11:11 p.m. in Salt Lake City, and in every city stop I scan for open network connections I might pick up on. I have one instant of success hooking in to some account with two hours of free access, but it keeps dropping my connection and I can’t open any websites. It’s fine, I’m OK with it. This is good discipline for me, and good practice. We’ve got a white-sky condition that gives enough light to keep me up on my elbow staring out the window at the bizarre land formations of Utah, until I collapse into sleep despite myself. I find out during a breakfast of dry scrambled eggs with Greg and Kathy that the Patrón party car is actually attached to this train. We’re just hauling it for its owner, reportedly, Dan Ackroyd. I can’t settle for my own private car. My train must have its own engine, two sleepers, dome car, dining car, library with fireplace and ballroom. Yes, a dancing car with live band (The Killers)—and string quartet with grand piano. It’s my fantasy so anything goes. And as that is the case I’ll bring the San Francisco Symphony along. I WILL NOT GET HURT! I WILL NOT HURT OTHERS!A safety sign at Sparks, Nevada, one ugly town if ever there was one. Good policy, though. Ever get this from some guy, someone who, for instance, slept with your best friend, and comes out with “I never meant to hurt you”? Wrong all over the place! Adds insult to injury. $282,000,000 it cost the City of Reno to build the trench that lowered the train tracks 35 feet below street level to alleviate strain on the streets, whereas the train used to pass through the center of town. All this means to me is that we now no longer pull up alongside the “Biggest Little City in the World” sign that used to be the highlight of the Reno station stop. I spent the night in Reno once on the way to Burning Man, and I can’t think of any other highlights to the place. We’ve picked up a new train crew and a volunteer narrator who is sharing nuggets of information about the route with us. We’re following the Truckee River now, and in Verdi, Nevada the first Great Train Robbery of the West took place, netting the perpetrators about $40,000 in gold coins and bank notes belonging to Wells Fargo. Not all the money was recovered—it’s rumored to still be buried somewhere around here. Oddly enough, the train was robbed again within 24 hours, netting the perps $3,000 and “an invitation to a necktie party they could not refuse,” as our narrator put it. Flumes along the river here carry water, but they leak, which can result in icicles 15 feet long. Do not apply your tongue to one of those babies. “WE HAVE LEFT THE SILVER STATE.of Nevada, and are now in the golden state of California.” Home! If you’ve ever spent a good amount of time looking out of a train window, with your eyes and the scenery shifting, and then look away to your room, or laptop, you’ll notice a psychedelic effect of shape-shifting that, though obviously an illusion, looks plenty real, causing me to wonder, what is real, if you see with your eyes that which you know is not? (It was in this way that I saw my statue of St. Francis petting the dove he holds.) We are now navigating the Stanford horseshoe curve, named for Leland Stanford, railroad tycoon, who in 1861, as one-quarter of “The Big Four” (or “The Associates,” as they called themselves) co-founded the Central Pacific Railroad (with Charles Crocker, Mark Hopkins, and Collis P. Huntington). It was also in 1861 that Stanford was elected Governor of California, and the first CPRR locomotive was named “Gov. Stanford” in his honor. As president of the company, Stanford was afforded the task of hammering in the Golden Spike in Promontory, Utah on May 10, 1869. Now we come to beautiful, blue Donner Lake, which I’m sure the Donner Party would rather there had never been occasion to have named after them. Today is a sparkling, brilliant sunny day, something most of the party, I imagine, never survived to see. Only 48 of the original 90 survived. THE BIG HOLE, TUNNEL 41,takes us over the summit, at 7,040 feet, of the Sierra. It’s all downhill from here, baby. The fresh young top sprigs of new evergreens poke out of the snowbanks to the side of the train. It’s astounding, the effects of this white stuff that falls from the skies. Avalanches, car accidents, transit delays, heart attacks clearing it away, falls on the ice, school closings, being unable to leave your house. That’s why I consider places with severe winter weather to be, for my purposes, uninhabitable. We’re in the Blue Canyon, down to 4,000 or so elevation, where we find our steepest grade in the Sierra—2.42%, i.e., the tracks descend 2.42 feet for every 100 feet forward. And 2,000 feet later I’m seeing palm trees, fruit-bearing mandarin orange trees, cacti…and chemtrails. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at this point. I’ve seen them in every time zone, every region of the U.S. East Coast, Midwest, the Rockies, the Sierra, the West Coast. There isn’t a cloud in the sky—nothing but pollution and dissipated chemtrails that end up looking like a light cloud cover. It’s not. We parallel a portion of America’s first interstate, Lincoln Highway. It was once known as the “Main Street of the United States.” Now, says our narrator, it’s a “simple country road.” Passing a housing development with the intersection “America and Independence.” Gag me. You too can demonstrate your American independence by buying a house just like everyone else’s. I step out at Sacramento to bid Amelia Frances goodbye. It is summer out here in January, California mild and sunny. IS THIS ENOUGH FOR A WHILE?October, Sweden; November, New York; December: Mexico, New York, Philly; January, cross-country train ride. I miss my cats, my friends and my city. Still, every train trip I take I identify some town along the way where I might possibly get off and start a new life. Towns that caught my eye this year were Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania; Harper’s Valley, West Virginia; Glenwood Springs, Colorado; Truckee, California and 2007’s winner, Provo, Utah. I can see myself spending time in all those towns, but the winner of the 2009 trip is, once again: PROVO, UTAHIt looks like Christmas village, a low-to-the-ground city surrounded by high mountains. Just feels comfortable to me. Tonight in the white sky conditions I can barely make out the dramatic snow-covered shapes behind the town, but I would love to walk up to them right now and hyperventilate over their intimidating scale. I could live in a modest, charming house. I could attend the Bridge Academy of Art. I could cross-country ski to the grocery store. I could pay in heat what I now pay in San Francisco rent. I could bus to SLC for the big city stuff. But of course, I will not. Because we do not patronize Utah. We boycott Utah, HQ of homophobic intolerance and anti-gay marriage funding. Yep, woke up in the Pacific Time Zone and will go to sleep in it. I’d rather have awakened in The Twilight Zone, though, because then my trip would never have ended. Like this column just did.
The author says that plume in the sky was not born of weather. She saw the plane put it there. ------------------------------------------------------------ I'm on your trail
Happy chemtrails to you! copyright Alexandra Jones 2009 |
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