Travel: American West

There were some, those being identified goals, for the trip back, coinciding with the beauty of slow travel to a destination, this time with 120 volts of power in each seat. Without laptop death, I’m able to finish coding the manuscript and edit a thirty page distinction paper.

The other two goals on the list: rest, scenery.

A month has gone by, 22 seems alright so far, preference given to even numbers for some reason and waking up absolutely refreshed in Glacier National Park. The train is coming to a stop soon; I’m lost in the sunshine, a novelty - the familiar mountains of the Rockies in the distance and Montana that hasn’t changed in making people like myself happy. The plentiful blue sky, as well, azure, brown shrubs, the High Plains and I have found peace with my dear brother and the coulees.

Hundreds, maybe a thousand or so, take this route everyday, passing through Shelby, MT where the wheat crop is just beginning. What do other travelers of this trip take note of? Their companions? A relationship with God? This trip is seasonal, maybe once-every ten years, but the fourwheelers, brown rolling hills and valleys hiding some of the trailer homes will be there in the fall and the people will be awaiting the trains to clear the tracks to carry on with their lives.

It’s the American West in spring for me – a wonderful first – yet it looks about the same brown I saw passing through this summer.

Those who know, seasoned train travelers, they must be taking note of changes and different characters they’ve met this trip on the Empire Builder. For me, the sensation of trains when you come to a stop -- but cannot tell without looking down at the ground for verification -- if you’re still moving or not. The train has been the slow reentry back to the States, probably best, as was the primer to the cultural civility of Canadian VIA rail, priming me for Vancouver.

The first visible roosters are spotted amongst the land’s indentations, filled in with snow. Windblown into ditches, and into Malta, MT we come. On the north side it appears that it is just a big golf course we’ve been seeing- the sand dunes as pockets of snow – to my right, south, the magnificent edge of the Badlands.

Thoughts, not observations, are building today as I work on finishing my typing. The last note of the journey reminds me to watch the sunset on the prairie.

Travel : A crowded West, lonesome because ..

Your journey is never over until you return from it to share with society what you have learned. Then and only then can you begin your next journey in life as the process repeats itself, as you constantly “become.” – Robert Ballard



Insert 1991 Vanagon here.

We’re rerouted back north to Everett – 34 minutes the LED traffic sign says – I recall all at once that I hate the traffic out here something fierce. The gridlock breaks a little bit – can’t believe I’m back on yet another bus – I couldn’t escape that means of transit for long.

A man from Arkansas and I strike up a conversation and talk – something about this environment as travelers is keen for conversation but outside these windows, the environment of humanity is not for me, right now. I don’t know if it is because I am still balancing in some sort of emotional claw-back where slight harmonic disturbances seem to upset me, something gnaws away at me about this place – but not the person next to me.

A crowded West, lonesome - the way of properly "becoming" here, as Ballard wrote, for me is thwarted while walking around, its something about age here, I do not seem to know how old people are but they seem to know me and use it in a micro-capricious glance when on the street.

The judging 33 year old Subaru outback (2005 model year) wagon driving Washington plate new REI rainjacket insert hyphens between all words maybe yoga pants type that are probably nice people and probably make 68,000 per year so just barely enough for Seattle or so I’m told but look like they do and it is that something that I cannot yet seem to explain to anyone when I go about describing my love for Vancouver and Coastal BC but melancholy for Seattle.

The train begins rolling at 18:30 PST – we’re paralleling Highway 2 through the misty Cascades, with its rushing rivers as darkness comes in the mountains – so many green rushing bubbles.

I’ve secured a ride in the morning by phone; “I’m back in your country,” I tell T.B, and “second favorite state.”

He knows it – a place where trees grow tress out of them as defiance to the logging companies that harvested the Douglas fir many years prior.

Pillow distribution and the rivers, they aren’t high, riffle pools are formed and the rocks along banks are evident … we roll through Wenatchee before most fall asleep.

Travel: The Slow Reentry : Returning to the United States after three months in Canada.

(side notes: … smells and writes like a new journal… What is the purpose of travel writing?)

8 Empire Builder; 36 hrs 25 minutes – Seattle, WA to Minneapolis/St.Paul (ok, Highway 280) Minnesota … but first:

Amtrak Cascades – on the “other side” of the tracks that morning as I see the yellow and blue VIA sitting, hissing, fenced in awaiting its departure to places like Edmonton, Toronto, the Sioux Lookout … it is a hectic boarding this morning – everything goes fine, smooth – but there was a misplaced sense of urgency that was uncommon to what I’ve found in my time here.

As we roll out, things are different (i.e., a “few readjustment things”): the train announcer declaring we are going to Portland, OR - not to Whistler as part of our morning commute, thus far not as epic as the breathless VIA conductor at 1:15 in the morning in Ontario … Bellingham looms and hello Washington State, time to make slow haste home. It’s Legendary Larry (“cause I’ve still got a job”) with assistant conductor Jourdan Spreader today … technical assistance from Alabama John, and Dynasty Steve (#1 in seniority) in the bistro.

How do I feel?

I feel are the reverberations from the Train car in Seat 18 (aisle) in Car 7 as we go out along vine-clad Vancouver; visions of a television (a blinking train guiding geographically-challenged passengers to our next stop), non-vision for time immemorial of GMC Acadias with Vancouver 2010 stickers plastered on the sides … that’s ok though.

Feeling, internally, extremely confident with myself and the prospect of the journey if not anything else – to will myself to recall the power of conscious choice to stay atop the mountain – and set things in motion as I see fit.

Minimizing writing much (fear of journal corruption) as still in Vancouver but the first impressions much be recorded of my surroundings: upright leather seats (upright not opposed to reclined, just starkly upright) red curtains covering the windows and low knap carpet on the floors.

“Holy fucking shit – I’m back in America” I exclaim after Customs does its thing, to my seatmate – he’s only been in Canada for three days camping – and naturally cows, confederate flags, and agents are the first things to welcome me.

The Border Patrol and Customs Agents take a declaration slip, probably all lies anyways (part of the morning hastiness) … but “Welcome to Bellingham, folks,” the Legend says, and alerts all riders that he’ll be showing “Up in the Air” (starring George Clooney).

Wait, he didn’t say that a second time in François … and what’s with all this emphasis on rules, regulations, and reporting of suspicious packages, bags, people, ideas to the conductor?

And a sale of headphones ($4) to those desperately seeking to hear Clooney’s voice?

Yup, definitely back in the States.

A little bit of a mudslide occurs? Not a problem now as our southbound tracks are not impeded upon (but shall cause havoc returning on the Empire Builder). Trees are uprooted from the hillside, mixing them with the black/brown mud on the tracks.

I am awake in Seattle, the last one on the train; all in a fuss I get off and am forced to deal with baggage for nearly 45 minutes. Too heavy. Loose items. Blah, blah. My happiness of a return to the States cannot be undone so easily, but is improved with an Americano at the Zeitgeist Coffee Shop … AND quite happy that it only costs $1.86 (instead of $2.26) and stroll up Jackson Street, take care of business, withdraw, but add, the last few morsels of money I have from the first Wells Fargo in months, sitting with hobos, giving directions to busses (Federal Way) to women in respirator masks; apparently I look like a knowledgeable source for King County’s public transportation, using my EVS skills I don’t exactly tell her NO – using more of the “Yes, and” method to direct her to the information and times listed within the bus stop, saying “though I’ve been to Federal Way, I’ve never taken the bus…” and continued to write … not even wearing my blue volunteer jacket where being approached and asked for directions to the drug store was not uncommon in Whistler.

But I see a tricked out single-speed and lose focus so I feed some Doritos crumbs to the pigeons and continue waiting for my 4:40 departure, though staring at the giant clock tower of King Street Station makes it go no faster.