Looking out my Backdoor: My romance with trains

I’m angry. It’s selfish of me, but I worked myself up into a right little snit when I heard Amtrak is cutting service in Havre. Please, no, not an unmanned station.

Selfish, I admit. In my personal phone and address book, yes, I have one of those old-fashioned black books, under “A” for Amtrak is the number for ticketing at the Havre station. I can phone that number from anywhere, talk to a real person, one with a welcoming voice, make my travel arrangements and know that I’ll get where I’m going with no glitches.

About 15 years ago, when calling the 800 number for ticketing, I was told that there is no Empire Builder running from Seattle to Havre. Another time, at the ticketing counter in the King Street Station in Seattle, the agent told me that the Empire Builder doesn’t stop in Havre. Given that kind of don’t-care misinformation, today, I might learn there is no Havre. Try to get around those derailments, if you will.

My very first train ride was on the Empire Builder in the summer of ’59. Grandma took me and my sister to visit family in Indiana. What an eye-opening experience. I loved the train. In Chicago we caught a cab, another “first” for me, from Union Station to Dearborn Station where we boarded the Monon to Louisville, Kentucky.

The Empire Builder was a fine train, to my eyes, but the Monon was plush, with maroon velvet mohair-covered seats and lace antimacassars. I remember the Monon as being a little more old-fashioned, almost antique in comparison to the Empire Builder.

So Havre will be an “unmanned” station. I’ve had grim experiences with those, too. One year I took the train from Havre to Sandpoint, Idaho, another unmanned station. The train arrives around midnight.

The Sandpoint Station, an architecturally lovely building, sits in the middle of nowhere. None of the town is within walking distance in the dark. No taxi sits, motor running, driver eager for a fare. It was nearly sunrise before I was able to find a way to my destination and I don’t care for a repeat trip.

In China, a friend and I rode a train from Suzhou to Hangzhou to see the tea plantation museum and a silk farm. We were told that when the train stopped, for us to push and shove and get on quickly. The train waited for nobody. In reality, the passengers around us were friendly and helpful and assisted us to board.

In the back of the car was a square cast-iron stove with a huge kettle, simmering water for tea. A woman passed among us with teapot in one hand, about 10 teacups in the other. We bought tea for the equivalent of a couple pennies. The seats, however, were hard wooden benches, the floor un-carpeted metal, the open windows let ash from the engine enter the compartment. Fortunately, it was a short trip.

I don’t want to lose passenger rail travel. I’m not asking for the return of the cow catcher and the caboose (though that would be nice). I just want to be able to go from Seattle to Havre to Wolf Point and on to Chicago in comfort, with no fuss.

Come September I’ll be riding the train from Seattle to Havre, that is, if the train still runs, if the ticket master can find the route, if the train still stops in Havre.

I wrote this following tribute to our train about 20 years ago:

The Empire Builder

I grew up with that train

rumbling across the Valley,

parallel to the Milk River.

While out in the fields, I’d hear

a whistle, the Eastbound or the Westbound,

would wonder why when the train ran late,

worry when I heard news that the Empire Builder

had derailed in heavy snows in Glacier

or that a freight had jumped tracks

near Shelby and crews worked 'round the clock.

When Dad sold the farm and moved to town,

he built his house across the road from the tracks.

Freights roared through my bedroom

when I visited, though I slept, comforted.

Everything seemed good when the trains

ran on time (but I know an entire country

was hoodwinked by that sentiment). Now I ride

that train every year, through the mountains,

across the plains, to home. Pinching pennies

has always been my necessity but this year

I lived high on the hog. I rode the luxurious

sleeper in comfort, blanketed, fed and waited on,

my wishes granted before they’d formed.

I was Queen of the Road.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].