Looking out my Backdoor: On the train

I boarded the Empire Builder #7 in Wolf Point. I quickly kissed my daughter goodbye, the door clanged shut, I found my seat and the train rolled west.

I cried all the way to Glasgow; the sky, November Gray in June, mirrored my sorrow.

My daughter Dee Dee and I had managed to steal time from her busy schedule to talk, to laugh a lot and to argue the inconsequential. We had three weeks together, family times, good times. I wanted to go home and I wanted to stay.

Human nature, or my nature, being what it is, good times are never enough! I want more!

The lowering, layering, muzzy, clouds climbed stairsteps to the ground, brushed the hills, dipped into the barrow pits, ditches, creeks and the river, all overflowing. Tears and rain seemed the same, grieving the leaving.

Winds, undulating and ululating, danced across the prairie, choreographing trees and grasses, cattails and curly dock into a Montana ballet.

A red-winged blackbird perched on a diamond-willow fencepost.

Vehicles on the parallel highway created miniature storms in their wake, storms within the storm.

The train was full, no empty seats, no empty space. It seems we are led to believe nobody rides trains these days. Our cheerful car attendant is run ragged but never flags, never visibly grumbles.

The main difference I noticed, with so many vital stations now unmanned, is that every inch of space is crammed, stacked, stuffed and overflowing with baggage since bags cannot be checked in or picked up from the baggage car at an unmanned station.

Our train was a couple hours late. Attendants shoehorned passengers off and on, orderly but fast-as-possible. Passengers clutched parcels, suitcases, and containers of all varieties, pushed before and dragged behind. Made for interesting and observable facial expressions and language choices.

I love this train. Every mile of the route carries personal history for me. Even with heavy rainfall scooting across the window slicing my view, the land is beautiful.

Three black Angus hugged a fence corner near Nashua.

A doe hovered in a patch of wild rose between Hinsdale and Saco.

White pelicans sailed in and out of Bowdoin.

I cried all the way to Malta.

Clay hills between Dodson and Savoy hold tightly to ancient secrets.

I glimpsed my old house in Harlem, smiled out loud, and wished the now-owners contentment. I hope I left no ghosts.

Huge bales stood sentinel, round and replete, guarding hay fields.

Landmarks, fields and farms and gravel roads, elicit memories, ancient and more recent, people, events, past and present rumble through my head in a jumble.

The train slowed for five miles of bad tracks just before Loma. We were now running three hours late. I wondered what “bad tracks” meant.

I wanted to get off in Havre to stretch my legs but weather was nasty out there. I took in all of Havre I could see from my window.

(Remember when, if you had a camera, you took pictures of others, not of yourself?)

Leaving Havre, my spirits lifted as the sky began to lift. I made the transition from “going away” to “going toward” . I will visit my son Ben near Seattle a few days, help plan his trip to visit me in August.

We passed by a field of horned cattle and a donkey. For a moment I thought I was in Mexico.

——

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].