Editor’s note: Julia Cox is a big fan of InMaricopa magazine and she writes to us from Senita. Like me, you might remember Julia from her three pet-related columns that we published last year.
To the editor,
If you grew up in the 1970s or ’80s, perhaps you were enchanted by that siren song of the rails, City of New Orleans, made famous by Arlo Guthrie. I was and vowed that I would someday ride the train that inspired the ballad.
Life is all about change, discovery and sometimes rediscovery. Relocating to Maricopa years later, my life embarked on a new path, which included an unexpected opportunity: Here was a train station, tucked into the Heritage District of our town. It was time to check this one off my bucket list.
I was already making plans to visit my grandkids in Michigan, and realized the starting point for that iconic train was Union Station in Chicago, not far from where they lived. I could fly there like I usually did but return home via Amtrak.
Soon, I was pouring over routes and maps. After years of contemplation and procrastination, it seemed almost too easy.
Sure enough, a closer look at Amtrak schedules revealed the city of New Orleans did most of its southbound traveling at night, which meant the hobo’s lullaby would be little more than a whisper in the dark. Unsure how to proceed, I looked further and made another discovery. The original city of New Orleans passenger train, operated by Illinois Central Railroad, no longer existed. The one running now was not the same train Arlo sang about.
Disappointed but determined, I wondered: Could I keep the spirit of the song alive if I traveled on another passenger train? I thought maybe I could. After some adjustments to my original plan, in two months, my rail adventure encompassing 1,740 miles, 65 hours and near fifty stops was about to begin.
Upon arrival to the Amtrak station in Dearborn, Mich., I’d take the Wolverine to Chicago but not board the train they call the City of New Orleans. Instead, the Texas Eagle would be “home” for the next two days.
In a sleeping compartment (“roomette” in Amtrak lingo), I would immerse myself in my surroundings, find harmony in the rhythm of the road and watch my cell phone gather dust from disuse. It seemed like a very civilized way to travel, and as my journey unfolded, so did the reality of traveling by train.
Standing at a ticket window in the Dearborn station, the agent said to expect an hour delay; an abandoned car had been reported up the line in Pontiac. I wasn’t in a hurry, so I took my time exploring the spacious waiting area featuring a Narcan vending machine and a shiny steam locomotive.
Not one — but two hours late, the Wolverine roared into the station and day one of my Amtrak adventure officially began.
The first leg of my trip would be in a window seat in coach. A stop in Ann Arbor took on student travelers, heaving backpacks to the floor and adjusting earbuds as the Wolverine rolled past houses, farms and fields. Rustic buildings appeared like pictures on postcards, giving way to marshy lakes with bobbing waterfowl and trees crowned in leaves of amber and red: a welcome balm to my season-deprived senses.
I’m really doing it, I told myself, settling into my seat. I’m finally riding the rails.
A voice overhead broke through my reverie; an unspecified issue near Albion would add another delay and by the time we reached Chicago, I was running through Union Station to catch my next train.
A porter by the name of Joe directed me to my quarters. “Upstairs,” he repeated to my uncomprehending face. I found it, finally, by way of the tiniest of spiral staircases. No way could my suitcase go up with me, but somehow it found me later.
Fantasy met reality upon arrival to my accommodations: The roomette was smaller than my bedroom closet at home. Still, I was grateful for the private (though miniscule) bathroom where a shower and toilet occupied the same space.
Meals were included and soon I was hungrily consuming a microwaved cheeseburger and bag of Doritos. The porter showed me how to access my foldaway bed, and I slept surprisingly well with the wheels rumblin’ ‘neath the floor from Illinois to Texas.
Having left my curtains open, the flicker of sunlight on my eyelids awakened me to the sight of a red-brick train station in an unnamed town. A flock of migrating geese took to the sky as we slowed to a stop. Good morning, America, how are you?
And so, my second day began. The beauty of the moment helped buoy me for some unpleasant news: The toilets in my car were out of order. Reminding myself that the joy was in the journey, I got dressed and went looking for restrooms in the next car.
Back in my quarters, a quick stop in Marshall, Texas, was an eye-blink as the panorama of scenery continued to fill my window above the fold-down table where I spent my time.
Fortified by a breakfast of yogurt and a blueberry muffin, it was time to explore, and I set off for the famed dining car: the crown jewel of passenger trains.
If you’ve ever watched old movies where traveling by rail was a common yet elegant mode of transportation, perhaps there’s a reel of film playing in your head where attractive strangers drink champagne and dine on crêpes Suzette over crisp white tablecloths. If you wish to keep this image intact, you may stop reading now.
Swaying through the moving train, I located a café car but sadly, no dining car. Although I wasn’t hungry, I ordered a hotdog and chips for something to do. “Sit anywhere,” I was told, and did so. I was the only one there.
Back in my room, I passed the time with a magazine, then ordered dinner; the image of a chef fussing over a gas stove forever dashed, replaced with a uniformed 20-year-old, a microwave and a hotdog.
A new porter brought my meal, and I enjoyed the room service and complimentary can of beer; the fake meat kabobs and curried rice, not so much. Lingering over dessert (a fairly tasty brownie), glimpses of mountain trails and tall pines were a world away from my preconceived notions about the Lone Star State.
Day three found this traveler still en route through Texas with a crew change underway. Although technically the Texas Eagle, the route was now overseen by the Southwest Chief out of Los Angeles. Not sure what this meant for passengers like me; lunch was a crisp Caesar salad, a good sign.
Southern New Mexico revealed itself in a series of small towns characterized by pickup trucks; some moving, some not, many half-buried in graveyards of rusted automobiles. Broad desert basins and distant plateaus provided contrast to backyard views of small, stuccoed homes. Except for some boys bouncing a ball against a boarded up two-pump gas station, not a soul was in sight.
The bump and grind of wheels on tracks had become a sojourner’s serenade as we headed west. When a 15-minute fuel stop was announced, I had an idea: If I wanted to take a shower before the end of my trip, now would be the time. As it turned out, this was not one of my better ideas.
It took a few minutes to gather my things and decipher the showering instructions on the wall of the tiny stall. No sooner had I begun than the Superliner began to roll again. That was when the blue water sloshing around my ankles got my attention.
Alarmed, I opened the narrow aluminum door to exit the shower. Simultaneously, the train lurched, causing a tidal wave of chemical-laced water to breach the threshold, soaking the thin carpet and my strewn-about belongings on the other side.
I tossed down some hand towels, then hit the call button. Jason, a porter with the California crew, was apologetic as he readied another room for me.
At this point, I was beginning to question the wisdom in making this long-awaited journey and decided to take a walk. The landscape had turned flat and barren outside, and I felt pangs of homesickness as I passed through rocking cars with sleeping strangers sprawled across the seats.
Arriving at a glass-panel door that previously opened to the café car felt like some weird, disjointed dream. The café car was gone like it had never been there, replaced by empty railroad tracks. I reversed course and passed from one car to the next, opening door after door after door.
Finally, I entered a sunny lounge car with huge observation windows that had joined the conga line earlier in the day. Reaching the other side, I peered through another glass door in disbelief to see not one — but two dining cars with white-covered tables — on each, a red rose.
A fully staffed kitchen was bustling on the level below, preparing the next meal, which featured coconut-encrusted shrimp, green salad with baby brie, flat-iron steak or Atlantic salmon with white-wine sauce, and toffee mousse or blueberry cobbler cheesecake.
A conductor was announcing the next stop as I returned to my room. A fresh-air break for some, a cigarette stop for others and Juanita the Burrito Lady would be on the platform selling her famous burritos. Cash only, folks, and please don’t go far, this train’s got the disappearing railroad blues, as Woody’s son, Arlo, had sung.
A semi-truck stalled on the tracks ahead caused another delay and at long last, the Texas Eagle sped alongside Maricopa-Casa Grande Highway, thundering into the Maricopa depot an hour late. I stepped from the last car into the cool night air, glad to be home.
Would I do it again? You bet I would. Sure, it didn’t match up with my initial expectations, but seeing America from a passenger train is an experience like no other if you have the opportunity to do it. I’m going again this year, this time up the coast.
Follow your dreams, reader. It isn’t too late.
Sincerely,
Julia Cox
Author’s note: City of New Orleans was written by the late Steve Goodman and has also been covered by Willie Nelson, John Denver and Judy Collins to name a few.
