It takes twenty-eight hours to travel between Chicago and Austin aboard the Texas Eagle, and in that time, I fell in love. With train travel in the United States, that is. The gentle rocking, the horn steadily blaring through the night, the rushing countryside and quick peek at cities and towns, the extended leg room, the atmosphere conducive to writing, the delicious food and trading stories with passengers: these experiences are unlike any I’ve had on a plane, car or bus. Factor in the historical significance, and I have to wonder why I previously dismissed commuting long distance by rail in North America.
I didn’t think I was going to make it to SXSW last week — I was originally planning on road-tripping with my mate but he pulled out at the last minute — and the train became the solution to my logistical problem for a fourth the price of airfare. (Reason #1 to take the train to SXSW : the price!) I quickly became charmed by the idea of using a culturally significant technology hundreds of years old — older than the car or plane — to get to a festival devoted to celebrating new technology.
My Amtrak ticket was purchased on Wednesday night (by my mate), I boarded the Texas Eagle Thursday afternoon and arrived in Austin 6:30pm on Friday. Along the way, I watched the snowy landscape change to Southern brush, and rode through 25 cities and countless towns, urban areas that literally built themselves around the railroad tracks that pass through them.
Reason #2 to take the train to SXSW : the history!
A hundred years ago, the Texas Eagle was actually called the Sunshine Special until it was renamed in 1948 by the Missouri Pacific Railroad (MoPac), one of the first railroads west of the Mississippi. Spurred by the California gold rush, MoPac began officially in 1851 with a five mile track between St Louis and Cheltenham City, a project that took a year to complete. Expansions continued despite interruptions caused by the Civil War. By the late 1870’s MoPac was taken over by railroad developer Jay Gould, who in 1880 connected it to the Texas and Pacific Railway, allowing passengers to commute from St. Louis to Dallas (see this 1903 MoPac railway map). Around the same time, Gould acquired control of the rail lines operating from Chicago to St Louis, allowing passengers to commute from Chicago, Illinois all the way down to San Antonio, Texas all before the 1900’s.
The Missouri Pacific Railroad is no more, and there is nothing on the current Texas Eagle to indicate its rich history, except for its name and the rail road the train operates on. The tracks have long been replaced and so have the train cars. Even the 1950’s Dining cars, a missed opportunity given Mad Men’s popularity, if you ask me.
Speaking of eating on the train, I am not kidding about the food being delicious.
Reason #3 to take the train to SXSW: the food!
Amtrak actually employs chefs to make their food, and it shows. Here is their menu. If you travel in a roomette (small room with a bed), your meals are included. I was Coach, which means they were not.
On both evenings, I ordered the Amtrak Signature Steak (medium rare) and everything about it was juicy and fantastic. The mashed potatoes perfectly seasoned. The cheesecake was …. just all right, but still better than airplane food.
I also ordered a glass of red wine the first night, a half bottle of wine the second. Total price for this dinner meal is comparable to a fancy restaurant ($45) but for those looking for something cheaper, the snack bar offers microwave-able sandwiches and food items. I opted to get a full meal from the Dining car, because how often do you get a well-cooked meal on a train? (For breakfast on the return trip, I ordered the Classic Railroad French Toast, which again, did not disappoint.)
If you want the whole train shebang and have the means, you really need to have a meal in the Dining car. It is an experience: unless you are traveling in a group of four, the dining staff will seat you with strangers at a booth. If you haven’t already struck up a conversation with strangers sitting in the Lounge or Observation car (or near you in Coach), you most definitely will in the Dining car.
Reason #4 to take the train to SXSW: the people!
On the way back to Chicago, I was seated with an elderly couple clad in cowboy hats, the wife the chatty one, the husband the quiet nodding and smiling type. We were joined by a mid-30’s male who upon seating, the wife in a cowboy hat insisted he introduce himself as that was the way things were done around here. The wait staff nodded, because, yes that was indeed the way of the train. The Dining car is just as much for eating as it is for conversation. And some of those conversations may lead to genuine friendship. No promises, but it happened to me.
That first night on the Texas Eagle, I hung out with the three people the dining car attendees sat me with, including a man that filled a large Dasani water bottle with vodka. He shared this with me and another woman from our dining table, a woman named Angie I now text because we became actual friends after getting wasted together (I’d share the picture of her I took for my phone contact info here, but no, because privacy.) Angie endeared me to her immediately by also wearing sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt, and I joked it’s the best “leave me alone/don’t hit on me” outfit. The three of us spent hours talking in the Observation car — they teased me over taking too long to transcribe a 30-minute interview — and we shared stories about our jobs, families and various life experiences. By 2AM, we were joined by a woman who couldn’t sleep and a man with neck tattoos who had 5 children with 3 different women. He’s a busy man, in more ways than one.
My daytime Coach seat mate on the way to Austin I dubbed my “travel mom,” and she gifted me some ibuprofen for my Dasani hang-over. She complimented my cellphone photograph of the state capital building in Springfield (above), and vowed to take one with similar composition on her way back. She was very proud of her son, a master welder, who she was going to visit in Iowa.
En route to Chicago, I sat next to another senior citizen, a Native American named Thundering Waters traveling to meet his brother for their annual fishing trip. He had good taste in turquoise rings (of which he wore many) and told me of the dream that named him. I shared my similar dream achieved also through days of fasting and dehydration (but not intentional) from that time I was in India last year. Thundering Waters and I bonded over anger at Andrew Jackson still being on the $20 dollar bill, the middle finger that is Mount Rushmore and his discomfort of young predominantly white hipsters appropriating Native American imagery for their art, clothing and jewelry. I showed him pictures I took at SXSW of what I like to affectionately call “art for assholes” and he shared images of his website-less friend Richard Branson (not the British investor) whose two painting –one of a group of crows, the other of a medicine man — I’m still thinking about days later.
Thundering Waters also helped identify the name of the black and white birds of prey I kept seeing. They would fly in groups above the Texan landscape and could either be the the zone-tailed hawk, the turkey vulture, or the Mexican eagle known as the Caracara.
Which brings me to reason #5 to take the train to SXSW: the sightseeing!
True, the landscape from Chicago to Austin is flat and full of woodlands but staring out the window still yields exciting results. Or maybe I am easy to please. Besides the birds of prey in Texas, red-tailed hawks hung out on stumps and trees by the tracks. I spotted a large group of deer in the woods. Once you got further south, especially Texas, there are herds of cattle, sheep, goats and horses chilling out on ranches. As for architecture, the Texas Eagle route is a crash course in middle and southern American cities (including St Louis and Dallas) and towns. Smaller skyscrapers the shape of diamonds, St Louis’ Gateway Arch, bridges that looked like modern art, young males skate-boarding in a makeshift skate park, graffiti: there was always something to see. Some of the smaller towns we passed in Texas were caricatures of themselves, resembling movie sets on a Western feature enough that I questioned if this was indeed real life and not a dream. The poverty that stretched along the rail road was also a bit shocking, especially the condition of houses seen in state capital cities like Springfield, Illinois or in Texas near new condo developments. (Here’s a PDF with quick factoids of the towns and cities on the route, one I wish I read before embarking)
Reason #6 to take the train: the time for contemplation, reading, writing
Amtrak announced their writer’s residency program this month after a writer tweeted about it, prompting CNN to ask “who knew so many writers did their best work on trains?” I didn’t know this, but after riding on one for more than a day, I totally buy it. I managed some writing for my own book (more than five years in the making now, oh god why is not finished yet) and got some work done besides transcribing an old interview. Alexander Chee told CNN about his own residency and experiences, “there’s a mix of anonymity and rootlessness to being on a train that makes you feel you could be anyone, anywhere — which turns out to be excellent ground for writing fiction.” I wouldn’t describe it in this way as I haven’t written fiction in a while, I’d say in my case it’s more the partial isolation of the train is friendly enough to help you focus and decompress, but not enough to make you bored, tired or lonely. The Texas Eagle doesn’t have wifi access, so perhaps that also helps to disconnect.
The major con!
Sleeping in Coach is not that comfortable, even if you’re drunk. Sure, it’s more comfortable than sleeping on a plane or on a bus — the seats lean back and a bottom portion of the seat comes up underneath your legs to make a semi-bed — but you’re still not going to get a good night’s rest. Even if you end up getting two seats for yourself, like every overnight rider (myself included) did, it’s still not the same as sleeping in an actual bed. Next time I do a day-plus train trip , I’ll be sure to bring a pillow. Or if I go with my mate, we’d get a sleeper (because sex on a train). Folks in First Class (aka sleepers, roomettes) also get access to a shower.
If I go back to SXSW next year, I will definitely travel by train. Maybe I can convince fellow Chicagoans heading to Austin to ride with me, and it could turn into some community-oriented fun time like the recent Indie Train Jam. We could talk about everything we’ve learned and heard at the conference and festival, the people we met and the things we saw, or catch up on our writing.
Consider this post a toast to two awesome train rides between Chicago and Austin and to future rides with friends both new and old.
Ask me to describe Paris to you, and I’ll balk and try to change the subject.
Despite spending a week there, all I can muster about the city when pressed is … well, there is a river in the middle of it, and the surrounding banks and hills are dotted with pretty buildings. Information you can gather from Wikipedia, or your imagination. Oh, and there’s art in museums and good food in restaurants but you should probably check out Trip Advisor because I don’t remember the name of that fancier hostel I stayed in or the bar I drank at every night. No recommendations from me, buddy, no specifics to give, now move along now please before this gets more awkward.
I try not to bring up I’ve been to Paris in conversation, because my inability to talk intelligently about the city is embarrassing. I want to remedy this situation by going back there and actually paying attention to Paris, the city proper, the second time. The funny thing is, months before my trip I planned to take detailed notes and photos for my mother. The Hungarian nationalists inside us wanted to compare. Budapest, my birth city, is considered the Paris of Eastern Europe and we were curious about its French counterpart. Could Paris in fact be the lesser, the imitator, the Budapest of Western Europe? I accepted my mission to do research for the Motherland wholeheartedly.
My time in Paris was, more or less, hopelessly distracted. Sure, the wine was great, attractions great, cafes and hostels great, all great great great blur. My original goal of studying the city (even its public transportation system!) was scrapped almost immediately and instead, I spent the entire time observing one thing and one thing only: a human male called “M.” Out of the corner of my eye.
I was constantly alert to his presence, my brain obsessed with tracking him. I watched where he walked, analyzed what he wore and who he was talked to and what he took a photo of. When he laughed, all my senses left my body and hovered steps near him like a ghost. Looking at him with both eyes was out of the question.
I had gone to Paris with M and his best friend who very importantly was my just-days-ex, as well as all our friends in college who were very intent (this they made clear) on the ex and I making up on this overseas break. M and I were madly, secretly in love, (I had been for a year), but we feigned disinterest in public; the trip would be more pleasant this way, we agreed while we packed the night before. On top of covertly spying on M, I had to diplomatically refuse and sidestep reconciliation schemes hatched by ex-and-friends. It was an excruciating week. Read the rest of this entry »
Sigh. I guess we ladies ruined everything … 😦
Also! Everyone is obsessed with cats because of this.
This year Cleveland takes the top spot in our third annual ranking of America’s Most Miserable Cities. Cleveland secured the position thanks to its high unemployment, high taxes, lousy weather, corruption by public officials and crummy sports teams (Cavaliers of the NBA excepted).
Damn you Forbes. How could you do this to us? Chicago needs to be number 1 in something…. We have the highest sales tax, and the highest level of corruption, among other things!? Chicago deserves to be the worst city in the United States…
While I realize some items on this list may seem normal to those who live in the western states of America, as a city slicker the following things puzzled and/or astounded me:
Everything is more expensive than I would have imagined. The prices for gas, food, clothing, toiletries, cooking supplies, etc all factor in the cost of transport. A sign in the local general store here in June Lake mentions they charge five dollars to hear how much cheaper other places are.
Gas stations are a hub of life, with cafes, restaurants, and gift shops springing up around (or often inside of) them. The Mobile Station restaurant, located by the entrance to Tioga Pass (highway 120), is by far one of the best places to eat out around here. This Mobile Station showcases bands in the summer and has a complicated trapeze contraption.
One of the only radio stations that you can pick up clearly is KMMT Radio, and they have multiple broadcast stations to transmit around the mountains. This radio station also airs lost dog information. Some of the animals have been missing for over a week and I have to wonder if it’s politeness that keeps the announcer from joking that the pet must be cougar food by now.
Despite the amount of snow on the ground, walking around in a t-shirt and jeans is quite comfortable. The sun at this high altitude is powerful, but somehow not powerful enough to melt all the snow.
There are an abundance of ghost towns, or abandoned and decaying buildings. A large one of interest nearby is the Bodie State Historic Park. 10,000 people lived in this town at one point, with the population dwindling dramatically in the beginning of the 1900’s.
Along the highway you will occasionally see a sign for a more scenic route. A more scenic route? What would be more scenic than mountain ranges and lakes?
Another highway oddity: little wooden framed signs that have a picture of a house burning, with a caption that reads “Could your house be saved?”
I realized I need to stop personifying Nature; the Chicago Police Department can be benevolent or malevolent, but Nature will always do her own thing.
We started the day off by driving to Mammoth Lakes in search of the Devils Postpile, but the roads leading to the monument were not plowed. The gate was still open, but I was not up for a day-long hike in the snow. All around town, Mammoth Lakes businesses were preparing for the opening of the ski lifts. This is the earliest the ski resort has opened since 1994. At least all that snow was working for someone.
Having abandoned that particular detour, we decided to visit Wild Willie’s hot springs. After a few wrong turns, we happened upon Hot Creek, a “river” that runs through Long Valley Caldera. Only in this part of the country can you take a wrong turn en route to a geological wonder only to run into another geological wonder. This 10 x 18 mile depression was formed over 760,000 years ago during a volcanic explosion that knocked 50 cubic miles of molten rock from beneath the earth’s surface into the air. Today, the caldera is far from stable, with geysers erupting, the earth moving, and the water temperature reaching a scalding temperature unpredictably. When you’re hanging out in the Travertine Springs, it’s easy to think that these “hot tubs” were made just for humans, but at Hot Creek it’s these same inviting small pools that will kill you. Warning signs are posted every where you look, and include pleasant tidbits like: “fourteen people have died or been seriously burned while countless others have been injured since 1968 and arsenic levels in the water may rise to dangerous levels suddenly”. Basically, no swimming. We did see some steaming rocks though, and I got a short driving lesson on the way back to the highway (don’t ask me to go over 25 miles per hour. I can’t do it!).
Once we found it, Wild Willy’s Hot Springs was thankfully tamer than Hot Creek, and was located off a long, rough dirt road. Wild Willie’s has just one pool, and the bottom of the pool is harder and rockier than the clay bottom of Travertine Springs. Wild Willy’s was also warmer, at least on the day we went. The water that flows into Wild Willy’s
travels down a small waterfall and the sound is louder and more soothing than Travertine’s. The spring is located in the middle of a meadow so cow dung was everywhere, but the hot spring has a pathway that resembles a narrow boardwalk. The pool itself has hard edges with indents for bottles and cans. All these little details convinced me again of nature’s benevolence, and the dangers at Long Valley Caldera were forgotten. The pool I was bathing in was made just for that very purpose, right? It seemed so until I spotted what I like to call a proverbial hot spring shark: clumps of mucous-y algae, moss and other green stuff floating in Willie’s water. It looked like God hocked a loogey directly into the hot spring. Any sort of movement knocks the goo off the wall, and after some getting in and out to take photos, pee, and get some drinks, there were giant slimy green and brown “jellyfish” just waiting to latch onto our arms and legs when we came to a rest. When one such “jellyfish” grew larger than a pizza, it was time for me to leave.
On the drive back to June Lake, we checked up on that deer carcass, and it’s amazing what California ravens can do in 24 hours. The entire torso was picked clean, while the head and legs were still intact (I was going to post a photo but it’s pretty gnarly). The deer still had her eyes in her sockets. The smell wasn’t too bad unless you stood 10 feet downwind. I was clever enough to pick some sage and hold it to my nose. Sage grows abundantly out here and makes about a quarter of the scrub in the lowlands, and by lowlands I mean about 7,000 feet. The sage worked so well in masking the scent that I had to wonder… no, it was just a happy coincidence.
Despite forecasts saying the snow storm would last for two days, the skies were sunny today and the snow that kept us indoors melted as quickly as my disappointment (and I thought Chicago’s weather was unpredictable!). Despite not being able to access the park, my boyfriend and I explored the eastern outskirts of Yosemite. Our destination? The Travertine Hot Springs, just outside the town of Bridgeport, California.
We started the day by buying an ace bandage for my knee, which came in handy when we had to ditch our rental car at the shooting range halfway up the hot springs. If we had a truck we could have made it past the ditches and large potholes in the road, but our little Kia couldn’t handle such terrain. One of the most genuine gentlemen I’ve ever met (a BLM ranger) suggested we take a short cut through the shooting range. The gun-toting modern cowboys were nice enough to pause in their target practice and watch me gimp through their field of view. I’ve never been to a shooting range, but from what I’ve seen in movies it’s not usually a free-for-all with people bringing their own targets and leaving their bullet casings on the ground. Then again, when are movies accurate? The juxtaposition between the well kept hot springs and no littering signs versus the piles and piles of used ammunition nearby was not entirely lost on me.
Upon reaching the Travertine Hot Springs, my boyfriend and I promptly got lost looking for the group of four pools. There is one small pool right at the entrance, but we were looking for the secluded set. By climbing up some rocks, we were able to spot our springs and catch some folks in the state of re-dress. Not wanting to be mistaken as pervs, we made our presence known and the folks were nice enough to redirect us to the proper path.
Clothing is optional in the springs, but we kept our underwear on. The bottom of the pools are muddy in a clay sort of way, and smell heavily of sulfur. Each pool has its own water supply and distinct temperature, and investigating the source of the water atop the rock structures is fairly easy, even for wobbly me. We hung out in the springs for a good half hour or so, undisturbed, alternating pools when we got too hot. Taking in the view took a while, as did the fact that this was all free, all public land. I own these springs, President Obama owns these spring, as does Rush Limbaugh and Ann Coulter and every American citizen! Even the echo of gun shots nearby couldn’t bring me out of my relaxed state. Everything was peaceful and right with the world. The temperature of the hottest pool is said to be above boiling, so we did get a bit light-headed, prompting us to leave (or maybe it was the sulfur?). Nevertheless, the warmth stayed with us and we went sans hoodie and jacket on the hike down to the car. The hotel concierge explained that the hot springs are popular at night; she herself has only gone after dark, and sees shooting stars every time.
Ironically, I saw more animals yesterday than I did at Yosemite. It was almost as if nature had heard my digital complaints. Off the side of the highway, we witnessed a freshly dead deer being shredded by six or so ravens. These ravens were surprisingly aggressive. When my boyfriend tried to take a picture of the carnage, they rose up around him in a circle, squawking manically and a scene from Hitchcock’s Birds flashed through my head. While walking to the hot springs, we startled a large jack rabbit and shortly thereafter discovered a newly car-crushed black and white snake. No bear or mountain lion, but I’ll take what I can get.
Thanks for honoring my wishes, Mother Nature.
As a girl who grew up in New York City, visiting Yosemite for vacation is a surreal but pleasant dream: to traverse a land where the wilderness rules is the exact opposite of the environment I grew up in. The city I currently reside in doesn’t think twice about manhandling nature, even going so far as to reverse the flow of a river and dying it green on St. Patrick’s Day. Chicago doesn’t shut down because of a couple feet of the white stuff. When it snows out here, 9,000 feet above sea level, chains must be put on tires and people lock themselves inside. Driving up the winding and narrow mountain passes lacking guard rails is scary enough, so when it snows Yosemite closes its roads. Humans are so vulnerable out here, and lack any choice but to surrender to the whims of the wilderness. It’s not just the weather – the animals give humans a run for their money as well.
Before each nature walk, a sign warns you that you are entering the wild and that this is bear country. The sign goes on to explain that if you leave food in your car, a bear will damage your car to get to your food. Bear-proof storage containers are strategically placed next to the warning signs and their use is mandated.
Needless to say, I was stoked. To see a bear in its natural habitat? To catch a glimpse of a bobcat, or mountain lion? I was so ecstatic about meeting some wildlife that odd shapes in the woods, or any flickering movement had me freeze and stare. It was all wishful thinking. I saw a plethora of chipmunks (who seemed to have a little game of running out in front of moving cars) and a couple western gray squirrels. The western gray squirrel has larger ears and a less bushy tail than the squirrels I am used to, and while it was nice to see, the squirrel’s presence meant no bobcat or mountain lion prowled nearby. I realized that the animals I was looking for could smell me a long way off, and since this was the kingdom of the wild, these animals have figured out where the trails are and probably stay well away from them (going off the trail path is prohibited, as the park stresses you leave as little impact on nature as possible). Hence my surprise at finding some mountain lion scat in the middle of my hike up to Dog Lake. There I was, visibly excited (once again) over some cat poop. If only I had climbed faster, I could have seen a large defecating feline!
On my first day in Yosemite, my boyfriend and I hiked the lower Cathedral Lakes trail, and it was by far one of the most beautiful natural formations I have ever seen. The sky was a bright blue, without a cloud in sight. On the way down, we passed quite a few people carrying ski pole-looking things, and I scoffed at how ridiculous they looked. I would eat my words the next day when I realized what they were for. My right knee was done for when we got back to the hotel, the bone itself hurting whenever I bent it. Research on the internet revealed the cause of my pain: the constant impact of climbing downhill. How could I have avoided this? By having a damn hiking pole.
The second day saw us hiking small amounts due to my injured knee. We had heard about the approaching storm and I wanted to get the most out of our visit. No pain, no gain, right? Our first stop: Soda Springs. On the way there, a group of ten or more Clark’s Nutcrackers went wild for a good 5 minutes, calling back and forth over a river in the Tuolumne
Meadows. The Soda Springs themselves were copper, yellow and red. I’d never have thought of it myself, but a passing hiker let us know that drinking from the spring is a popular, if potentially dangerous right of passage. Good enough for me! The ice-cold water bubbling up from the bowl sized craters tasted a little like flat seltzer. Afterward, we climbed Pothole Dome to get a panoramic view of the meadow and mountains. We ended the day hiking up to Dog Lake, where I saw the mountain lion scat.
While it might seem disappointing to have a seven day vacation cut down by five days due to snow, the amount I did see in those 2 days was satisfying enough to hold me over until next time. I can’t complain, and the raging storm outside is almost fortuitous since I cannot walk without limping. Cabin fever is sure to set in, as the snow storm is steadily knocking out TV channels and cell phone reception is splotchy at best. In fact, this post would have done earlier if it weren’t for a power outage. Now the power’s back on and the internet is up. Your move, nature.
Photos and some audio to come…