Archive – Day 2
Sunday, April 11, 1993
Looking Back...
On Day 2 we finally got our regular seats in a coach car. I didn't get much sleep, though, and stayed up into the early hours writing. As time went on my writing got more deep and introspective. At least, if by “deep” you mean crappy, and if by “introspective” you mean unintelligible.
This day also showed the first signs of me stalking girls on the train. I mean, what else is a sixteen year old boy going to do with his free time? My writing about it, though, was a little creepy. It's embarrassing just to read it, let alone post it.
Half past two in the morning, and I am without sleep. That is to say, I have no desire for sleep within me. I value my consciousness, and my physical need for sleep is minimal, so I stay awake.
I was earlier watching the moonlight dance upon an expanse of water in the Bonneville Flats. Again my contentment arose as I was captured in the ballet and thrust to a place of no worries. There was no world other than the light coming from that lake.
Again I am mesmerized, letting five minutes pass as nothing while the light continues its ritual.
I have been watching cars pass by on the highway and I wonder what their business is in the desolation of Bonneville at this hour. Perhaps travel, most likely commerce for the big trucks. But what of the others? I know we are here now due to timetables and schedules, but why would the driver of an automobile choose this time for travel? And the cars are quite abundant. It is not one errant driver, but rather a whole fleet, driven by personal motives to this spot, unaware of the contemplation made in a passing train.
Our train is slowing and peace has fallen. The usual squeaks, rattles, and shudders have been done away with in favor of a gentle rocking and the air conditioner’s hum. We are not stopped but slowed, enjoying the route, at a leisurely pace without the jolts and jitters. And now we have stopped.
There is a small puddle off the one side, and it barely catches the moon’s reflection. On the other side a fellow train shot by, the cause for our halt, but the puddle remained oblivious. And we have started again, returning to the jolts and jitters, and still the puddle remains oblivious. The puddle will pass one day, either evaporated or assimilated into a larger puddle, but it will always remain in my memory exactly as it appeared tonight. Odd how the mind is the greatest tool of preservation.
These factories that we pass, invisible save for their lights, outlined in orange, stand as things of mystery along our path, giving us no hint at their purpose but remaining silent while we pass by. By whom were they built? For what? Why here? All questions with answers, very definite ones, that will never reach my ears.
Another factory we just passed, this one more revealingly lit. The actual building could be seen, not merely the outline. Why the difference? I know not.
Salt Lake City is now in view. The place where our car will be removed and taken from us. This car has served me well these past hours; I will be saddened to leave it behind while we voyage on towards the Rockies.
The lake itself can hardly be seen in the darkness. But its effects were just seen in the Morton Salt factory we passed (no outline lights).
I believe we have slowed again. Peace has once again arisen. Cars on the highway are now surpassing us in speed. We are proceeding at leisure for no discernable reason.
Another train is passing, but it cannot be the cause of our pace because we are still moving. And now we stop, after the other train is past. And just as silently we start up again. Oddities all.
The moon is behind clouds as the industrial lights of Salt Lake City approach. Its emergence shows no new scene, just the arrival of the place where we will be riven of our “home” and senselessly transplanted. It is a tragedy, yet cannot be argued or avoided. And so it will come.
I suppose now that these were not the lights I saw beckoning, for we have passed them by without a moment’s thought. And now approaching is another hidden factory, quite expansive this one is.
The lights in the car are back on, defacing the night and also, I believe, signaling the arrival of Salt Lake City, although it is not yet in sight.
We have just been informed of our imminent departure from this car. I shall miss it.
The pre-dawn hours coming out of Salt Lake City. We did lose our car, but I have found a suitable replacement in the new batch we picked up. The sky is getting brighter over Mount Timpanogos as we rumble southward; soon the sun will come up and it will be Easter Sunday. Before the day is through the Rockies will have come and gone and we will be in the Great Plains.
I feel surprisingly good in spite of the fact that I have only had about two hours sleep. My weariness is next to none and my head is as clear as ever. It seems that thinking, and writing, have rejuvenated me already and that the vacation is even now working its magic.
The car I am in is about five behind the rest of the family, and they were all asleep when I left. I can only hope they do not panic when they discover my absence.
Our last car had a slight squeal on the roof, but this one has an open door and is accompanied by all the sounds of the car connectors. In addition, neither of the lights at my seat will shut off. But, it’s not crowded.
We are passing more factories now, and it’s that perfect time of the day where the outline lights are still on but it is bright enough out to actually see the structure, the two conflict, each taking the magic from the other.
Sunrise, 7:40am. It’s hard to believe that this day has only just now begun.
My need for sleep is catching up with me now. It is a quarter to ten, but it feels like late afternoon.
One Negro employee is trying to teach another how to speak jive. It is quite a unique experience.
Back to my weariness. It is expressing itself in several five to ten minute naps, which can become quite annoying after a time. Other than my lack of sleep, a probable cause for them may be the landscape. We are traveling through a desert now, and the vegetation is the same color as the sand. My dislike for deserts is returning.
We are slowing again. I don’t really want to stop in the desert, I want to go as fast as possible and get it done with. But still we slow.
We are stopped. Stopped to let the freight train of the ages pass us. Stopped in the center of desolation with a few mesas being the only things of interest. We have started moving again but the horizon holds no sign of relief from the desolation. Ah, do the Rockies call to me, and oh how I grieve that they cannot be answered sooner. Well, no matter. Soon they will come.
A town! A clamor of life in the wilderness. It soothes my eyes to see trees finally.
There was a fairly certain dirt road cut across the land a while back. It seemed well traveled, leading me to think about who could live out here that would have need of such a road, even once a week. Who is it? Why is the road so well worn? I saw a road like that along the Truckee River, but it led to a deserted mobile home. This road led nowhere. This trip is full of mysteries.
I just finished a hearty meal. I say hearty because it gave me heartburn. I’ve had chest pains for the last twenty minutes thanks to the train’s pepperoni pizza.
I believe we are now in the foothills of the Rockies. I say this because there are green trees everywhere. And the sky is overcast. The Colorado River, very narrow at this point, has a muddy green twinge to it and all the dirt is red. Quite colorful, actually.
The scenery is not yet quite as beautiful or exquisite as the Canadian Rockies, but I have high hopes.
It is now a quarter to two in Glenwood Springs and ahead of us lies a canyon into which the river, the highway, and our path vanish. Out of the canyon is coming a group of kayakers, and into it goes our train.
The canyon lasted for about fifteen minutes, fairly scenic, but for the last hour we have been traveling through the Pinenuts. It is quite disappointing, actually. These hills are the spitting image of the Pinenut Mountains, from the sagebrush to the pinion pine.
Also disturbing is that my object of intrigue is getting off at Denver. She is seated one car back, third seat from the rear on the right hand side of the train. She has straight black hair and a face that would win no contests, but still there is the intrigue. I know not from where it stems, but she is the girl whom my attentions are most focused on. And soon she will be gone. Remember her so she is not lost forever!
But, later on, she was a source of contentment for me. Traveling through a particularly steep and deep and picturesque canyon. I took a seat in the observation car with a full view of both the scenery and her. And I was content. Nothing existed except that moment. And I had time to study her specifics.
She is young, fourteen or fifteen. I said she would win no contests, but that does not mean I find no beauty in her. I find a paradoxical beauty; beauty without beauty. How is that possible? I don’t know. But it exists, so I will not dispute it. But in only four hours, she will live only in my memory. And I do not know her name nor her voice. And so by all accounts, it shall stay.
Now the surroundings are no longer even the Pinenuts. The hillsides here are covered with grasses, mostly dead. Only the tops of the peaks have trees. It looks rather like Gold Rush Country with snow. Where are the Rockies?
