august 16, 2008

 

when finally the road turns south, my first view of st. helens is in an instant, emotional.  in my past life, i had toiled in her shadow, played on her slopes, taken in the panorama from her summit.  as a young, irascible forest service employee, we occasionally made the drive to spirit lake to visit with harry truman and his menagerie of cats.  harry was cantankerous, yet endearing. 

 

on may 18, 1980, the day st. helens released her frustration, i was a hundred 150 miles north and still, the windows shook and the ground rumbled.  the sky became choked with ash and once word spread of the eruption, all i could do was think about harry. 

 

despite several journeys to the northwest, i haven’t seen the mountain in her new configuration.  where once she was perfect, she now is jagged and exposed. 

 

my stories of youth and vigor are inconsequential to nikky.  he sees the mountain and can only say “wow.” 

 

we snake around the east flank of the mountain, along less-traveled roads.  where logging has yet to insult the landscape, the trees are enormous and extend to the sky.  yet for every vista, the concept of industrial forest is refreshed and so, i always search for the mountain.  despite the stark change, she remains calming. 

 

driving by the old ranger station is yet another emotional moment.  the station is now abandoned, but the buildings remain.  nikky and i walk around the grounds, despite warning signs and threats of unanaesthetized neutering by some heavy-handed federal group.  the warehouse and bunkhouses and mess hall have been gutted on the inside but nothing else has changed.  everywhere we go, my son and i follow the foot prints of an earlier journey.  

 

to all the people who shared this portion of my life, i haven’t forgotten you. 

 

okay. truth be told, some of those guys were assholes. 

 

along the swift reservoir, the hills rising from the chalk-colored water are now lush with the coniferous growth of 30 years.  when i arrived on april 18, 1975, these same hills were being logged and by the end of that summer, nothing remained. 

 

time has healed most wounds. 

 

the traffic grows heavy as we near i-5.  i drive in an understated midwest fashion, drawing the wrath of most drivers.  in minnesota, we could drive in the right lane, but the view isn’t as good there. 

 

i call wilson to alert him that the “golden child and i are portland bound and therefore, it is time to prepare the pitcher of mai-tais, you bastard.” 

 

this has been the best vacation of my life and so far, I have yet to hear one complaint from the upper berth, or the back seat.

august 16, 2008

 

it takes three tries but finally, we end up on i-5, heading in the direction we are supposed to be going.  the heat has trapped a layer of haze between the puget sound and the cascades and however panoramic the vista can be, it isn’t that way today. 

 

we are heading towards portland, but are doing so in a way that allows us to skirt around mt. rainier and mt. st. helens.  it was during a former life that i spent two summers as a gainful employee of the usfs on the st helens ranger district.  i knew the mountain well. 

 

ironically, my last trip to washington on amtrak occurred on may 17, 1980 or the day before the mountain blew.  at the time, i considered it the appropriate “welcome home billy” from the mountain.

 

so long harry truman.

 

our journey in the rental car has been derived by mapquest and therefore, is the shortest distance between two points.  shortest has absolutely no correlation with quickest. 

 

once off the freeway, we enter a five mile stretch of strip malls and stop lights.  there is no synchronicity to the lights and at every intersection, we idle.  in front of each store people stand with placards, enticing those in the traffic lock to shop or browse or get their oil changed or your hair cut or a pedicure or get your pet neutered or vote for 4 more years of the last 8 years.  political signs are everywhere. 

 

based on nikky’s pre-trip identification of candy as an important food group, our lunch consists of hot tamales and sour gummy worms.  with each mile driven, the mysteries beyond the haze are revealed.  industrial forests are everywhere.  hillsides of pumice and granite lay raw and exposed like pink skin under a tropical sun.  where pumice is the substrate, long gouges of erosion preclude anything from growing.  ever.

 

mt. rainier is a compelling presence, looming above the landscape whenever the road veers towards the east.  nikky has never seen a mountain as dominating as rainier.  

 

“is that bigger than mount katahdin? he asks.

 

“almost 3 times bigger buddy.”

 

the temperature toys with 100 degrees and where the rivers have been dammed, the reservoirs are topped with boats and wave runners and kayaks and the waters are frothy from agitation. 

 

i’ve seen this before.  it’s called brainerd. 

an important prerequisite of having a magellan, directional gps unit is being able to understand the language a magellan, directional gps unit speaks.  in the case of the unit on the dash of the emerald city taxi service in front of the king street amtrak station, the language was clearly english. 

 

“it’s right around here. hertz. downtown,” i told the driver.

 

“hertz. ok.” he responded.

 

“he pushed a button and within 6 directional commands, the skyline of seattle was behind us.

 

“wait a second. we’re going the wrong way.”

 

“hertz? we go.”

 

only after the driver saw his two passengers sweating in the back seat, did he opt for the air conditioning.  in my former life in seattle, i never saw it this smoggy, never this hot.  unfortunately, the sweat had nothing to do with ambient conditions.  instead, it was the angst-borne perspiration of our unnecessary journey.

 

with the angst came the meter watch, and when it became apparent we were on our way to sea-tac airport, i became a bit more forceful.

 

“you’re going the wrong way.” 

 

“no. hertz. sea-tac.”

 

“no. hertz. downtown.”

 

“hertz downtown?”

 

“hertz downtown.”

 

the taxi abruptly pulled off to the side of the road and rather than quibble and curse and consternate...all the while creating a bad example of adult behavior for saw-whet boy...i said “turn off the meter, take us back to the hertz downtown office, and you tell me what i should pay.”

 

“ok man. sorry.”

 

i slumped in the back seat while maintaining the resolve that this was but a glitch, a speed bump, in our travel adventure.  in an hour, i thought to myself (while inhaling and exhaling deeply), we would be away from the tangle and headed towards familiar landscapes and where topography allows, the crystalline waters of the cascade range. 

 

when we finally arrived at the hertz downtown office.  we got out, gathered our luggage, and i asked “how much?”

 

i dickered, didn’t get angry, paid, and was rid of the emerald city taxi service. 

 

“how come you paid him dad?”

 

“because sometimes buddy, the only language anyone understands is money.”

august 16, 2008

 

when i stir, the room is painted with a golden hue.  i look out the window and surrounding us are the dry, rugged eastern foothills of the cascade mountains.  the streets of wenatchee are deserted, as though we have been cast onto a hobbyist’s train set.  during the night, the train was divided in spokane with part of it moving towards portland and the better half towards seattle.  i slept through it all. 

 

nikky rises and joins me at the window.  i tell him of the orchards and of the columbia river and of the dams and only briefly, of the time in my life when i lived on the dried slopes of the cascades an hour and a half to the north. 

 

the call for breakfast comes early and we find ourselves across from stephanie and later, her brother greg.  she works for the british consulate in belgium and he as an environmental consultant in north carolina.  there is no mistaking they are brother and sister.  they listen as we tell the story of our journey and upon finding that nikky understands, but does not speak russian, encourage him to change his approach.  in a surprising response, nikky tells stephanie he will start speaking the language once back at his gulag in maine. 

 

they are pleasant tablemates and as we part, i feel the tuggings of sadness, for this will be our last meal on the empire builder. 

 

as with every mountain pass on our journey, the landscape turns from xeric and desolate on the eastern slopes to lush and alluring on the west.  no mountain range demonstrates that change more strikingly than the cascades.  there is an explosion of water and ferns cover the ground between the thick-trunked douglas firs and western hemlocks.  any sunlight that hits the tree tops stays there, for the canopy is impenetrable. 

 

gradually, we leave the mountains and course along the banks of the skykomish river, whose waters are pale blue and choked with the silt loosed by the glaciers of mount rainier.  abrupt topography is left behind and the landscape becomes tabletop flat.  every patch of earth has been tilled or fenced or is covered with cement or asphalt.  roads are choked with autos and the fingerprint of civilization reminds us both of how amazing and “human free” this trip has been. 

 

then, through the ventilation system, the unmistakable smell of tidal flats announces that the empire builder is nearing the end of its journey.  we travel along the puget sound and for the first time, can see the olympic mountains. 

 

“we’re going there too, buddy.”

 

the train arrives at the king street station on time and on a saturday morning when unprecedented heat has arrived in the pacific northwest.  it is 90 degrees and only 10 in the morning.  we thank gol for his service and tip him in appreciation for keeping our cranberry juice glasses full and the communal bathrooms useable, even though I didn’t use them.  he has treated us well. 

 

our journey ends, but our travels have just begun.  we gather our bags and move to the line of taxis in front of the depot. 

 

i tell the first driver “we need to get to the hertz car rental office.”

 

he responds with a broken “i take.”

august 15, 2008

 

the gouda cheese is tasty, but requires repeated dousings with merlot to send to the place where nothing matters.  the wine and cheese party disbands and all in all, proves to be a pleasant experience.  18 hours into our trip and i have yet to meet anyone that i would not like to meet again.

 

over the intercom, the national park service representative describes an approaching monument, erected on the site of a lewis and clark encampment and at the very site where lewis, after a dram of brandy, looked at the looming mountains and said to clark, "how the hell are we going to get around those?"  in response, clark cupped his hands over his ears and went "blah...blah...blah." 

 

it's true.

 

the monument is now covered with graffiti and in disrepair.  it is apparent that the “goodness” of the lewis and clark journey has yet to be fully embraced by the blackfeet nation. 

 

back in room 17, nikky remains glued to the window.  he is excited, without his dad having to ask if he is excited.  at one point, the land below us disappears and we are moving 500 feet above the river bottom.   

 

“nikky,”  i say.

 

“yeah?”

 

“promise me that some day, when you have kids, you will take this trip with them. okay?”

 

“i don’t want to have kids. yuck.”

 

“neither did i and if i didn’t, i wouldn’t be able to take this trip with you. think about that, saw-whet boy.”

 

as we enter the mountains, the brown is displaced by green and the hills are neck-achingly stretched above the reach of our window.  if anything defines the empire builder, its pass through the rockies is it. 

 

our window faces south and so, sunlight still illuminates the thousand foot deep, nooks and crannies of our journey.  nikky takes pictures until his disc is full, i download them onto my computer, then he takes more pictures. 

 

just when the panoramic splendor is tugging us towards complete surrender, we are called for dinner.  nikky drops his devotion to the scenery like a hot potato and is halfway down the hall before i can react.

 

it seems my son’s tapeworm has told its host it is time to eat.

 

our dining guests are a father and teen-aged son from southern california.  scattered throughout the diner car are 4 other members of their family.  they are making the journey from whitefish montana to seattle, then down to los angeles. on the train.  once eric discovers i am from minnesota, he delves into my political make-up, wanting to know what i think about “him” and “her” and “them” and “those”.  upon finding i am of the liberal political persuasion, he relaxes completely.  he spends his days online, making thousands of dollars doing something that i think is illegal everywhere except in chisholm, mn.  

 

i choose the salmon, while nikky chooses everything else.  when it is all over, he opts for a piece of cherry chocolate cake the size of a bean field.  as is my wont, i opt for a serving of haagen daaz vanilla ice cream. 

 

we bid good-bye to our dinner guests and return to our sleeper.

 

daylight allows another 45 minutes at the window and then, without debate or complaints, we begin our second night on the empire builder.   

august 15, 2008

 

with the sun beating down on the streaking empire builder, the temperature in central montana reaches 90.  nikky and i return to our room and just as he is about to speak, i ask him “shhh…did you hear that?”

 

“hear what?”

 

“that song.”

 

“what song.”

 

of course, he hears nothing for it is only i that can hear the siren.  she is calling for me.

 

“nikky, let’s go walk the train.” 

 

there are 12 passenger cars hooked up to the two engines and while the sleeper compartments have narrow hallways and cloistered compartments, the coach cars are fairly open.  people in coach are in varying degrees of comfort, with some reading, some sleeping, some looking out the window. 

 

when we arrive in the lounge car, there are a number of side-facing, floor to ceiling windows and for each one, there are two chairs and for each chair, there is a body.  when two chairs open, nikky and i sit and immediately understand why the chairs were vacated, for in the chairs next to us, two hirsute women with pungent body odor (think: compost pile) are spreading a can of tuna on bread.  their sandals are off and feet propped up on the glass and my son is only ten and not ready for the truths i will have to reveal and soon after the olfactory discovery, nikky and i are on our way back to room 17.

 

the siren lied to me.

 

an hour later, i am invited to the wine and cheese party, where i sit with three, including a retired librarian and her husband, and a practicing librarian (what are the odds?).  even with me at the table, it turns out to be a pleasant group. 

 

one by one, the attendants present a bottle of washington wine and a plate of minnesota cheese and collectively, all at the table emote wine snobbery; pretending that bouquet and subtlety and fruity and ethereal are words we regularly use. 

 

the wine party proves to be a pleasant diversion.  at the end, the attendant holds a trivia contest and i win, meaning i get to take one of the partially empty bottles back to room 17.

 

the siren can wait.

 

i open the door and nikky points out the window.

 

“wook.” 

 

pressed against the glass, everything has changed.  rivers lay in the bottoms of deep canyons.  outcrops of boulders rise from the ground.  to our west and south, the rocky mountains stand as daunting, impenetrable silhouettes of granite, daring us to approach. 

 

“that’s where we’re going buddy. are you having fun?”

 

“this is awesome, dad.”

 

“boy, it sure is.”

august 15, 2008

 

whatever moisture there was in the early morning landscape is gone.  after breakfast, nikky and i return to our room.  the topography has changed and where hills meet, the bottoms are gouged deep through the sterile gray and red soil.  when water comes here, it does not do so gently. 

 

while our room ensures meals and treats and an attendant’s attention and a lower tiered connection with the traveling elite, it does not remove us from the use of communal bathrooms.  had i upgraded, we would have had private facilities - to the tune of 500 dollars – which is a pretty steep price to pay for going to the bathroom in a closet.  for nikky, it means nothing.  for me, well, it just means i’m not going to be able to use the facilities for the next 24 hours. 

 

just as nikolai announces he is (again) hungry, the call for lunch is made.  it will, however, as the message states “be an abbreviated seating since the crew needs to turn the diner over for the highly desired empire builder wine and cheese party…for our first class travelers only”. 

 

take that!!! coach class.

 

after allowing the lunchtime crowd to dwindle, i send the golden one to the diner car to place us on the reservations list. 

 

as a paternal aside, nikky has sometimes confused the l’s and w’s during his excited urges to communicate.  at one time, his name was nikowai wane and that he reawwy wiked wwamas, but now, mostly, he is nikolai lane and the shortcomings of his youthful enunciation have been addressed. 

 

after 25 minutes, the invitation arrives over the intercom: “johnson, party of three…archambeaux, party of 2…and finally…wane, party of two.”

 

“nikky, say lane”

 

“lane”

 

“you need to pronounce your l’s, buddy.”

 

“i did.”

 

“okay, let’s go eat.”

 

we arrive at the diner car and i tell gary, the diner car foreman,  “lane”.

 

“oh, i didn’t call your name.”

 

“lane for two?”

 

“no, i called wayne.  you are still looking at a 10 minute wait.”

 

at that very moment, nikolai delivered the first effective glare of parental disdain in his life.  i apologized to gary and on our way back to room 17, to my son. 

 

when wan…i mean lane is finally called, we are seated across from greg and heidi.  he is a soon-to-be-retired archeologist and she a registered nurse.  for some reason, they live in oklahoma.  he has worked as a consultant for big oil and formerly, was a teacher.  she is pediatric nurse-nice and immediately engages nikky in a narrative of his travels.  they are on their second trip on the empire builder this year.  they love rail travel; love to meet interesting people; love good conversation. 

 

perhaps as retribution for his father’s earlier dismissal for diction, nikky announces from center field “my dad has a really bad fungus nail.”

 

meanwhile outside, the earth is parched with no clouds to distract the sun.  the hills have grown larger and towns more infrequent.  we travel next to highway 2 and speed by cowboy pick-ups and rented rv’s on our journey west.  

august 14-15, 2008

 

try as i might, sleep is fleeting.  after nikolai and i resolve the debate over who sleeps where and who is the owner of the stanky feet (it is him…neither my feet nor feces smell), he crawls onto the upper bed and within minutes, is sawing little kids’ logs. 

 

below him, i prop myself on a pillow and watch the train speed through the minnesota night.  where it moves atop ribbon rail, the ride is smooth and rhythmic.  where ribbon rail gives way to older track, every train ride in every hollywood movie comes to life. 

 

it is over the clang of the track that i hear the siren song of the lounge car.  she calls for me.  i know she is a temptress.  a very naughty temptress.

 

“be strong, owlman,” i tell myself.  “be strong.”

 

i finally fall asleep as the train pulls into fargo and awaken as the empire builder moves at sunrise through the potholes of north dakota.  i missed the grand forks stop; despite its prominent position in my history and despite a visceral urge to be awake when we arrived there. 

 

the potholes teem with the summer’s production of waterfowl and shorebirds.  all move in unison away from the train as it approaches.  every tall tree near the water is occupied by a red-tailed or ferruginous hawk.  a badger scurries back towards subterranean safety.  the landscape is rich and in the early light of day, a magical blend of gold and green and brown. 

 

“is this heaven?”

 

“no.  it’s the empire builder.”

 

over the intercom, the first call for breakfast is sounded and while not hungry, i know that a missed meal for the golden one means several hours of illogical behavior.  he stirs, i ask if he wants to eat and he springs to life like a jack-in-the-box.  a very hungry jack-in-the-box. 

 

it seems, however, that every other sleeper car passenger is hungry and so, we are placed on a waiting list.  after a half-hour, our name is called and we move through the narrow halls to the diner car.  given the tables sit four, nikky and i are seated with a retired couple from grand rapids, michigan.  laura is a retired teacher and ford a retired dentist.  laura recently took up playing the tuba; ford the banjo.  he was a bomber pilot in world war 2 and recently underwent triple bypass surgery.  they are train aficionados and have moved freely on the rails since their retirements.  they never fly, which is ironic since they are on their way to seattle to visit their son, who is a manager at boeing.  they are pleasant and engaging and understand the significance of this journey for nikolai.  this journey, afterall, will remain with him forever. 

 

i opt for the greek omelet (berry berry good) and an endless stream of coffee.  nikolai chooses french toast and sausage and bacon and juice and toast and hash browns and eggs and whatever is left on my or laura or ford’s plate and deep inside, i can only hope it will get him through to lunch. 

 

after breakfast, we return to the roomette and find that gol has turned the beds up and reconfigured the chairs and table.  friday’s edition of the grand forks herald and cups with ice and cranberry juice rest on the table. 

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