THE CALIFORNIA ZEPHYR

Text copyright © 2016 by Carol Stone.  Photos © 2016 by Thane Puissegur and Carol Stone.

 

My photo of the Feather River in 1968. All four of the Vista Dome cars can be seen at the end of the train.

Some time this year we hope to ride Amtrak from Sacramento to Chicago, on the train that’s called the California Zephyr. My partner the train nut has always wanted to ride on the Zephyr, which bears the name of one of the most famous trains in US history. (If you ever saw Gene Wilder in Silver Streak, you saw the Zephyr.) The original train was discontinued in 1970, when Amtrak took over the Union Pacific railway.

I can boast that I actually rode the original Zephyr on one of its final runs, in 1968. At that time I was dating another train nut, and when he heard that I would be traveling to California on an expense account, he insisted that I ride the Zephyr before it was “ruined” by the coming Amtrak acquisition. (Thank you, Bert!) I knew little about trains, except that they were a pleasant way to travel, but it sounded like a good idea, and I was able to persuade my employer to let me travel by train instead of airplane. (I was limited to a one-way ticket, though.)

In its glory days the Zephyr featured truly luxurious accommodations for passengers. Elaborate meals at reasonable prices  were served by attentive stewards in the dining car; there were flowers on each of the linen-tablecloth-covered tables. Murals covered the few windowless walls, and of course the windows framed spectacular views. For those who could pay a little more, there were roomettes, bedrooms, and compartments. Even the coach seats were reasonably comfortable.

One of the features passengers remembered was the Zephyrettes. These attractive, friendly young women made sure passengers were enjoying the ride and getting anything they needed on board. One of them, Nellie O’Grady, co-wrote a fascinating story in the 1955 Saturday Evening Post describing her seven years as a Zepherette—years in which she met hundreds of people including Dwight Eisenhower, fended off the wolves who misunderstood her role, and worked very hard. (Most Zepherettes only lasted a couple of years.) Apparently she loved nearly every moment.

The Zephyrettes were gone by 1968, and I have to admit that I don’t remember whether the murals were still gracing the walls of the train I rode. But, the trip was wonderful. I spent a good deal of time in the dome car, especially during the Far West portion of it. At night I had a comfortable roomette with a small private bathroom. The meals were delicious and served elegantly. Though I had taken along some paperback books to read, for once I read nothing. It was much more appealing to sip a glass of wine while talking with other passengers, or simply to gaze out the huge windows as we passed through the Rockies and the Sierra Nevada Mountains, then down the Feather River Canyon into California. The two days and nights passed all too quickly.

Will our ride on today’s Amtrak Zephyr be that good? Probably not. Few things are as enjoyable at my age as they were when I was young. The pictures on the Amtrak site do look very appealing, though, and traveling with my partner (who makes the most of every travel opportunity) should help.

I know this: Riding the Zephyr will be an order of magnitude better than riding any airplane today. Back in the sixties, airplane travel was glamorous. People checked their large bags instead of jostling each other while fitting the bags into crowded overhead bins. Meals (not usually gourmet, but not bad, either) were served on most flights. Seats were wider than they are today, and passengers were a bit narrower. Riding on airplanes at that time was such a pleasant, supermodern experience that in 1968 the Zephyr may have even seemed a little quaint, in spite of the wonderful scenery.

Now, even if the Zephyr is less than it was years ago, it will certainly be better than an airplane. I am looking forward to it eagerly.

 

THE TIME TRAVELER'S TRAIN

 

 

Even today, when there are no steam whistles to bring about that “Blues in the Night” feeling, trains are a romantic way to travel. We shun airplanes when possible, and take long vacations in our RV, but manage an occasional train ride.

Recently I took Amtrak’s Blue Water line from Chicago to Kalamazoo, both for an enjoyable and inexpensive ride and for reliving much of my life. The journey began at Chicago’s famous Union Station,

where I changed trains a few times in 1959 as I returned from grad school at the University of Wisconsin to my home in southwest Michigan. I recall gazing out the train window at snowy landscapes—Wisconsin always seemed wintry then—dotted with only a few leafless trees.

Last week the train moved slowly through Chicago‘s south side toward Indiana. For about 20 years I lived in various parts of Chicago and its suburbs, first as a young bride, then as a divorcée, and finally as a happily remarried woman. During those years I found  my vocation as a science editor, and edited many textbooks for Rand McNally. Chicago was and is a magnificent city. Only the unrelenting ice and snow drove us to move to San Francisco in 1980.

We rolled through Indiana quickly, with Lake Michigan near but unseen to the north. As soon as we crossed the border into Michigan, I felt at home. Cottonwoods and maples were still August-green, but would begin to turn gold and scarlet in a few weeks. My grandparents had a farm near Bridgman, and these same railroad tracks ran through it.  As a child in the forties I often visited Grandma and Grandpa, where I balanced precariously on the rails and put crossed pins on them to be fused into miniature scissors by passing trains. At night I could hear the trains passing though. That was still the era of steam trains with the lonely sounding whistles that promised adventure far away in miles and years.

The train of today continued on through the many small towns of Berrien and Van Buren counties. I was born in Watervliet, a little paper-mill town that has nearly vanished (the mill closed years ago, and the Pere Marquette trains no longer go there). Though I still treasure my friends from childhood and high school, I was glad to leave the oppressive life there. In the fifties my English teacher, Roy Davis, made the mistake of introducing me to Sinclair Lewis’s Main Street, which helped me recognize the worst side of midwestern rural life. Roy is fonder of small-town life than I am, and still lives in the next town, Hartford, in a lovely century-old home. (On this nostalgic trip I had the chance to visit him and his wife, Marion.)

The train was delayed,  as most trains tend to be, but finally reached Kalamazoo. As it entered town I looked up past the huge campus of Western Michigan University and saw the dome of Stetson Chapel at Kalamazoo College. Four of the happiest years of my life were spent at “K” College, where I was exposed to the wide world of literature, the sciences, music, and art. Three of my college roommates loved the city so much that they have gone on living there for more than 50 years, and a cousin who taught at Western has remained there also. Going back to see them and walk around the campus is a treat that I indulge in every few years. Old roommate Diane Worden met me at the station, and we drove off to a Middle Eastern dinner. (Kalamazoo is more cosmopolitan than it was in the fifties, when pizza seemed esoteric.)

I have spent longer in airplanes waiting for takeoff than the train ride lasted, but in that short trip I had relived much of my life. After a happy week I rejoined my partner, who had driven the RV from California, and we began driving toward Maine. Though this would be a wonderful vacation, I was grateful to have spent some time alone aboard that train to yesterday.