trains Archives - From a Rocky Hillside

November 29, 2024November 29, 2024

Russia: Reviews and a Personal Memory

photo of the three books reviewed in my post

Kungur, Russia, Late July 2011

Kurgur Russia Train Station — Train Station in Kungur

I arrived in Kungur early on Sunday afternoon, the day before, after traveling three days on the trans-Siberian from Ulan Ude, west of Lake Baikal. That afternoon, I took a tour of the city and asked the guide about church services. At the Tikhvinskaya Church, she learned there would be services the next morning which would include baptisms. On Monday, I was there shortly after the doors opened. This church had only recently resumed being a church. During the Soviet era, the government converted the church into a prison.

Statue of Lenin and an old style water tower near the Kungur Railroad Station — Statue of Lenin and an old water tower across from train station

When I arrived, only a handful of people were in the church. Mostly, the congregation was made up of older women, but I did notice one man who was about my age and who seemed as clueless as me when it came to Orthodox traditions. As is custom, we all stood. However, around the edge of the massive sanctuary, there were a few benches and at times, some of the women would go sit down for a break. Much of the service consisted of alternating chanting from the balcony (done by a man and a woman) and from behind the icons (done by a priest). The entire service, except for a few readings, was sung without accompaniment. Not speaking the language, I was mostly clueless as to what was happening. But the building and the voices were beautiful, and I just took it all in.

Tikhvinskaya Church, photo taken from the main dome above the church

I had been there about an hour when a man entered the sanctuary and approached me, speaking in Russia. At first, I wondered if he was a beggar, looking for money, but he was too well dressed for that. He got into my face, and I smelled alcohol. He seemed distraught. I shrugged my shoulders and whisper that I don’t speak Russian. After a few minutes, he left and walked over to a window where there were numerous candles. He lighted a candle and stood for a few minutes. Then he turned around and headed over to me and in perfect English said, “I’m sorry, my father died this morning.” Caught off guard, I expressed my condolences and asked if I could pray for him. “Yes,” he said. I placed by hand on his shoulder and prayed. “Thank you,” he said, as he turned and left the sanctuary. I never saw him again.

A little later in the service, the priest opens the door through the icons and prepares communion. I debated taking communion, if offered. A few people went over to receive the bread, but most did not, so I remained where I was at. Then, an older mousy woman who’d been helping with things brought me a piece of the bread and offered it to me. I wasn’t exactly sure what it all meant, but I decided that communion is at best a mystery and the polite thing to do was to be gracious. Humbly bowing my head, I accepted the bread from the woman, held it for a moment while I prayed for her and for the congregation who welcomed me, a stranger.

After communion, a man and woman with an infant that looked to be maybe 6 or 9 months old, walked up to the priest and presented the child. From a distance, it appears the priest gave the child a piece of bread soaked in the wine. I couldn’t really see the baptism. Then there were prayers said over the child and each parent lighted a candle, then left. After some more chanting in Russia, the service ended. It was nearly 11 AM and I ran back down the hill to the hotel and checked out and headed to the train station for my next leg of the journey.

Kruger River and city — A view of the city with the Kruger River flowing through it.

John P. Burgess, Holy Rus’: The Rebirth of Orthodoxy in the New Russia

(New Haven, CT: Yale, 2017), 264 pages including index and notes. Some photographs.

Burgess, a theology professor at Pittsburgh Theological Seminary, spent several sabbaticals in Russia learning about the Russian Orthodox Church. He worshiped in Orthodox Churches, attended Bible Studies, befriended members and priests. While Burgess roots are in Reformed Tradition, his inquisitive and open mind provides a unique insight into the Orthodox tradition.

While Burgess goal is not to give the reader a history of the Orthodox tradition in Russia, he does provide a history of the church in the 20^th Century,. Much of this decade, the church lived under a dictatorial communist regime who sought to exterminate religion in Russia. The church struggled to survived as the government converted the church’s property into museums, theaters, and even prisons. The early years were the worse. The church strove to survive by supporting the government as they followed the Apostle’s Paul’s commands. During World War II, even Stalin saw the church as useful in the defense of the nation and the worse persecutions waned. But it wasn’t until the 90s, after the breakup of the Soviet Union, that the church was free to openly participate in society. Much of the book explains the rising role of the church during this era.

Holy Rus is a vague concept that see’s the Russian Church link to the nation for the purpose of the advancement of the gospel. While the idea was established during the age of the Czars, it has found its way back into the mainstream. Putin has embraced such ideology as he attempts to place Russia, and not the West, as carrying on the gospel traditions. While Burgess doesn’t say so, Holy Rus to me seems to be a Russian version of Christian Nationalism.

While this book attempts to explain the role of the church in modern Russia, it also part travelogue. Burgess takes us along with him as he travels Russia and meets with leaders and priests and laypeople within the church. This is a valuable book for those looking to understand the Orthodox Church’s role in modern Russia, but because of the expanded war in Ukraine, I sensed that the book was a little dated.

I picked up this book at the Theology Matter’s Conference I attended last month in Hilton Head. Burgess was one of the presenters. I have previous reviewed his book, After Baptism: The Shaping of the Christian Life.

Anne Applebaum, Gulag: A History

(2003, audible published in 2004), 27 hours and 41 minutes).

This Pulitzer Prize winning book has been on my TBR list for several years. I have previously read two of her books: Red Famine: Stalin’s War on Ukraine and Twilight of Democracy: The Seductive Lure of Authoritarianism. Both books seemed more important to understanding the world we live in than old Soviet history. However, a few weeks after I finished this book, Mike Davis, of Trump’s lawyers mused about building Gulags for liberal white women. Sadly, I realized it might be a good thing I have some knowledge of what he was talking about. Gulags aren’t necessarily tied to communism. They’re tools totalitarians use to create fear within society to keep people in line. In the old Soviet Union, any minor infraction could end you in a Gulag, which helped maintain control over the masses.

I started listening to his book in early October, knowing I had long road trips ahead in which I could listen to large sections of the book (I drove to Hilton Head, SC, then to Wilmington, NC, and then home). With over 15 hours in the car, and my regular walks, I was able to finish the book in less than two weeks.

Applebaum begins discussing how the Gulag took shape from the beginning under Lenin and on through the 70s and 80s. Over the course of the decades, the Gulag changed. Lenin used the prison system to put away “enemies” who had different ideas about government. This included many communists who saw things differently. One of the interesting things about the Gulag is that many of the prisoners remained loyal to the Soviet ideals. Early on, the Gulag was seen as a way for economic gain. Attempts to profit from prison labor included building the White Sea Canal and lumbering in the north and mining in the vastness of Siberia.

Stalin took the Gulag into more extremes and in the late 30s, during his purges, the most horrific atrocities occurred (both within the Gulag system and general executions). During World War 2, the Gulags in the east had to be moved to avoid capture by the Germans. Some prisoners, unable to be moved, were summarily executed. Applebaum spends some time discussing the differences between the Soviet Gulags and the Nazi Concentration Camps. As bad as the Gulags were, at least the Soviets weren’t attempting genocide against a particular race of people.

After the war, life improved slowly in the Gulags and things never returned to how bad it was in the late 1930s. However, many captured Soviet soldiers found themselves, upon being released from German POW camps, in the Gulag. Upon Stalin’s death and Khrushchev obtaining power, things slowly improved. But still, the camps continued to the fall of the Soviet Union.

One of the surprising things about the Gulags were the corruption, both by the camp leadership and the prisoners. Gangs often ruled the prisoners, especially those prisoners who were in the system due to criminal (as opposed to political or religion) crimes. These gangs terrorized other prisoners and sometimes even the guards.

The Gulags were also a training ground for those who would eventually lead to the breakdown of the Soviet system. The non-Russians often created their own gangs and many of those within the prison system learned leadership skills they would use to help throw off the communist governments in Poland, Ukraine, the Baltic States, and Georgia. In this way, the abuses of the Gulag created a time-bomb which helped undo the Soviet Union.

This is a long book, but worthwhile. Hopefully we won’t see any Gulags in our country. But Applebaum’s book serves as a warning.

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich

Cover of "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich

(1962, Audible 2013), 5 hours and 5 minutes.

This short novel is set in a Gulag during the early 1950s. The prisoner wakes in his bed and begins to plan his day (or how to get out of work). It’s cold but not cold enough for them to call off work. Soon, they are all awake and begin their morning routine. He wraps his feet for warmth and worries if he will be discovered with extra cloth. They are not to hoard, but everyone does. This morning, he visits the infirmary hoping to be sick enough to avoid work. With his temperature only slightly elevated, he must work. He eats breakfast, where he’s given bread for lunch. Does it eat it all or save it and hope it isn’t stolen before lunch? Then everyone assembles for the morning count before marching off to their various jobs. Denisovich is a mason. He finds where he has hidden his trowel. He has a favorite one and is supposed to turn in the tools at the end of a shift, but he doesn’t. Laying block with the weather being well below zero means they must melt snow and warm the sand and mortar. At least it requires a fire. They work through the day. In the late afternoon, they march back for an assembled count. Standing in the cold, he hopes everyone is present and there would be no need for a recount. Then there is dinner and bed.

The story is grim. I felt the cold, the hunger, and the foreboding existence within the Gulag. There, the prisoners are not called comrades. Inside the prison camp there are those who faithful to the Soviet Union and others, like Ukrainians, who are not. There’s the Baptist who hides his New Testament and who has a different hope. But most people exist without hope. The day ends, the light in the barrack goes out, and the reader is left to understand that the next day will be the same.

The novel takes place in the early 1950s at a time when Stalin was still alive. Interesting, Khrushchev as Premier, read a copy and allowed it to be published. At the time, he attempted to move the Soviet Union away from Stalinism. The book publication occurred just before the “Neo-Stalinists” booted Khrushchev and replaced him with Brezhnev.

I was amazed the way this book highlights the quotidian events in the life of a prisoner in the Gulag. The writing (or translation) is stark and amazing. I started listening to this book immediately after finishing Anne Applebaum’s Gulag. I highly recommend reading it and wish I had read it earlier. The book will go back on my TBR pile as it is as worthy of rereading as Hemingway’s Old Man and the Sea.

September 12, 2024September 12, 2024

Riding the Greenbrier River Trail with my Brother

title slide with photo of me and my brother on bikes

former railroad crossing in Clover Lick — former RR crossings in Clover Lick

In 1899, the C & O railroad began building a line running north alongside the Greenbrier River to tap into the rich timberlands of West Virginia. The next year, the railroad reached Cass, 80 miles north of the mainline which cut through White Sulfur Springs and Lewisburg. A few years later, the line continued north until it connected to the Western Maryland. The Greenbrier division consisted of a little over 100 miles, most of which was along the river. Of course, the success in cutting the timber led to the demise of the railroad.

By 1920, most of the virgin timber in the lower section had been cut and the line began to financially struggle. But it kept going, providing an outlet to the larger world for communities in Greenbrier and Pocahontas County such as Anthony, Spring Creek, Beard, Hillsboro, Seebert, Marlinton, Clover Lick, and Cass. Except for Marlinton, which is the seat of government for Pocahontas County, most of these communities today are a shell of their former selves.

a radio telescope at Green Banks Observatory — Green Banks Observatory (one of several large antennas)

One of the more interesting pieces of freight for the railroad were sections of a large antenna for the Green Bank Observatory. This observatory has several radio telescopes, including the largest radio telescope which can track a point in space. Because of the sensitive antennas, the area is in a radio restrictive zone. This limits the height of antennas and the power of transmitters. If you visit Green Bank Observatory, you had to turn your cell phones off! Much of the area along the rail trail has no cell phone service and there is limited radio stations cover the area. The designer of the antenna had a mockup built to ensure it could be transported to near Green Bank, as it had to pass through two tunnels.

Passenger service along this branch of the C&O ended in 1958. In the late 1970s, freight traffic, which had dwindled to a weekly run, ended and the tracks removed. As the logging company which owned Cass Railroad had done when it closed in 1960, the C&O turned 80 miles of the right of way over to the state. The Cass Railroad is operated as a tourist train state park

A Cass railroad Shay engine — A Cass “Shay” locomotive

Today, the old railroad bed is a trail is a linear park enjoyed by hikers, bicycles, and horses. Adjacent to the trail are several other state parks: Cass Scenic Railroad, Watoga, Droop Mountain Battlefield, and Beartown. Additional land is held by both state forest and the Monongahela National Forest. These parks and forest provide ample opportunity for camping or staying in cabins, many of which were built by the Civilian Conversation Corps during the Depression.

Cass West Virginia — Monday mornings were quiet in Cass

This past Sunday, my brother and I headed up to a cabin in Watoga State Park. We spent Monday and Tuesday riding 60 miles of the Greenbrier River Trail, from Cass to Spring Creek. We had two idea days to ride. Both mornings, we left the cabin with temperatures in the 30s, but my mid-day we were in t-shirts.

We started at Cass, at the northern end of the trail and road south. Highlights included the town of Clover Lick, which has one of the few remaining stations (others are in Cass and Marlinton. 14 miles south of Cass, we passed through the Sharp Tunnel, which exits on a trestle, taking us to the east side of the river. Below the trestle were ropes hanging from a river birch. I could imagine on warmer days, children swinging out into the river. Nearby were some camps with fire rings that may have seen a few hobos in earlier days.

my brother and I at Sharp Tunnel — With my brother at Sharp Tunnel

Just before you get into Marlinton, there was an old water tower, the only one which remains on the river trail. In Marlinton, there is a bike repair stand, which allowed me to put my bike up and adjust the gear changing lever. While I had enough tools with me, the stand also had such tools attached to a cable (so they’d remain for other bikers in need of a repair). We ate our picnic lunch at a table along the trail in Marlinton.

After Marlinton, we had about 12 more miles to ride before we arrived at Seebert. I had left my vehicle there, so we loaded up our bikes and drove back to Cass to pick up my brother’s vehicle. Afterwards, on the way back to Watoga, we stopped again in Marlinton for dinner at the Greenbrier Grille and Lodge. If I had known they had rooms, I might have stayed here. Then we could brag about staying at the Greenbrier (there is another 5-star Greenbrier in White Sulfur Springs, a place visited by 28 Presidents).

plate of the "West Virginia Original" — West Virginia Original

We ate outside on the porch overlooking the Greenbrier and a hoard of ducks waiting to be fed scraps. They had a meal titled “The West Virginia Original” and is probably not on the menu at the other “Greenbrier.” But as we were there, we had to try it. There were lots of fried potatoes, along with kielbasa sausage, sautéed onions and mushrooms. It was served in a cast iron frying pan and included sides (I got pinto beans and cole slaw), and a slice of cornbread. I downed it with a local IPA.

Outside Droop Mt. Tunnel — me at Droop Mountain Tunnel

We decided not to try to ride the rest of the trail on Tuesday. We both had places to be on Wednesday. After shuttling cars, we rode our bikes to Spring Creek. This section passed a state prison, the Droop Mountain tunnel along with idyllic scenery of hayfields being cut and baled. The Droop Mountain tunnel runs under the site of a Civlil War battle up on the mountain . We finished up and had the cars shuttled by mid-afternoon, said our goodbyes and headed toward our respective homes. It had been a good trip and was nice to catch up with my brother in person for the first time since our father’s death.

I planned to stop at the Pearl Buck’s birthplace at Hillsboro on my way home. Buck was a missionary to China and a wonderful author. Her book on China (The Good Earth) won the Pulitzer Prize. She also wrote another good book on Korea titled The Living Reed. Sadly, the place was closed. This is the third time I have tried to stop there, and it seems to always be closed. So I drove on home.

Lunch spot along the river — Tuesday Lunch Spot

December 13, 2023December 16, 2023

Doubly Late on the Silver Meteor

This past week, I was on vacation, which is why there was no sermon on Sunday. I reworked this story for posting here. You may have read a lot of my train stories, from all over the world, but this was my first overnight long distance trip. I made the trip in December 1986. I can’t find photos of this trip, which was long before digital photography became available.

picture of me in front of a steel mill — That’s me, 1989, in front of the old Homestead Steel Works, outside of Pittsburgh

Suddenly, everything slid forward. Brakes squealed. To keep upright, I grabbed the overhead luggage rack and held on tight. There was a bang, then a clicking sound ran outside of the car, for the length of the train. We stopped.

The conductor had been walking down the aisle toward me. He, too, grabbed the overhead bar to keep from falling. His face immediately changed, displaying concern. From his expression, I knew whatever had happened wasn’t normal. As soon as we stopped, he started speaking into his radio as he turned around and headed toward the front of the train. Still not sure what had happened, I looked outside. Shingles, boards, and bits of insulation littered both sides of the tracks.

After about five minutes, the conductor came over the intercom. He informed us we’d just hit a house and were indefinitely delayed. I headed back to the lounge car, where I ran into Marylin. We headed to back of the train. In the fading light, from the back window, we could see two halves of a house sitting beside the tracks. I joked that Abe Lincoln had nothing on me: “I, too, have seen a house divided.”

We were 30 or 45 minutes from West Palm Beach, riding through orange groves south of Sebring, Florida, when the accident happened. I had just left my new friend, Marylin, a grad student studying genetics at the University of West Virginia in Morgantown. We had seen each other in Pittsburgh when we both boarded the train but didn’t get to know each other until waiting to board our second train in Washington. I was heading to West Palm Beach to meet up with my sister while she was going home for the holiday break in Miami.

A friend had dropped me off at the Pittsburgh train station in the predawn hours the day before. In contrast to warm and sunny Florida, it was a dreary December day in the Steel City. But that wasn’t unusual, almost all winter days in Pittsburgh are dreary. My train, the Capitol Limited which runs from Chicago to Washington, was late. I sat on my luggage reading and napping as my stomach gnawed. I had planned to eat breakfast on the train and there was no place in station to get anything to eat.

The train finally arrived just as it was getting light. After finding a seat and having my ticket punched, I headed to the dining car for a French toast breakfast. The train ran along the Monongahela River, past the old J&L and Homestead Steel Mills. A few mills were still running and from the window I saw the glow of the furnaces. At McKeesport, the tracks followed the Youghiogheny, a river I’d never paddled, but knew of its reputation from my kayaking days. The rain and fog made everything seem sad.

Along the way, the train kept having to stop. Late that morning, talking to the conductor in the lounge, I learned that one of the baggage cars had a hot wheel that kept overheating. Every time we stopped, we lost another half hour or so. I worried if I would miss my connection south. We were several hours late arriving in Cumberland, Maryland, where the tracks began to follow the Potomac River toward D.C. In Harper’s Ferry, they uncoupled the train and placed the trouble car off on a siding. It was too late. We’d arrive in Washington after my train to Florida was scheduled to depart.

There are two trains daily that make the run from New York to Miami. The first, the Silver Star, was my train. Luckily, there was room on the second train, the Silver Meteor. It runs a couple hours behind the first train. I called my sister and let her know that I’d be on the later train. She wasn’t home, but I left a message. I ate dinner in the crowded station (the Washington station was in the process of being rebuilt) as I passed the hours reading.

It was night by the time we boarded. After a beer in the lounge car, I headed off to sleep, enjoying the rocking of the southbound train rolling through Virginia and the Carolinas. The long day of waiting on top of a long semester in school had taken its toll. I was tired.

I woke to the sun rising in a clear sky. We ran though forests of pines and wire grass, paralleling Interstate 95. The flat land was strangely familiar. I’d grown up in such country. The weather was also warmer. I changed from my jeans to shorts and a tee-shirt and found my flip flops, before heading to the lounge car for coffee.

We got into Savannah around mid-morning. I got off the train and stretch my legs as it made a 15-minute stop. I’d learned that during the night, we’d lost several hours of time. I again tried to call my sister. I left her another message, telling her to be sure to call Amtrak before driving to West Palm to pick me up. Sometime after Savannah, I met up again with Marylin, the grad student from West Virginia. We spent much of the day in the lounge car talking with each other and to other students. We also spent time napping in her roomette. The two of us made an interesting couple. I’d just finished my first semester of seminary and she was Jewish but considered herself an atheist. It was her company that I had just left when I headed back to pack up by stuff when the accident occurred.

Sadly, with the train running so late, they ran out of food. The dining car didn’t have enough grub to open for dinner and what few sandwiches were available in the lounge car were quickly snatched up. They tried to make it up for people by offering a free drink, but they quickly ran out. We waited. The operating crew had to be replaced. Railroad rules: if you’re in an accident, a drug test was required. Seeing a house in the middle of the tracks almost sounds like someone was on drugs, but this was too real. Also, a safety crew had to inspect the train before they could move again. We sat in the dark in the middle of an orange grove.

Rumors spread. They may have been true, but we had no way to know. This was long before smart phones. One had to do with the fact that we had two engines pulling the train as they were trying to make up time. Normally, when the southbound trains arrived in Orlando, they split the train. One group goes to Tampa, the other to Miami. Both trains are pulled by a single engine. Having two engines worked in our favor, as the first we learned had been badly damaged by the metal I-beams which supported the house. We were told by the new crew that luck kept the train from jumping the track, which would have made the collusion much worse. After the inspectors checked out, they were able to back us up on the second engine and reroute us on a different track.

The other tale had to do with the house. The tracks were built up and the semi pulled the house up on the tracks, but it bottomed out. Knowing they were in a pickle; they disconnected the semi from the house instead of walking around the curve and placing flares to warn the train and perhaps give the train enough time to stop.

After about five hours of waiting and grumbling, we finally resumed our journey. When I debarked in West Palm Beach, there was my sister. She was nearly as exhausted as me.

Had I been on the Silver Star, the train I was supposed to be on, I would have arrived early that morning in West Palm. She had worked that night in the hospital and then, since she was closer to West Palm, was to pick me up. She waited and never saw me get off the train. When she asked, they told her that all passengers coming from the West had been rebooked on the Silver Meteor. They suggested that before she return to the station, she should call to make sure of the time as the train was already running several hours late. She did, but since she lived almost an hour from West Palm, in Stewart, she left home about the time of the accident. While I waited on the train, she waited in the station.

It was after midnight when we got to her home. The next day, she had planned to take me to Epcot for my Christmas present. So, we got up early to make the drive to Orlando. We had a great time, but we were both exhausted.

Other train travel stories:
Trains and Karl Barth (train ride from Danville, VA to Atlanta, GA)
Heading to Iona (Edinburgh to Oban)
Ride of a lifetime (in the cab of the V&T in Nevada)
From Bangkok to Seim Reap
Riding the International (Butterworth, Malaysia to Bangkok, Thailand
Malaysia’s Jungle Train (Singapore to Kota Bharu
Southwest Chief (Flagstaff, AZ to Kalamazoo, MI)
City of New Orleans (Battle Creek, MI to New Orleans, LA)
Morning train to Seoul (Masan to Seoul)

December 14, 2022June 24, 2024

Advent, Poetry, Essays, & Riding the Rails

Fleming Rutledge, Advent: The Once & Future Coming of Jesus Christ

(Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2018), 406 pages including Biblical references

A few weeks before Advent this year, I began reading this collection of essays and sermons. However, I quickly learned I was already behind the curve. For Rutledge, the Advent themes begin on All Saints Day adding another four weeks to the season we generally think of as the four Sundays of preparation for Jesus’ birth.

The Christian year begins with Advent, but her sermons include the end of the old Christian year and the beginning of the new. This is the season of judgment, the return of Jesus, the end of the age, the need to be ready, to repent, to wait patiently. In writing about Advent and with a host of sermons that she preached during this season of the year, Rutledge reminds us that we’re not as good as we think we are and our need to depend on God. Her sermons are filled with reminders that evil is real and there a real battle going on in both the world and our lives. She warns against a Christianity that thinks we must make the right decision (accept Jesus) and not have to deal with the reality that there is an enemy of God, Satan. Her sermons are a call to action.

Sermons that tie into what’s happening in the world

Karl Barth is often quoted as saying we are to preach with the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other. Rutledge, a student of Barth (along with Calvin and others), displays this wisdom. These sermons, delivered from the mid-70s through the first decade of the 21^st Century, display keen insights into the events of the world: terrorist attacks, Rwandan genocide, the Gulf War, the Iraqi War, the Bush/Gore election, school shootings, Emmanuel AME shootings among others. I have never had the skill or maybe I lacked the boldness to directly include such topics in my sermons, often choosing to address them in prayers. The sermons are pastoral. Imagine preaching an ordination sermon the weekend after the Sandy Hook school shooting in a neighboring town. She handles the scripture, the charge to the pastor, and addresses the situation with grace.

Rutledge is a master wordsmith

Rutledge is well read, both in the discipline of theology as well in literature. Her sermons are steeped in scripture, which allows her to interpret the events happening in the world along with insights from theology and literature. She draws heavily on the poetry of W. H. Auden and T. S. Eliot. The combination results in convincing essays and sermons that give her listeners (and readers) much to ponder. While Rutledge (taking her clues from scripture) doesn’t provide an answer to the reason evil exists, she also doesn’t deny or diminish evil’s powers. But she reminds her readers of God’s greater power and love and leaves us with hope. While there is a lot of darkness in her sermons, there is also the anticipation of light (which is what the season of Advent is about).

Rutledge is an Episcopalian and one of the first women ordained into ministry by the Episcopal Church in the United States.

I recommend this book for both Christians and those who might be skeptical that the Christian faith has little to say to today’s world.

Paul J. Willis, Say This Prayer into the Past: Poems

(Eugene, Oregon: Cascade Books, 2014), 100 pages.

This is a delightful collection of poetry from Willis, an English professor at Westmont College in Santa Barbara, California. I purchased the book from the Calvin University bookstore when I was there in early October. I had met the author though Calvin’s “Festival of Faith and Writing” workshops. Once, when I lived in Michigan, I encouraged him to stay a few days afterwards to do a poetry reading at Pierce Cedar Creek Nature Center south of Hastings, Michigan. It was early April 2012. On the morning of the reading, I took Willis on a hike on the trails around the property. That evening he read a poem he’d worked out while hiking that morning titled, “Skunk Cabbage.” An edited version of that poem is in this collection.

Nature plays a prominent role in Willis’ poems. Many of these poems he locates in various places in the Sierra Nevada Mountains and Pacific Northwest. Faith and scripture references also abound in these poems, as well as the theme of fire. This collection was compiled after the author lost his home to the 2008 Tea Fire that devastated areas around Santa Barbara. I recommend this collection of poetry.

Brian Doyle, One Long River of Song

(New York: Little Brown, 2019) 251 pages.

This is a delightful collection of essays by the late Brian Doyle. I heard so much about him at the HopeWord Writer’s Conference this past spring and this is my first of his books to read. One Long River of Song is a book to be savored and read slowly, over time. This book spent a couple of months on my nightstand and whenever I didn’t have anything else to read, I’d read from one to a half-dozen essays before bed. Some made me tear up, others brought laughter.

All these essays provide the reader something to ponder. Each essay stands on its own. Doyle handles diverse subjects, from how he learned humility to how to write the “perfect nature essay.” There is an essay on the school shooting, a somewhat fictional account of William Blakes trial, on otters and wolverines and the human heart (that maintains a 4/4 beat). Doyle, who was Roman Catholic, explores the church and the meaning of faith. As the essays come toward the end, they tend to be more and more about death, but even here there is wonder.

This collection was published by Doyle’s wife after his death in 2017. I recommend it!

Carrot Quinn, The Sunset Route: Freight Trains, Forgiveness, and Freedom of the Rails in the American West

(2021, Audible Books), 9 hours and 27 minutes.

Someone had suggested that I read Quinn’s book, Thru-Hiking Will Break Your Heart. In looking up that title, I realized she’d written another book about riding the rails. I have done long distant hiking, but have never hopped a train. However, the lure has always been there, so I decided to start with this book. While there is a lot about catching trains and how to hide from the railroad police (who are not like the railroad bulls of the 1930s), this book is Quinn’s “coming-of-age” story. While I didn’t want to stop listening, it was hard to listen to much of Quinn’s story. Yet, she needs to be heard as she is not the only one to grow up in such difficult circumstances.

I found this book to be a cross between Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, and Chad Faries, Drive Me Out of My Mind which I read in early 2020. Like Faries’ experiences, I found myself angry at Quinn’s childhood. No child should have to live in such a manner. While such an upbringing has helped make her who she is, I worry about other kids who didn’t make it.

Review of The Sunset Route

Quinn flips back and forth, from her adventures on a train to growing up with a mentally ill mother in Alaska. Her mother believes she is the Virgin Mary and often has weird visions. At times, unable to hold things together, her mother would forget to file for welfare and Quinn and her brother along with their mother would be homeless. It was a difficult as she learns at an early age to forage food from dumpsters. In her teens, she is taken from her mother and sent to her grandparents in Colorado. Then she runs away. She becomes a part of a drug and alcohol-free anarchist community and learns about riding rails. As she rides the rails, she reads Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, a book I read when I hiked the Appalachian Trail.

It appears to me that throughout her life, Quinn keeps trying to find love and failing. Her mentally ill mother can’t love her. When her mother is sick, she says terrible things to her children. Her estranged father has abandoned the family and while he brought her a plane ticket on one occasion, isn’t able to show love to someone he abandoned as an infant. Her grandparents don’t know what to do with two teenagers when all the rest of children have grown. When her brother becomes an addict, there is another rift from one she had been able to depend on. And then there are the relationships to others, mostly to other women but also to men. While Quinn doesn’t find love, there are a few bright moments in her life when someone helps her out.

At the end of the book (which has a big gap of the time when she hiked long distance trails) she seems to have come to peace with her situation. She and her brother have reconnected, as they both shared a terrible childhood. She even tries to find her mother, fearing that she might die in the cold in Anchorage.

Recommendation

While many will find this book difficult to read. But stories like these need to be heard because so many of these stories are not heard and are hidden from society.

June 30, 2022June 30, 2022

The Ride of a Lifetime (in the cab of a steam engine)

In 2013, I visited Virginia City, Nevada. I had lived there in the 1980s, when I was a student pastor at First Presbyterian Church. Before my time there, a tourist railroad had been established and was reconstructing the famed Virginia and Truckee Railroad. The big news when I was there, was the train crossing the highway into Gold Hill. Since then, thanks to generous grants, the train now runs to the outskirts of Carson City. It is a crooked grade as the train climbs up the east flank of the Virginia Mountains. I wanted to ride this train and see what it was like in earlier days. But they had sold out of the tickets for the weekend I was to be in Virginia City. Telling this to a friend who at the time was also the bookkeeper for the railroad, she said she’d make a call and see what she could do. When I got to town, she asked if I’d like to ride in the cab of the train. Of course, I would! It was the ride of a lifetime. I wrote this piece almost ten years ago and have polished it up a bit for posting here.

Virginia City at sunrise from the Combination Mine shaft

I arrive at the V&T shops a little after 7 AM. As they prepare the engine ready for the day’s run, I walk around the machine shop where the Virginia and Truckee has the capability of repairing and rebuilding old locomotives. Maintaining a steam locomotive requires a lot of work and a shop is a necessity as parts often have to be fashioned to replace those that have worn out. The complexity of a steam engine led to their demise as it is much easier to maintain diesel-electric locomotives. Today’s locomotives may be efficient and easier to maintain, but they lack the romance and the “life-like character” of a “breathing steam engine.”

Our run today is aboard a ninety-ton Baldwin locomotive built in 1914 for a logging operation. The locomotive features smaller wheels and a large boiler, which also made it a perfect engine to pull trains up a steep line that snakes around the Virginia Range as it climbs from the Carson River to Virginia City. In its “working life,” this locomotive hauled logs for the McCloud Logging Railroad which ran around Mt. Shasta in Northern California. Today, she hauls tourists to the Comstock Lode and has been trucked offsite (she is the largest locomotive capable of being trucked) for movie appearances. Some of the guys from the V&T ran her in the movie, “Water for Elephants,” and have a photo in the shop with Reese Witherspoon, one of the stars in the film.

At about 7:30, Tim, who serves as conductor and brakeman, tells me to hope aboard. He introduces me to the crew, Brian and Ed, and gives me some instructions such as watching my feet so that I don’t ruin my shoes or injure myself by being pinched by rotating the sheet metal flooring between the tender and the locomotive. While we wait for the signal, the iron horse hisses. A few times every minute, there’s a booming sound which I learn are the air pumps keeping a nice draft in the fire box. When we get the “all clear,” I find a comfortable place to stand and hold on as Brian, the engineer moves the throttle into position and releases the brakes. We’re off, pulling three empty passenger cars. Because there is no longer a working turntable, we’ll pull the cars down the grade with the tender in the lead. At Moundhouse (Carson Eastgate), where we’ll pick up passengers, we can drop the cars, move the engine to the front as in a normal train, and the pull the cars back up hill.

It’s cool in the morning, but it promises to be a warm day. Because the grade steepness, the descent must be controlled. I watch Ed, the fireman, as he maintains the boiler, making sure there is enough steam for both movement and brakes. Ed learned to fire a locomotive on a miniature (5 ton) steam trains in California. Brian jokes that he has the easy job and Ed agrees. Oil fires this locomotive. Coal would require shoveling, but the fireman is free of that task. However, watching the boiller requires constant vigilance, especially on a grade like the V&T which has a few places that you might be going down, only to find yourself heading uphill for a short stretch. Besides keeping enough steam so that Brian can operate the train, he must make sure the water level remains high enough to cover the plates within the boiler. On level ground, this is easy, but when the locomotive is pointed uphill, the water runs into the back of the boiler. When it goes over a hump and points downhill, the water moves to the front of the locomotive. The danger of this sloshing around is that the metal might be exposed to air and the fire without the water to cool it down. This would risk spraying those of us in the cab with steam and seriously damaging the boiler.

Brian, our engineer for the day, oversees the train itself. He’s a Virginia City native. He graduated from high school on the Comstock in 2000 and that summer went to work for the railroad. He’s been at it ever since. For years, he was seasonal and had to find other employment in the winter, but a few years ago, was hired on full time. In the winter, they make a few runs (last year’s Christmas run was infamous as the snow was heavy and it took them nearly three hours to make the run back up the mountain. Brian and Ed can do each other’s jobs and often switch back and forth. As the engineer, he’s in charge of the operation of the train, but must depend on the fireman to watch the boiler and to provide him the steam needed for a smooth operation.

A few minutes later, Virginia City is out of sight as we cross the tunnel at the Divide and move toward Gold Hill. Down below us is the Crown Point Mine and Mill site. We cross the highway, by the old station. then the tracks turn south and cross earth fill that once traversed by the Crown Point trestle. They tore the trestle down in 1936. Today, it is widely believed that the trestle continues to live on the Nevada State Seal. However, this is a myth. The seal was designed in 1863 and predates the building of the trestle by five years. Interestingly, there wasn’t even a train within the boundaries of the Nevada Territory when the seal was designed, so the trestle on the seal expressed a hopeful dream of the artist.

After Gold Hill, the tracks make a long circle around American Flats. There is a new mining operation with cyanide leach fields on the north side of the Flats. Also along this section is a herd of horses. Ed and Brian seem to know well as they have names for many of the wild animals. At Scales siding, the halfway point, we stop, and Brain and Tim check the brakes. There is some smoke in one wheel and they are afraid it is overheating, but after checking it, all appears well. We loop around the south side of the Flats, above the old American Flats Mill, which operated up into the 30s. Then the tracks turn south, and we slip into a tunnel. On the other side of the tunnel, we can see Moundhouse, the site of where the Virginia and Truckee and the Carson and Colorado Narrow Gauge used to connect. The train continues to hug the hillside. The tracks mostly follow the original route except through Moundhouse. Brain, the engineer, tells me that the original tracks went straight through Moundhouse and picked up the Carson River near where today are several brothels. Figuring the whorehouses shouldn’t be disturbed by trains, they relocate the tracks to the west of town. We cross over Highway 50 on a trestle and soon are at the station.

Brain prepares engine for run back up the mountain

A full parking lot awaits us as people line up to ride a piece of history. We drop the passenger cars in front of the depot and uncouple the engine. Switching tracks, we take on water. I learn that although the train will only use 300 gallons of oil during the weekend, each trip up and down the mountain will require nearly 8000 gallons of water. Once they fill the water take, we run through a wye and then pull in front front of the passenger cars for the run up the mountain. Before leaving, Brian oils the working parts of the locomotive

As we leave Moundhouse, Ed pours a couple of cans of sand into the firebox. The draft is such that the sand is sucked through the boiler tubes and out the stack, cleaning out any build up on the tubes and hopefully making the train run smoother. As the sand runs through the boiler, or perhaps because of the addition air of having the firebox open, the smoke turns black for a few minutes. Although it was a relaxed trip going down the mountain, running uphill requires more work, especially from Ed, who has to constantly keep checking on the boiler and making sure there is enough steam for running the train. It almost seems he is as much of an artist as a mechanic as he both watches the gauges and adjusts the amount of water going into the boiler or the amount of fuel pumped into the firebox. But it’s not just the gages that he watches; he also keeps an eye on the smoke, occasionally glances into the firebox, and is always listening to the boiler breathing.

The sun is now high in the sky and it’s getting hot, but I’m not prepared for the experience of the first tunnel. When we enter it, a hot wind blows across the boiler and into the cab and the temperature must have risen by 30 or 40 degrees. Coming down, with the boiler behind us, the tunnels weren’t hot, but with the boiler in front, we feel all the heat. This was the reason the last steam engines built for the Southern Pacific were “cab-forward” varieties. It was harder to build a cab-forward locomotive when the fireman had to shovel coal (or you had to have the fireman and engineer in two different ends of the train which created communication problems). But once the railroad began using oil, they could move both to the front of the boiler. Not only did this allow better views of the track, it keep the cab more comfortable in long tunnels and the miles and miles of snowsheds the locomotives traveled as they made their way through the Sierras.

At Scales, we stop for a few minutes and Brian gets out and oils various parts of the engine. We then continue on until the Gold Hill Station where a few people get off in order to have lunch at the Gold Hill Hotel. Most of our passengers continue as the train climbs into Virginia City. There, everyone gets off. They’ll have three hours to tour the town before making the run back south. I skip the ride south but follow the train in my car. Stepping out into the heat, I photograph the train repeatedly as it makes its way down the mountain. Ed, Brian and Tim will leave the train at Moundhouse overnight. The next morning they’ll pick up passengers and run them up to Virginia City. At the end of the day, after dropping the passengers off in Moundhouse, the empty train will be driven back up the mountain to Virginia City. There, it will shuttle tourists around the Comstock between Virginia City and Gold Hill. The steam trains only run between Moundhouse and Virginia City on Saturdays and Sundays.

March 31, 2022March 31, 2022

From Bangkok to Siem Reap

This piece was originally posted in another blog in 2011. I reworked it and reposted it.

A butt-naked boy ran through the crowd. This is the first thing I see as I step into the country, immediately after having my passport stamped. And he wasn’t just a boy, certainly no toddler. He was at least five feet tall and probably 11 or 12 years old. I do not know what was up with him. Thankfully I never saw another kid his age running around in his birthday suit, but he served as a shocking reminder (along with having to learn a new currency and the words for rice and noodles) that I was in another country. Cambodia!

I’d wanted to see Cambodia since a teenager. As a ham radio operator, I remember reading an article in QST (or maybe it was CQ, both amateur radio magazines in the early 1970s) of a trip made to American ham operator to Cambodia. Before the Khmer Rouge, he met with a few of the operators in the country. The article had photos of the country’s temples. It all looked exotic. A few years later, as the war in Southeast Asia intensified and then came to a horrific conclusion in Cambodia, I wondered what happened to the few amateur radio operators in the country. I’d also heard of some of the temples being destroyed. Now is my chance to find the answer to at least one of my questions.

I was catching the train to the border at Bangkok’s Makkasan Station at 6:20 AM. The train starts at the downtown station at 5:50 AM, but since my hotel was closer to Makkasan, I decided sleep an extra half-hour. But for a while this morning, I wondered if this had been a good idea. I’d asked for a 4:30 AM wake-up call (it came at 5:15, as I was leaving my room).

Leaving the hotel, I venture out into the darkness and (as the Skyway isn’t running yet) meet the cabthe hotel had called. The driver spoke little English. I showed him where I wanted to go. He agreed and suggested what I assumed was a fair price. I tossed by backpacks into the backseat and climbed in.

Two blocks later, something strange happened. A policeman stood in the middle of the road with a blue lighted pointer, indicating for the cab to pull over to the curb. Two other policemen with flashlights shining came over and asked the driver questions as they shined lights into the back of the cab and onto my face and bags. They opened the back door. Pointing at me, he asked in rough English, “where?” Assuming this was where I was heading, I said Cambodia. He looked at me for a moment then, gesturing as if he’s smoking, appeared to ask for cigarettes. I shook my head and said ‘I do not smoke. “Okay,” he said, and waved us on. I had the feeling these Thai policemen wanted to shake me down for a smoke!

My next hurdle was getting to the right station. It turns out there are two Makkasan stations, one for the railroad and one a high-speed rail line only runs to the airport. It was this station that the cab driver insisted must be mine. Having been to the train station to purchase my ticket, I knew it was not the right place. Finally, a Thai man who heard me talking came over and asked in English where I was going. He then gave directions to the cab driver. There were only two dozen or so passengers at Makkasan station, so the cab drivers confusion was justified.

I purchased my ticket for the border a few days earlier. It cost 48 bahts or about $ 1.50. The only option is a non-air-conditioned third-class train for the five-hour trip. At least, early in the morning, the air was damp but cool.

On the station platform, I spot several old steam engines in a yard across the tracks. I walk over to check them out and to see if I could catch photographs. A guard stops me, saying “No photos.” I have no idea why, but it isn’t bright enough yet to get a good photo. On the train, I snap a few photos of the old engines, but with the low light, the photos don’t turn out well. After walking around a bit with my pack, I sat down on the platform to wait for the train. It was still 15 minutes away.

Thai train station with station master in uniform

While waiting, a Thai woman came up and began to talk to me. Her name is Niranya. She’s a travel agent whose customers are primarily Indian, so she speaks to them in English. She was heading back to her family home near the Cambodian border where she had to attend to some business. We talked until the train arrived, then sat by each other on the train. She was getting off the stop before me. Traveling with her is enlightening. Having grown up on a farm, she shares about the various crops grown along with showing where fields are being converted from rice and other food crops to fast growing trees used for pulp. These trees harmed the land because they used so much water. Much of the land in eastern Thailand is dependent on the rainy season for water as there is not enough for irrigation. Such trees, she complain, steals water which could be used to grow rice. But the high demand tempts farmers to plant such trees that require less work than keeping up rice paddies. Another crop that is in demand is tapioca, which also tends to rob the soil of nutrients.

I’m amazed at the number of rail lines running into Bangkok from the east. At places, as many as eight set of tracks parallel each other as they run into the city. As it was early morning, the trains coming in were all packed with passengers.

Our train, heading the opposite direction, slowly filled. This was a slow train and we stopped at every station, where an agent would step out dressed like a general or war hero, to meet us. We also stopped at other places requested by passengers. At one of these “nowhere places,” a woman stepped off the train and stepped into the jungle, disappearing as she headed to her home as the train moved on. After a while, we were well into the country. After passing Chachoengsao Junction and Khlong Sipkao Junction, where lines split off heading north and south, we were on a single-track line running through a flat countryside, occasionally pulling over to sidings to wait for east bound trains to pass.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, the car became warm, and everyone began to sleep. There was little movement, only the occasional seller passing by with drinks and snacks. At one stop, a bunch of women boarded at one town, coming from the market. They’d taken an earlier train into town and were heading back with baskets of produce and stables like cooking oil. The train was so crowded that there weren’t enough places for people to sit. I offered my seat to a couple of the older women, thinking that standing a bit wouldn’t do me any harm. They refused, but my act of kindness caught the attention of one of the women, who looked to be in her 30s. She asked Niranya, whom she’d seen talking to me, if she was my wife. Of course, I didn’t know what had been said. Niranya laughed, and told her no, that we’d just met that morning while waiting on the train. The woman then asked Niranya if I was available! She said she told her that I was married. This led into a conversation about how Thai women seek out American and Western husbands as a way of escaping the hard life, especially smaller villages. I had certainly seen many Western men with Thai women, generally women that were half their age.

The women coming from the market only rode for about 30 minutes before getting off at a small village. Niranya got off Watthana Nakhon. By then, the train had mostly cleared except for those of us heading to the border. The train was mainly filled with tourist and Cambodians returning home, such as a man who sat across from us and had drank at least a six-pack of beer during the trip that ended around noon! He was coming back home after having surgery done on his nose in Bangkok. The train pulled into Aranyaprathet, at the end of the line, a little after noon, about 30 minutes late. As there are at most places, there were a host of tuk-tuk drivers wanting to take us to the border. The prices quoted was what I was expecting and soon I was whisked away toward the border, feeling like I was in a chariot race with each driver vying to get their passenger there first. The drivers also tried to encourage us to book rooms through them in Siem Reap (they all seemed to have a cousin or brother there), but I’d already had my reservations made.

The border crossing was hassle free (except for seeing more than I’d wanted to see). I had lunch (rice and ginger chicken) and then got on the bus for Siem Reap. The Cambodian countryside appears as flat as a pancake. The occasional hill seems out of place. These are called Phnom (as in Phnom Penh), which is named for the hill upon which it sits. I am surprised by the large sizes of the fields. The road is now modern (a few years ago, I heard this was a rode that would jar the fillings out of one’s teeth) and we moved along in air-conditioned comfort. We stopped once, for a bathroom break and to let the engine cool (while waiting the driver sprayed water on the overheated engine!). The bus needed more fuel and the driver pulled up to a garage looking place and they brought out two 5-gallon jerry cans and dumped them into the fuel tank. From the bus station was on the edge of Siem Reap and I hired a driver to take me to the Golden Banana, where I had reservations for three nights. After seeing the Cambodian countryside, the modern style of Siem Reap appears out of place. In the evening, I head into town and have red curry for dinner. Then, it’s off to bed. I plan to get up early to see the sunrise at Angkor Wat.

Other train adventures:

“The International (Butterworth, Malaysia to Bangkok)

The Jungle Train (Singapore to Kota Bharu, Malaysia)

Coming home on the Southwest Chief

Morning train from Masan to Seoul