I've been a railroad buff for most of my life. When I was growing up I seldom saw trains except for the small mixed freight "local" that came into the Verde Valley from the Santa Fe main line across northern Arizona. Then on occasion when my grandparents came out west, we went to Flagstaff and met them there when their train arrived from Kentucky. That was always very exciting.
Just for fun here is a very old snapshot of the original depot and a more recent view of the current one. They give you an idea of how Clay recalls it and how he sees it in the story. They are both my photos. The one was taken with a Kodak box camera and shows the building just left of the tall smoke stack, long gone. The color one on my recent trip back for my high school reunion.. Now the former freight line into Clarkdale mainly serves as a scenic tourist excursion line. I took this trip a few years ago myself and found it to be wonderful, a fantastic way to spend an afternoon. The idea of a story featuring this trip began to take shape in my mind but other things came first. Finally I had a chance to tell that tale! This one will be coming out in the fall, perhaps around October, as part of another Amber PAX titled All Aboard. We've done trains before but its a great theme to revisit--at least for me!
The first hero came to me first and began to talk to me. Then a bit later, I meet the other man. It's very rough yet but here is the first part of the story....
Gliding down the gentle curves of
I-17 from Flagstaff,
Clay almost drove on autopilot, watching the familiar yet strange landscape
unfold before him. They said you can’t go home again. He wasn't sure he even
wanted to, yet something seemed to be drawing him back. The drag of it felt as
relentless as one of those tractor beams they spoke of in old science fiction
tales. How many years had it been?
More than ten, nearer twenty… He had to be bloody fucking insane to go back
and relive a minute of it. The memories that filled the oldest suitcase in his
mental baggage were all ugly, weren't they? And yet what he felt now seemed
vague, gentle nostalgia instead of the bitterness he thought would be there.
As he turned north toward the Verde Valley
towns, he decided maybe that was partly because nothing was the same. Oh, the
same ragged old hills, the unbelievably blue sky, some of the old run-down
buildings still mixed with the new ones. Would he run into any of the guys he’d
known in school, the ones who’d taunted him as “Gay-Clay” and made his life
miserable? Or any of the older folks who’d known his parents and been as
appalled as they’d been when he was came out at sixteen? Still, he had to take
that risk. He just knew he had to go back and come to terms with it all.
The old grade school looked
derelict and decaying. They had new schools now, consolidated to serve the
several small communities instead of the low-budget old ones for each area. The
middle school was gone—only a concrete foundation left. The old high school
held some offices and a small shop or two.
He made a U-turn and headed down
another road, the one that led to a favorite old hang-out. The railroad station
had never been much, a small frame building painted a dull mustardy yellow, but
for him it was paradise. He loved trains, always had. For several years the
high points of his week were the days when “the local” arrived, a Santa Fe manifest freight
bringing in a variety of commodities to serve the somewhat isolated area, a few
villages in a river valley edged by rugged mountains.
Smelling the diesel fumes, hearing
the powerful rumble of those GP-9 locomotives and sometimes daring to talk to
some of the train crew took him out of his misfit status. When a work train
came in with crews to maintain the tracks or repair the bridges over the many
arroyos that tended to wash out during the summer monsoon rains, he would hang
out and watch, listen and learn. Those experiences had turned him to the career
he followed to this day, a life inexplicably bound to the railroad industry.
He pulled in to the parking lot, a
much larger and well-maintained one than he recalled and looked around in
amazement. The new depot, built in Spanish Colonial style, had class and
quality. Behind the building, two older but clean and brightly painted diesel
engines idled, hooked to a string of matching coaches and some open observation
cars.
Of course, he recalled, they ran a
tourist expedition here now. He’d read about it a few years back and then
promptly forgot. On an impulse he got out of his crossover and walked in. Maybe
he could still get a ticket for today’s trip, or at least soon, before he
headed back to Topeka.
It was midweek, just short of summer, and the crowds were not too heavy yet. As
luck would have it, he got a seat on today’s trip. Maybe it was meant to be.
With a couple of hours to kill
before the post-noon departure, he wandered through the gift shop and then out
to an open courtyard that featured several bronze sculptures of wildlife. They
were exquisite and beautiful.
A slight sound close behind him had
him spinning around. Clay was always sensitive about his space, alert. Maybe
that went back to the mean tricks and bullying he’d known in school. Unseen
people behind him were not safe. Was this different? As he took in the man who
had paused, a step or two away, he felt the same shocking jolt one got from a
close lightning strike, the sizzle of energy and the keen ozone scent that
stirred an adrenaline rush. Could a heart really skip a beat and then leap
forward in double time? It felt that way. He sucked in a fast breath. Who was
this guy?
***
Jon Reid took fame and notoriety in
stride. As a world renowned wildlife and scenic photographer, his face might
not be known but his name was. He kept clear of the danger zone in front of a
camera but behind one, he was an acknowledged genius. Why then had life begun
to feel dull, colors muted and flat as if viewed in poor light? Could it be
because there seemed to be no new venues to portray, no new adventures to dare?
Or maybe because the solitude and
independence he’d once valued so highly now seemed empty. Lonely... He’d never
expected to apply that word to himself. He didn’t like it.
“Nice work,” he remarked casually
when the man he’d approached whirled around like a startled deer and then
stared, something akin to shock or amazement on his face.
The stranger nodded. “Yes, it is.
They are, all of them. I’m guessing the same artist produced them. He didn’t do
bronze, but I’m reminded of the Larry Toschik’s work.”
So,
the man knows something about wildlife art. That wasn’t typical of the kind
of tourists Jon expected to encounter on a much touted scenic rail excursion
like this one. Still, some did come to see the eagles and other species that
called the rugged and remote canyon home, the route the track traversed.
“I’m a fan of his work myself. I
believe these are by another artist, though clearly one with a similar level of
skill and attention to detail.”
The stranger nodded again. He edged
back a step or two, while the initial expression of wariness if not actual fear
left his face.
“Are you taking the train today?”
The other man shrugged. “Yeah. I
hadn't really planned on it but when I found they still had seats available, I
decided I might as well, almost as if it was an omen. I’m a train fan, always
have been. Maybe it’s in the genes. Both my grandfathers were railroad men.” He
stopped then as he feared he was babbling or talking too much to a stranger.
“I enjoy them myself,” Jon said,
seeking to put the other man at ease. “A trip like this is fun for that as well
as the sights to be seen. I’m hoping to get lucky and find a few photo ops
today. I prefer to miss the summer weekend crowds. It’s easier to get some good
shots if the observation cars aren't jam packed.”
They ended up eating lunch
together, sitting out in the shady courtyard with food bought from the casual
little cafe in the station. The weather was mild, warm but not yet the stifling
heat that would come later in the summer. A light breeze carried the subtle
sweet scent of mesquite blooms and tamer flowers making up the landscaping
around the depot. Above through the slatted roof, glimpses of the incredible
blue of the desert sky tempted the artist in Jon’s mind. He glimpsed a large
bird, high in that sky, a hawk or perhaps even an eagle. With luck he’d see
more where he could photograph them from the train.
While they waited for the train to
load and depart, Jon enjoyed the company, despite his normal habit of staying
aloof, He found the somewhat diffident younger man a pleasant companion. No
harm in some conversation, was there? He doubted he’d ever see the other man,
who’d introduced himself as Clay Carter, after this one day. Still, they talked
easily and it seemed no time at all before the growing crowd of passengers
gathered to answer the call to board.
Jon glanced at Clay as they tossed
the trash from their lunch into a convenient can and started toward the
platform. “What car are you in?”
Clay glanced at his ticket. “Flagstaff, it says here.
It looks like they all have the names of Arizona
towns. How about you?”
“I’m in Flagstaff as well. What a coincidence. Well,
let’s obey that all aboard and begin this adventure.”
By the way, I have library of about 3,000 photos, perhaps a third or so my own and the rest 'pinned' from many sources that serve as a slide show screen saver on my computer. The selection is totally random and each shot is displayed for about thirty seconds. Even after a couple of years, I can sit and watch it for hours and do at times. But I digress.
There is a totally silly little tale of "Oom the Belt Holes" about a leather worker who devised a clever idea of having a buckle that connected into holes on the belts he made to keep one's trousers secure and in place. The punch line is something like "Ask not for Oom the Belt Holes." I told you it was silly but I do enjoy the funny punny sort of "fuzzy puppy stories"--not quite the full grown shaggy dogs! An old friend of my late husband's had an innumerable collection!
Dark And Stormy
