Trains of
S
ome years ago, my wife, Bridgit, and I were liv-
Thought
ing in Portland, Oregon, one of the western end
points of Amtrak’s Empire Builder passenger train,
whose route stretches from the Pacific Northwest
through the Rocky Mountains and across the plains
to Chicago. Having both grown up in the Midwest, Bridgit and
I had flown or driven between Minnesota and Oregon many
times. Then one day it occurred to me that the railroad ran
directly from our new home to the town I grew up in, and that
Strangers chatted. Land raced past. traveling by train would offer us an entirely new view of the
country. So we booked a trip, because as travel writer Paul
The country came into view Theroux once wrote, “A train journey is travel; everything else—
planes especially—is transfer.”
BY FRANK BURES ILLUSTRATION BY D
m ​ AVIDE BONAZZI
It was late afternoon when we settled into our sleeping
car. At around 5 p.m., we heard a whistle and the train began
its slow, forward motion. Behind us, the sun reflected off
the glass towers of Portland as it sank toward the hills. The
train rocked back and forth as we crawled through town. We
crossed the Willamette River, then moved out into the indus-
trial parks and finally into the Columbia River Gorge. Dinner
was served in our private room. Afterward, we walked down
to the observation car, which, with its big windows, was like a
moving fishbowl for staring at the world outside. It was dark,
and we watched the lights of small river towns dance across
the water.
Trains have always been part of my life. I grew up in a rail-
road town on the Mississippi River and the tracks were just a
few blocks from our house. At night, I could hear the long, low
whistle as the engines came into town, and the clack of steel
wheels as they rolled through. But I didn’t ride trains until I was
an exchange student in Italy. From where I lived in Bologna, I
could get almost anywhere by rail. On weekends I took day
trips to Florence, Ravenna, Parma, and other places. It was the
best way to see the country and learn about it. One day, as the
train passed through the Apennine Mountains, I chatted with
strangers who wondered where a young American, who only
half spoke the language, could be going. Once I told them, they
were happy to help me get there.
On the Empire Builder, Bridgit and I woke up in the
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mountains and went to the dining car for breakfast. Snow
covered the peaks, and the sun came up bright red. Soon we
pulled into Whitefish, Montana, where some passengers dis-
embarked to ski. Those who’d forgotten about the time zone
change had to abandon their pancakes and coffee and run to
get their bags. After breakfast, we went back to the obser-
vation car, where we watched ice-choked streams flow over
rapids below us.
As the train filled with more people and we began to move
again, our car grew louder: a video game beeped, a baby
cried, people talked. But it wasn’t unpleasant. We were travel-
ing together, so it felt like we had something in common. We’d
been brought together to make the same journey. Eventually,
the train came down the mountains and onto the plains.
“Strip farms!” An old man next to me said. He was a retired
farmer from North Dakota. Every so often he would blurt out
observations to no one in particular, though I was closest:
“Cattle.” “Ranches.” “Horses.”
The land sped by. Between reading books, having meals in
the dining car, and chatting with strangers, so did the rest of
the day. Our car attendant told us he’d worked on the Empire
Builder for 23 years. We met a biology student on his way back
from Hawai‘i, where he was studying a nearly extinct bird; a
woman from a Wisconsin farm who was battling colon can-
cer for the second time; and a retired Army veteran who was
convinced we should return to the gold standard and rise up
against seat belt laws.
After more than 2 days, we arrived at my hometown on the
Mississippi River and disembarked. But as I look back, I realize
a part of me never left that train: After the trip, I felt a stron-
ger connection to our country. The size and texture of it felt
more solid. I had experienced physical facts about the place
by slowing down and seeing it up close. But even more than
the land, I remember the people and their stories, which were
as vast and alive as the country itself.
FRANK BURES is an award-winning travel writer and the author
of The Geography of Madness.
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