Final score: Fs 2–Goats 0

The afternoon sun makes motorists drowsy. It's 4:55 p.m., August 14, and a road sign proclaims that "salt licks" are forthcoming, so at a turnout long enough to accommodate a dozen automobiles, we stop. Other motorists gape excitedly, cameras click, and parents exhort teens and sub-teens to "come look" at two mountain goats serenely sampling the natural salt outcroppings far below.

It's been an adventure-filled, enjoyable vacation. We've gypsied through Yellowstone National Park's geological and natural thermal wonders; explored the historical sites of Wyoming and Montana, and camped at assorted scenic waysides. Today, we drove from Terri's sister's in Helena all the way to Glacier National Park. Tomorrow, we head through the heart of Glacier on the "Going-To-The-Sun" highway.

One thing missing, especially for Michael, has been trains. A confirmed train nut, he's enjoyed only brief glimpses of various mainline and branch line tracks. Otherwise, it's been a long, dry vacation.

That's why here, in the shadow of Mount St. Nicholas, he happily stares at Burlington Northern's sturdy steel bridge spanning the summer-shrunken Flathead River's north fork This is the heavily trafficked ex-Great Northern main line over Marias Pass, but even here pickings have been slim.

Michael yields to Terri's entreaties to watch the goats gavotting and gamboling on the cliff side below. She's been tolerant as Michael glued his eyes to the railroad, which they've followed eastward since leaving Columbia Falls. But she's right, he reluctantly admits—trains will always be around, and the line is spiked down for at least his lifetime. Besides, says small-town-bred Terri, "we may never see mountain goats alive again."

Suddenly, Michael's ears detect the steady beat of hard-working 645's downgrade. Could it be the train he's quested for two weeks? He's checked the timetable incessantly; it's not Amtrak 7, the Empire Builder. It could be a merchant symbol, an express freight, a unit run-through of some kind, or even an extra drag—at this point, any train is going to be a thrill. The sound grows, deepens into a rumble, becomes more distinct as it echoes from the high mountain ramparts.

Wham! Burlington Northern SD40 6314 blasts eastward out of the Ponderosa pine forest and drums onto the bridge girders, followed by SD40-2 6812. Forgotten are mountain goats. Forgotten, too, is wife Terri, standing fuming as Michael focuses his attention—and his camera—on the eastbound commodity performing broadside for his inspection.

The mountain goats don't budge, accustomed to the ubiquitous sound of the train. These wily alpine inhabitants and their ancestors have been serenaded by steam and diesel since Captain John Stevens tramped across Marias Pass in the dead of winter exactly 90 years before. Through prosperity, war, and recession, the goats and the railroad have shared this Rocky Mountain environment. BN's business is down from all-time densities, but natural resources will soon yield incredible traffic dividends.

The goats mosey off to other errands, the tourists pack off in their cars for other destinations, and those departing are quickly replaced by new batches of both. Michael hears a new sound above the clatter of cars, a sound different from the bustling SDs on the point.

Could it be … could it be 567's roaring full-out? Sure enough, the bulldog snout of F7 682 pokes out of the forest and noses across the bridge. The green-and-black-and-white Fs, shouldering down, ramming hard on the freight's waycar, are a beautiful A-B-B-A quartet. And … yes … by golly, there are consecutively numbered F9's in the lash-up, although the 808 and the 809 are spliced by the 815.

No wonder the head end seemed underpowered, with 6750 horses cranking madly behind the caboose. Jumping with joy Michael blasts away with his 35mm camera. Even with his 200mm telephoto lens, the locomotives are still diminutive in the frame.

Unmoved by Michael's enthusiasm, Terri presses to sally onward. She's a very tolerant wife and she's indulged him in countless detours and photo stops since marrying him, but now it's getting toward dinnertime and there's still a tent to assembled and gear to unpack.

Still hoping to catch additional glimpses of the working Fs, hands tightly gripping the steering wheel, Michael negotiates curvaceous U.S. 2 with one eye cocked for the railroad peeking "now you see me, now you don't" above us. Dodging semis—U.S. 2 is a major interstate truck route—we race upgrade, but the chimerical Fs have disappeared as mysteriously as they appeared.

At a national forest campground near the last snowshed west of the summit, we stop and stretch our legs from the long day's journey. Terri agrees to a campsite next to the highway separating them from the railroad because it's near the facilities. Michael says he can live with highway noise, although Terri knows it's really the proximity of the tracks that attracted him.

Camp is pitched and dinner is cooked. Night falls. The sleeping bags are warm and comfortable, and sleep comes quickly. In the night, however, Michael awakens to the music of the Fs, 567's revved up to governor-maximum. Still later, they whisper back downgrade, dynamic brake grids whining as the four light units race for their next Columbia Falls-to-Summit helper turn. And Michael vaguely hears them make one last run just before sunrise, although he's too groggy to completely wake up.

But sunny vacations are to be enjoyed, and after breakfast dishes are washed and the car is packed, we elect not to wait for the cabs and boosters. Vanishing breed or not, their schedule is uncertain, and more mountain goats await us in the highlands of Glacier Park.

Westward we wend, miles dropping behind us—into Washington and south to Oregon before returning home to Idaho. Jobs change and so do young families, so we move and move again. We hear rumors that the Fs are retired, and Michael spots several in the dead line at Seattle's Balmer Yard. After yet a third move in twice as many years, Michael takes a last look into a box of junk he's about to throw away. There are some black and white negatives, neatly sleeved but lacking identification. Close inspection reveals vacation scenery: mountains, waterfalls, wild birds, and mammals—and the long-forgotten covered wagons.

Printing the photographs sparks memory, bringing back thoughts of a wonderful vacation excursion. There are all the magnificent places we visited: Virginia City, Last Chance Gulch, Lake McDonald and the Continental Divide, Mammoth Hot Springs, Old Faithful and Morning Glory Pool. There are the elk and moose of Yellowstone, the flowers and birds of Glacier, the seascapes of the Pacific Coast.

There, too, are the diesels, notched out to Run 8, blowers going all-out, exhaust hazy over the tree-lined background. Although taken with a long telephoto lens, they demonstrate that western railroading is so overwhelming that photos can't do it justice. Even in the 8x10 blowups, canyon and forest dominate the train.

One other observation springs quickly to mind: in the nine rolls of negatives, there are two shots of the road hoods and two of the F units. There are none of mountain goats!