Traveling by Rail

It came to pass that my professional presence was required in Ritzville, a tiny farming community 65 miles southwest of Spokane. I gathered myself for the arduous trip, examining the various travel options-these were slim indeed.

Ritzville has no airport. There may be farmers with planes who offer rides, but this seems to me to be no better than hitchhiking. You take risks, not knowing their piloting skills-the newspaper is full of stories about innocents killed in plane-barn collisions. Plus, there's really no clearing-house where availability and need can be coordinated.

Hitching itself is, of course, not only illegal but dangerously impractical, given the appalling condition of the public highway infrastructure, the scarcity of vehicular traffic, and the willingness of total strangers to practice target-shooting at your head while you're between rides or even in transit. Private passenger cars are expensive, and the cost of fuel and the ferocious excise tax on privately-owned vehicles-phew!

A taxi option might have been viable, except that my employers always insist that I travel as economically as possible-and, Lord knows, taking a taxi from Spokane to Ritzville would be frighteningly expensive. Again, fuel prices; again, the excise tax. And taxi drivers generally preferred not to visit areas where they might become bait for sports-hunting enthusiasts. Our federal constitution prohibits restriction of privately-owned arms, remember?

Bus, then? No, the leading companies had merged and then, due to economic pressures, given up all but the exceedingly profitable routes. Fuel prices hammered them-it's too expensive to downshift off the interstates for local pickup and delivery.

I might, under other circumstances, have applied to one or more of the drayage firms for passage in the right-hand seat of a westbound semi-articulated. They need the passenger traffic, more as a means to keep their drivers engaged in conversation, and thus, awake. But to Ritzville? For such a short distance, it was unlikely I'd find a direct trip within my schedule constraints. And a long-haul trip wouldn't be granted to me for any price-there was little possibility of picking up in Ritzville a replacement rider for a truck just passing.

I could have rented a horse. With society returning to its agrarian roots, moving by hay-burner is fast becoming a more acceptable way to travel. The gun people are more reluctant to shoot when they know they might also hit the animal. But I'm allergic to animal dander and horseback sways too much for my easily-upset stomach. Not to mention that past experience indicates 65 miles in the saddle would have reduced my rear side to a mass of aches and sores.

That left going by foot. Or by rail, which is to say, the least appealing mode of transportation in the world. But, given the options, I decided rail was far less dangerous than trying my luck on the public thruways.

Accordingly, I packed a small overnight bag with my tools and the absolute essentials and caught a transit authority van going to the Spokane train station. The railway company is tighter than most airlines about how much carry-on baggage they'll allow-it was easier preparing for the worst than it would have been to find out at the station I'd overpacked.

The station looked as I remembered it, a dingy two-story building with a broken-glass vestibule standing forlorn beside Spokane's elevated two-track railroad mainline. The years took their toll on this edifice long before I arrived; there was hardly anything left to deteriorate or vandalize.

Behind the ticket window, I recognized a neighbor, Jill, from down the street. "You work here?" I inquired. "I didn't know that."

"It's a living," she nodded. "I don't brag about it."

"Sure," I agreed. "Ritzville, please."

"Not much call for trips to Ritzville. That'll be $2,000.00. Credit card or cash?"

"Visa," I said, handing over the company's credit card. "What's that, about $30.00 a mile?"

"Dunno," she answered. "I just read 'em off the sheet. If you gotta go, you gotta go, no matter how much we charge. Okay, sleeping accommodations are required."

"I hope so. Hate to take my chances on anything less."

She jotted the answer in her ticket log. "That's $600.00. No, wait. To Ritzville, it's only $200.00." She took off her glasses and polished them. "Gotta get my eyes checked," she frowned. "Sorry."

"Thank heavens," I sighed. "Six hundred dollars for a sleeper. Ouch!"

"Meals are also mandatory. Do you prefer bagged or heated?"

"What's the difference?" I wondered.

"Well," Jill hesitated. "Bagged is … uhh … well, bagged. You know-cold cuts, sliced cheese, a loaf of French bread."

"And heated?"

"Cooked. Warmed on a stove. At pre-arranged stops along the route. Like home cooking." She smiled weakly.

"How's the price differ?" I asked.

She looked down at her books and calculated for a moment. "Bagged is $270." She looked up and rubbed her forehead.

"W-wow!" I stammered. "Wow, that's steep."

"Three people, six meals," she said. "Fifteen bucks apiece."

"Three …" I wondered.

"Passenger, conductor, baggage handler," she explained. "I don't make 'em up, I only read 'em."

"Sure, sure" I agreed and sighed. "Well, I guess I don't have any choice. This is company business-they'd better take care of me."

"Plus an extra $100 ..." Jill added. "... for the union representative. He always gets heated meals, no matter what. It's in the rules, I guess."

"Then, how …" It was my turn to hesitate. "… how much would the heated meals be?"

"Let's see," she looked at her paperwork and figured. "That would be … umm … $360." She looked up again. "Three times six times $20. Plus $80 for the union rep. Hmmm … odd that he's cheaper-doesn't say why."

"So, the choice is $270 for bagged meals plus the $100-against $360 for heated plus $80." It was my turn to calculate. "That's only $70 more."

"It would be different on a longer trip. Sorry."

"I guess heated meals really make more sense anyway. Yeah, heated-I'll go first-class. Put it all on the card, it's business. When's departure?"

She looked at her watch and frowned again. "You're lucky. I drew the short straw today-it's my turn to conduct the next run and we're scheduled to leave in fifty minutes. Now, we need to check the overnighter. I hate this part but it's the law. They insist, you know."

"Not a problem," I said, handing over the bag so she could weigh and inspect it. "You're the conductor, eh? That's a drag, isn't it?" She nodded glumly and then handed me the credit card and a ticket.

"Yeah. Well, your bag is clean. This is mostly just tools, no contraband or weapons. Shoes?"

"Boots," I replied, stepping back so she could see them from inside the ticket window. "I've traveled before."

"Good. We'll check the bag through." She wrapped a claim stub around the handle, then pointed toward the dark hole of the tunnel to trackside. "Departure is at 10:35 on track two; it's out that way."

I spent a couple bucks on a candy bar from the machine, then climbed up the embankment outside the station. The tunnel frightened me, so I avoided it. I sat on a rundown baggage cart parked under the station's eve to eat the chocolate and wait for the scheduled departure.

Right on time, Jill appeared out of the tunnel with a short, stocky fellow wearing coveralls and a baseball cap with ear protectors. She waved to me and I darted across track one to join them on the track-two platform. "This is Arnie," she introduced us. "He's going with us today. He'll handle the bag."

"Great," I said, offering my hand politely. We shook and then he tested the heft of my overnight bag. "Jill said it was okay," I fretted.

"Yah," he grunted. It was the only word I heard him say the entire trip.

"I'm the only one?" I wondered nervously, looking around. The station platform was empty, except for the baggage cart. An old coach rotted on the spur track east of the station.

"Uh-huh," Jill agreed. "That's why the cost is so high. Couple more passengers and we could've made this a break-even trip. Ritzville … geepers, I haven't gone there in years. I like to go east, into Idaho and the Bitterroots. It's cooler-and prettier. Ever been to Ritzville, Arnie?"

He bobbed his head up and down a couple times in affirmation but said nothing.

Jill handed me a safari hat matching hers. "We'll leave as soon as the union representative gets here," she said, looking at her watch, face clouded with concern. "This guy's always late. But he's good. He's not afraid to stop a journey if he thinks people are endangered by line conditions. Or by the passenger …" she added significantly. "… or by people along the track. Rules are rules are rules. Well, safety is his duty-here he comes now."

We were joined by a sallow gent wearing an old-fashioned frock coat and a black fedora. "You check the bag?" he demanded.

"Clean," answered Jill. "… and lighter than it has to be."

"Fine, fine. Let's go. Haven't got all day."

"Pardon me," I said, irked by his abruptness, "but if memory serves me correctly, we DO have all day. In fact, we have two days …"

"You the passenger?" he snapped.

"Well … yeah."

"You just stay in back and let us do the thinking here. Ticket, please." And he brandished a mammoth punch on a chain to his vest.

I handed over the pasteboard slab Jill had entrusted to me and the man became a dynamo, punching a series of random holes in the ticket. When he'd worn it out, he dropped it between the rails.

"Hey," I protested. "I need to submit that with my expense report."

"No time," he snapped. "Move out."

Arnie took my travel bag and slung it over his shoulder. Jill raised her packsack to her shoulders and joined the union rep walking west; I picked up the riddled ticket and fell into step with Arnie a pace behind them.

The line is elevated through downtown and finally reaches solid ground on the other side of a long concrete bridge across Hangman Creek. Rows of mansions converted to multi-family dwellings crowd up to the Brown's Addition bluff next to the tracks. People in apartments stared glumly at us as we trudged along the cinders between the rusted rails-far below, a trickle of water sparkled in the late-morning sun.

There was a time, I've been told, when they actually ran trains on these tracks. But as the economy got worse, it became more expensive and less practical to haul people by rail. The government took over the job in the 1970s and tried to manage it for fifty years, before throwing up their bureaucratic hands and forcing passenger travel back on the railroads. Because trains were required for them to stay in business, the rail lines were bled into red ink, and finally-about 20 years ago-stopped operating altogether.

Still, they own the tracks and the stations. Now they charge fees for people to hike from town to town. It's just too dangerous to walk along the public roads, or hitchhike, or-God forbid-accidentally cut across someone else's property. If we need to travel, we pay the fees and take the tracks. There's a reason rail travel is expensive.

They provide a conductor to manage trackside arrangements. They send along someone to carry the customer's luggage. And an armed escort. I hadn't seen any indications, but I knew the union representative was ready for anything. The frock coat wasn't just an arcane style affectation, it contained pockets for an assault weapon, binoculars, probably anti-personnel grenades, maybe a backup canteen. And it was undoubtedly bullet-proof; the only unprotected parts of his body were his face, hands and ankles-places most wannabe gunslingers are too stupid to aim at.

I knew better than get into an argument with him, he'd have halted the trip right away. It's his duty to make sure the passengers and employees in his charge are well protected. This particular rep was better than some and no worse than others. The union tries to hire men who are reasonably compatible-cuts down on in-transit squabbles and makes trips smoother-but then again, where do they find men willing to face potential hardships and risks day in and day out.

Jill had a large packsack of provisions-enough for the four of us to live comfortably for two days, high-energy snack bars, extra water, powerful lotion for protection against the sun and diminished ozone layers. She also had an umbrella for rain, matches in case we'd need to warm ourselves at night, a mobile telephone for emergency calls, and a cassette-player and a handful of tapes of music to help us vary the pace of our walk. And she carried a high-powered camera, in case we needed evidence for criminal court.

Meals will be at carefully-screened farmhouses along the way, served home style. Jill's already telephoned ahead so the rail line's representative in Sprague will have cots and blankets waiting in the depot. If I'm lucky-if Jill is as good a neighbor as I believe, if she's as professional a railway agent as she seems-she's arranged for pillows, too.

Copyright © 2000-2005. Michael Quin Heavener. All Rights Reserved.

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