Following the lengthy and excellent night's slumber which concluded the first verse, I was up and about early and in time for a surprise smoke stop at Winnemucca, NV. My notes show that we departed at 7:59 a.m., but this is suspect because I may not have adjusted my watch to PDT yet. It may in fact have been 6:59 a.m., making the CZ 12 minutes early, and also explaining the unscheduled wait in the middle of the cold desert early in the morning.
It was announced that people could get off the train. No attendants in evidence for any of the sleepers, so there ensued a hilarious mad scramble of the hopelessly addicted (myself among them) to detrain from coach to snag a few puffs. The sleeper attendants cannot be faulted here. The wait was not announced in advance, and was clearly unusual, so the attendants were probably engaged in other routine tasks and caught off guard.
Lit up with the guy from Martinez with whom I had breakfasted out of Denver. Turned out he rolls his own too, only by hand; I use a machine.
Underway again, it was time for a second continental breakfast. Same as the day before, except room temperature cardboard bacon replaced room temperature air hockey puck sausage. Seated alone at first, I had just ordered (modest variations, including cold cereal, were available, but I stuck with oatmeal) when I was joined by a jovial Australian couple who were visiting the States for the first time. They asked what I was having, and I rattled it off. They wondered what oatmeal was, so I explained it as best I could. The lady liked the sound of it and ordered some as well.
She was less than thrilled when my oatmeal arrived. "It's porridge." "That's what you call it?" "Yes." Two peoples divided by a common language. Or something like that. Her "porridge" went uneaten, but she became quite animated when I asked what they had thought about the KFC we'd all had for dinner. It brought back fond childhood memories of visiting grandparents and always going out for Kentucky Fried Chicken. In Australia.
The couple were both curious about riding over the Sierras, and about what to do in San Francisco, so of course I prattled at length on both topics, as well as letting them know they'd hear a very similar railroad rant, with greater detail, courtesy of the onboard docent from the California State Railroad Museum. Because they said they were not limited by time considerations, were pretty much making up the trip as they went along (except the CZ ride, which had been long planned), and clearly had wide-ranging interests, it was fun and challenging to try to answer their questions about here, there, and everywhere.
At Reno I got my first up close look at the new rail trench that runs through downtown. What can I say? It's a concrete trench. Got the guy I'd smoked with at Salt Lake to take my pic, and he related his Amtrak nightmare on the CZ to Chicago, including arriving so late that he had to schlep to Midway airport for a rental car because the agency at Union Station was closed for the night. The food situation westbound hadn't exactly helped improve his opinion of Amtrak, and he vowed never to ride long distance again.
Departing Reno I busied myself reconfiguring the roomette for day use. Absentee Karl turned up as I was finishing and bleated something about thinking he had done my room already. "Nope, and I had to set it up last night too." He just walked away. Guess what: No tip for Karl. Only the second time I've ever stiffed a sleeper attendant (different reason than the first) in about 20 total sleeper rides.
Then downstairs for a shower. Between that and redoing the room I missed much of the climb to Truckee, but that's okay; third time.
Morning prep completed and camera charged, it was time to amble the train to my last coach photo perch. Paused in the Sightseer Lounge to listen a bit to the docent giving his spiel. My first experience with a museum docent on the CZ was en route to Chicago in '04. Noting that he worked from a script when talking on the PA system, I asked him about that, because when not on the PA he often went into far greater (and more interesting) detail, and obviously enjoyed responding to any questions in very entertaining fashion.
Turned out he was president (or director maybe - exact title escapes me; Head Guy.), and knew all about the scripts. As of '04 all docents used the same approved script over the PA system. Many groups maintain an interest in how their historical links with the construction of the Central Pacific's portion of the first transcon are presented to the public, so the scripts were subjected to what sounded like a grueling vetting and approval process. Off the PA (pronounced "leash") docents had much more freedom, but were still bound by certain guidelines. Head Guy didn't say so, but I gathered he had more freedom than most. He spent most of his time talking with a group of railfans (including me), and kinda grumbled whenever he excused himself to go back on the PA.
When I asked why the Head Guy of the California State Railroad Museum was out doing the docent thing on a weekday, he replied "It's nice to get out of the office."
That was then, this is now. Sorry (not really) for the digression.
Because portions of the docent's spiel on this trip sounded really familiar (4th time I've heard CZ docents; Head Guy eastbound, 3 others westbound), I'm guessing the script situation hasn't changed much.
Moving along after a time I spotted the Australian couple in the Sightseer, just as the docent was giving a piece of commentary that repeated something I had told them over breakfast. Tapped them on the shoulders and said "But you knew that already, right?" They nodded, cracked up, and I resumed walking the train.
Taking up my post gazing out the back of the last coach, and commencing clicking, I soon became aware of conversation which, because of the lunchtime encounter the previous day (CZ Blues, First Verse), had me silently saying "Please don't talk to me. Please don't talk to me. I can't take that again."
But this was very different. Further eavesdropping (while continuing to observe and shoot scenery) revealed that the conversation, a little loud, was very simple in nature on both sides, and not at all like the incessant yammering of the willful moron of the day before.
Looking around I saw two kids in the last row, right behind me. Talking. It was their conversation I'd been overhearing. And the light bulb which hovers above my head at all times finally lit up: developmentally disabled kids, a young man and his girlfriend, high functioning.
While never a caregiver, I spent a number of years as a paper pusher in California's system for developmental disabilities, saw much, and shoulda been quicker on the uptake.
Around this time, and in quick succession, came two announcements. First was the standard combination of lunch in the diner for sleeper passengers only, coach passengers go to the lounge, we're sorry. Lunch was sub sandwich sections again; roast beef, ham, turkey, pastrami. While almost jogging to the diner to secure a pastrami to go (to be eaten back at the photo roost), the second announcement came down: Microwave in the lounge conked out, sorry. With no diner option for coach passengers, that poor microwave had apparently been driven to death. No hot food anywhere on the train.
Back at the ranch, I alternately grabbed bites and shot pics. Soon the young man noted above took an interest, both in what I was doing and where I'd gotten the food. He was friendly and curious, and I answered his questions in my typical fashion, slow to realize that I wasn't really getting through.
Y'know, it's a humbling downshift for a verbose blowhard like myself to be required by the situation to speak in simple, more precise, concrete terms in order to effectively communicate with someone who wasn't dealt as good a hand as most of us.
The kids - the guy bought a beer, so he's at least 21 - were traveling alone from Reno to Modesto, transferring to a San Joaquin at Sacramento. The guy's mom had put them on the train, and they'd be met by relatives at Modesto. They'd made the trip a couple times before, but the CZ had always been so late that they'd always had to ride a bus from SAC, and were hoping for a first time ride on a San Joaquin. This all came from the guy. The girl never spoke to me. She looked fearful when I tried to talk to her, so I dropped that.
Most of the rest of the way over the Sierras me and the guy talked and enjoyed the scenery. He had some pretty outlandish and hilarious ideas about the railroad and trains in general. If YOU, dear reader, said such stuff I would laugh in your face. In this circumstance I just smiled, tried to explain, and got basically nowhere. Starkly put, there was no ability to think in abstract terms. Not unusual for such folks.
Arrived at SAC in good time for the kids to get their first ride on a San Joaquin. Bade them a safe trip, then pulled an Amtrak person aside to point them out for a little special attention and consideration. No problem. Lighting a smoke on the walk back to my sleeper I grinned inwardly. Experiencing those kids was not only the best highlight of a troubled ride, but a (perhaps overdue) lesson in humility as well.
By the time we arrived at Emeryville I had descended into a state of what I was later informed was California Zephyr Ontime Arrival Schock. Pretty rare, and few doctors have seen it. With a scheduled arrival of 6:10 p.m., upon stepping onto the platform at about 5:55 I suffered severe conniptions and was offered an ambulance, which I refused: "Cab to the hospital is cheaper." A cab was provided and, recovering quickly, I told the guy to just take me to my hotel. Overnight layover before final leg of Denver triangle trip.
Companion photos (with improved captions): California Zephyr Blues
Next (and last): Homeward Bound
It was announced that people could get off the train. No attendants in evidence for any of the sleepers, so there ensued a hilarious mad scramble of the hopelessly addicted (myself among them) to detrain from coach to snag a few puffs. The sleeper attendants cannot be faulted here. The wait was not announced in advance, and was clearly unusual, so the attendants were probably engaged in other routine tasks and caught off guard.
Lit up with the guy from Martinez with whom I had breakfasted out of Denver. Turned out he rolls his own too, only by hand; I use a machine.
Underway again, it was time for a second continental breakfast. Same as the day before, except room temperature cardboard bacon replaced room temperature air hockey puck sausage. Seated alone at first, I had just ordered (modest variations, including cold cereal, were available, but I stuck with oatmeal) when I was joined by a jovial Australian couple who were visiting the States for the first time. They asked what I was having, and I rattled it off. They wondered what oatmeal was, so I explained it as best I could. The lady liked the sound of it and ordered some as well.
She was less than thrilled when my oatmeal arrived. "It's porridge." "That's what you call it?" "Yes." Two peoples divided by a common language. Or something like that. Her "porridge" went uneaten, but she became quite animated when I asked what they had thought about the KFC we'd all had for dinner. It brought back fond childhood memories of visiting grandparents and always going out for Kentucky Fried Chicken. In Australia.
The couple were both curious about riding over the Sierras, and about what to do in San Francisco, so of course I prattled at length on both topics, as well as letting them know they'd hear a very similar railroad rant, with greater detail, courtesy of the onboard docent from the California State Railroad Museum. Because they said they were not limited by time considerations, were pretty much making up the trip as they went along (except the CZ ride, which had been long planned), and clearly had wide-ranging interests, it was fun and challenging to try to answer their questions about here, there, and everywhere.
At Reno I got my first up close look at the new rail trench that runs through downtown. What can I say? It's a concrete trench. Got the guy I'd smoked with at Salt Lake to take my pic, and he related his Amtrak nightmare on the CZ to Chicago, including arriving so late that he had to schlep to Midway airport for a rental car because the agency at Union Station was closed for the night. The food situation westbound hadn't exactly helped improve his opinion of Amtrak, and he vowed never to ride long distance again.
Departing Reno I busied myself reconfiguring the roomette for day use. Absentee Karl turned up as I was finishing and bleated something about thinking he had done my room already. "Nope, and I had to set it up last night too." He just walked away. Guess what: No tip for Karl. Only the second time I've ever stiffed a sleeper attendant (different reason than the first) in about 20 total sleeper rides.
Then downstairs for a shower. Between that and redoing the room I missed much of the climb to Truckee, but that's okay; third time.
Morning prep completed and camera charged, it was time to amble the train to my last coach photo perch. Paused in the Sightseer Lounge to listen a bit to the docent giving his spiel. My first experience with a museum docent on the CZ was en route to Chicago in '04. Noting that he worked from a script when talking on the PA system, I asked him about that, because when not on the PA he often went into far greater (and more interesting) detail, and obviously enjoyed responding to any questions in very entertaining fashion.
Turned out he was president (or director maybe - exact title escapes me; Head Guy.), and knew all about the scripts. As of '04 all docents used the same approved script over the PA system. Many groups maintain an interest in how their historical links with the construction of the Central Pacific's portion of the first transcon are presented to the public, so the scripts were subjected to what sounded like a grueling vetting and approval process. Off the PA (pronounced "leash") docents had much more freedom, but were still bound by certain guidelines. Head Guy didn't say so, but I gathered he had more freedom than most. He spent most of his time talking with a group of railfans (including me), and kinda grumbled whenever he excused himself to go back on the PA.
When I asked why the Head Guy of the California State Railroad Museum was out doing the docent thing on a weekday, he replied "It's nice to get out of the office."
That was then, this is now. Sorry (not really) for the digression.
Because portions of the docent's spiel on this trip sounded really familiar (4th time I've heard CZ docents; Head Guy eastbound, 3 others westbound), I'm guessing the script situation hasn't changed much.
Moving along after a time I spotted the Australian couple in the Sightseer, just as the docent was giving a piece of commentary that repeated something I had told them over breakfast. Tapped them on the shoulders and said "But you knew that already, right?" They nodded, cracked up, and I resumed walking the train.
Taking up my post gazing out the back of the last coach, and commencing clicking, I soon became aware of conversation which, because of the lunchtime encounter the previous day (CZ Blues, First Verse), had me silently saying "Please don't talk to me. Please don't talk to me. I can't take that again."
But this was very different. Further eavesdropping (while continuing to observe and shoot scenery) revealed that the conversation, a little loud, was very simple in nature on both sides, and not at all like the incessant yammering of the willful moron of the day before.
Looking around I saw two kids in the last row, right behind me. Talking. It was their conversation I'd been overhearing. And the light bulb which hovers above my head at all times finally lit up: developmentally disabled kids, a young man and his girlfriend, high functioning.
While never a caregiver, I spent a number of years as a paper pusher in California's system for developmental disabilities, saw much, and shoulda been quicker on the uptake.
Around this time, and in quick succession, came two announcements. First was the standard combination of lunch in the diner for sleeper passengers only, coach passengers go to the lounge, we're sorry. Lunch was sub sandwich sections again; roast beef, ham, turkey, pastrami. While almost jogging to the diner to secure a pastrami to go (to be eaten back at the photo roost), the second announcement came down: Microwave in the lounge conked out, sorry. With no diner option for coach passengers, that poor microwave had apparently been driven to death. No hot food anywhere on the train.
Back at the ranch, I alternately grabbed bites and shot pics. Soon the young man noted above took an interest, both in what I was doing and where I'd gotten the food. He was friendly and curious, and I answered his questions in my typical fashion, slow to realize that I wasn't really getting through.
Y'know, it's a humbling downshift for a verbose blowhard like myself to be required by the situation to speak in simple, more precise, concrete terms in order to effectively communicate with someone who wasn't dealt as good a hand as most of us.
The kids - the guy bought a beer, so he's at least 21 - were traveling alone from Reno to Modesto, transferring to a San Joaquin at Sacramento. The guy's mom had put them on the train, and they'd be met by relatives at Modesto. They'd made the trip a couple times before, but the CZ had always been so late that they'd always had to ride a bus from SAC, and were hoping for a first time ride on a San Joaquin. This all came from the guy. The girl never spoke to me. She looked fearful when I tried to talk to her, so I dropped that.
Most of the rest of the way over the Sierras me and the guy talked and enjoyed the scenery. He had some pretty outlandish and hilarious ideas about the railroad and trains in general. If YOU, dear reader, said such stuff I would laugh in your face. In this circumstance I just smiled, tried to explain, and got basically nowhere. Starkly put, there was no ability to think in abstract terms. Not unusual for such folks.
Arrived at SAC in good time for the kids to get their first ride on a San Joaquin. Bade them a safe trip, then pulled an Amtrak person aside to point them out for a little special attention and consideration. No problem. Lighting a smoke on the walk back to my sleeper I grinned inwardly. Experiencing those kids was not only the best highlight of a troubled ride, but a (perhaps overdue) lesson in humility as well.
By the time we arrived at Emeryville I had descended into a state of what I was later informed was California Zephyr Ontime Arrival Schock. Pretty rare, and few doctors have seen it. With a scheduled arrival of 6:10 p.m., upon stepping onto the platform at about 5:55 I suffered severe conniptions and was offered an ambulance, which I refused: "Cab to the hospital is cheaper." A cab was provided and, recovering quickly, I told the guy to just take me to my hotel. Overnight layover before final leg of Denver triangle trip.
Companion photos (with improved captions): California Zephyr Blues
Next (and last): Homeward Bound
