TraneMan
Conductor
I had to chuckle when I saw this letter to the editor in the paper.. He even wrote one in the Lake City paper.
Good luck getting the Train out of here!
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the_traveler
Engineer
But I suppose airports and roads are OK!
Ispolkom
Engineer
You're a better man than I. When I read it I spit out my coffee. So the writer wants other people to spend billions of dollars to increase the value of *his* land. As if the railroad wasn't there when he bought it!
Swadian Hardcore
Engineer
Enviromental impacts? Talk about cars and planes that use about twice as much fuel! Though the train kinda loses against the bus when the latter uses only about half the fuel of a train per pax, IF that's the only thing you consider. Bus seats are smaller, ya know.
Shawn Ryu
Conductor
To be fair hes not targetting passenger rails specifically, also freight trains. which is understandable.
Cant stand em myself. delays traffic. Whether I am in a car or a train.
Cant stand em myself. delays traffic. Whether I am in a car or a train.
According to the US Department of Energy, Amtrak uses 2,271 BTU's per passenger mile. Intercity buses don't provide their data to the DOE, so it is a bit hard to compare things. But transit buses use 4,118 BTU's per passenger mile. And just for comparison purposes, transit rail (LRT & subway's/El's) use 2,520 BTU's.
So while it might be accurate to say that 1 bus uses half the fuel of 1 train; it is not accurate to say that a bus uses half the fuel of a train, per passenger.
That's the part that really gets me. Same thing happened with a friend of mine whose house backs up to the EJ&E tracks. He went nuts when CN bought it and started running traffic.
anir dendroica
OBS Chief
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My apologies for a long post, but in response to Mr. Nielson's assertion that trains and nature are incompatible, allow me to say that isn't true for everyone. Below is an essay I wrote as a senior in high school - the assignment was to profile a special place.
Pepin
When I was a newly declared teenager, if someone asked me what I loved most in life, I would give one of two replies, trains or nature, depending on where I was. I spent hours in railroad yards, listening to the rumble of steel on steel. I spent as much time hiking through the wilderness near my home, enjoying the sights, sounds, and smells of the great outdoors. I had a third passion in my life, though I seldom admitted it; I loved to feel that I was in charge. These very distinct passions were usually mutually exclusive, but for one magical night in Pepin, Wisconsin, they all came together in a way I have not experienced before or since.
It was July 1998. I was staying with my mother in the Twin Cities for several weeks, and for the most part we stayed at home. It was a pleasant surprise, therefore, when my mother announced one Saturday that we would be spending a night in Pepin, Wisconsin. I had no idea then that Pepin was to become one of my favorite places on the face of the Earth.
After about an hour’s drive from the Cities along the Mississippi River, the ever-awaited announcement, “We’re here!” snapped me out of my daydreaming. I stepped out to examine my surroundings. We were in a tiny town, nestled between Lake Pepin and the steep bluffs of the Mississippi valley. Main Street was only three blocks long. Tiny shops and houses formed a neat line along both sides. Looking toward the lake, I saw a dense forest of denuded trees: masts of over a hundred sailboats. The marina was at least as big as the entire town. Four perfectly parallel silver streaks sliced through main street in front of the marina: the double-track main line of the Burlington Northern Santa Fe Railroad.
As my mother and I walked toward the lake, a new sound drowned out the peaceful small-town noises. Ding-ding-ding-ding. The railroad crossing signs had come to life, but no train was in sight. In two seconds, though, the signature triple headlight of a train appeared on the upriver side. Five seconds later, an air-horn blast turned the air to liquid sound. Ten thousand horsepower roared past at sixty miles per hour, giving way to a steady ground-shaking clickety-clack as fifteen thousand tons of freight bound for Chicago and points east rattled past. Less than two minutes after the crossing gate first broke the silence, the last car rolled away downriver, and all was silent in Pepin again. Natives paid as little heed to the whole ordeal as they did to the church bell announcing the time. It was nothing unusual to them. This ritual repeated itself twice per hour, twenty-four hours per day, seven days per week.
With the rumble of the train gone, my ears picked up another sound, this one much more melodious. Music - a lovely, lilting melody - was drifting down from somewhere out of sight. We set off in search of it and soon discovered its source, an elevated, tent-covered wooden platform erected in the center of Pepin’s only square block. This was the hangout of the townspeople. Some played various instruments, creating a beautiful chorus of folk music, while others sat in groups, drinking coffee and commenting on the wonderful weather. Here we met my mother’s friend David, a sailboat owner, who would be tour guide for the remainder of the day.
It was now afternoon, and we were in need of food, so we headed for Pepin’s only restaurant. Set alongside the marina, The Pickle looked like it was built to withstand a hurricane. Standing far from any of the other town buildings, it was two stories high and constructed of brick. The restaurant was on the second floor and was reached by climbing a long outside stairway. The atmosphere inside The Pickle was unique: distinctly small-town, but with a bit of big-time flair. Their menu consisted of all the expected rural dishes - commercials, burgers, and the like - as well as a few more unusual, and expensive, seafood entrees. Huge picture windows looked out over the lake, and a small balcony in back looked over the railroad, not more than twenty feet away, providing a unique view of passing trains. Our meal was delicious, and we were ready to get a taste of life on the water.
David led us along the maze of docks to a medium sized sailboat. While not huge, it was the largest watercraft that I had ever been on. After a bit of maneuvering, we were cruising the waters of Lake Pepin, joining hundreds of other boats with the same idea. A faint whistle sounded over the lake, and I looked back to see no train in Pepin. After a bit of searching, I realized that it was coming from across the lake, where the tracks of the Canadian Pacific Railroad ran at water level.
As we slowly drifted with the wind, David taught me the jargon of sailing. We would “tack” and “come about” (terms for adjusting the sails) as he taught me how to tie the ropes and gauge the wind. Soon, the beautiful day gave way to a dazzling sunset that sparkled on the water in every possible hue, fading softly into a night studded by innumerable stars. Now we drifted on an ocean of lights, the other boats visible only by their red and green bow and stern beacons. David handed me the wheel and sat back to talk with my mother.
So there I was, thirteen years old, master of the boat, gazing up at the endless night sky, while the mournful calls of train whistles echoed across the water. All my passions converged in one magic moment. For some, Pepin, Wisconsin may be just another small town, but for this young boy, it was as close to heaven as a place could possibly be.
Pepin
When I was a newly declared teenager, if someone asked me what I loved most in life, I would give one of two replies, trains or nature, depending on where I was. I spent hours in railroad yards, listening to the rumble of steel on steel. I spent as much time hiking through the wilderness near my home, enjoying the sights, sounds, and smells of the great outdoors. I had a third passion in my life, though I seldom admitted it; I loved to feel that I was in charge. These very distinct passions were usually mutually exclusive, but for one magical night in Pepin, Wisconsin, they all came together in a way I have not experienced before or since.
It was July 1998. I was staying with my mother in the Twin Cities for several weeks, and for the most part we stayed at home. It was a pleasant surprise, therefore, when my mother announced one Saturday that we would be spending a night in Pepin, Wisconsin. I had no idea then that Pepin was to become one of my favorite places on the face of the Earth.
After about an hour’s drive from the Cities along the Mississippi River, the ever-awaited announcement, “We’re here!” snapped me out of my daydreaming. I stepped out to examine my surroundings. We were in a tiny town, nestled between Lake Pepin and the steep bluffs of the Mississippi valley. Main Street was only three blocks long. Tiny shops and houses formed a neat line along both sides. Looking toward the lake, I saw a dense forest of denuded trees: masts of over a hundred sailboats. The marina was at least as big as the entire town. Four perfectly parallel silver streaks sliced through main street in front of the marina: the double-track main line of the Burlington Northern Santa Fe Railroad.
As my mother and I walked toward the lake, a new sound drowned out the peaceful small-town noises. Ding-ding-ding-ding. The railroad crossing signs had come to life, but no train was in sight. In two seconds, though, the signature triple headlight of a train appeared on the upriver side. Five seconds later, an air-horn blast turned the air to liquid sound. Ten thousand horsepower roared past at sixty miles per hour, giving way to a steady ground-shaking clickety-clack as fifteen thousand tons of freight bound for Chicago and points east rattled past. Less than two minutes after the crossing gate first broke the silence, the last car rolled away downriver, and all was silent in Pepin again. Natives paid as little heed to the whole ordeal as they did to the church bell announcing the time. It was nothing unusual to them. This ritual repeated itself twice per hour, twenty-four hours per day, seven days per week.
With the rumble of the train gone, my ears picked up another sound, this one much more melodious. Music - a lovely, lilting melody - was drifting down from somewhere out of sight. We set off in search of it and soon discovered its source, an elevated, tent-covered wooden platform erected in the center of Pepin’s only square block. This was the hangout of the townspeople. Some played various instruments, creating a beautiful chorus of folk music, while others sat in groups, drinking coffee and commenting on the wonderful weather. Here we met my mother’s friend David, a sailboat owner, who would be tour guide for the remainder of the day.
It was now afternoon, and we were in need of food, so we headed for Pepin’s only restaurant. Set alongside the marina, The Pickle looked like it was built to withstand a hurricane. Standing far from any of the other town buildings, it was two stories high and constructed of brick. The restaurant was on the second floor and was reached by climbing a long outside stairway. The atmosphere inside The Pickle was unique: distinctly small-town, but with a bit of big-time flair. Their menu consisted of all the expected rural dishes - commercials, burgers, and the like - as well as a few more unusual, and expensive, seafood entrees. Huge picture windows looked out over the lake, and a small balcony in back looked over the railroad, not more than twenty feet away, providing a unique view of passing trains. Our meal was delicious, and we were ready to get a taste of life on the water.
David led us along the maze of docks to a medium sized sailboat. While not huge, it was the largest watercraft that I had ever been on. After a bit of maneuvering, we were cruising the waters of Lake Pepin, joining hundreds of other boats with the same idea. A faint whistle sounded over the lake, and I looked back to see no train in Pepin. After a bit of searching, I realized that it was coming from across the lake, where the tracks of the Canadian Pacific Railroad ran at water level.
As we slowly drifted with the wind, David taught me the jargon of sailing. We would “tack” and “come about” (terms for adjusting the sails) as he taught me how to tie the ropes and gauge the wind. Soon, the beautiful day gave way to a dazzling sunset that sparkled on the water in every possible hue, fading softly into a night studded by innumerable stars. Now we drifted on an ocean of lights, the other boats visible only by their red and green bow and stern beacons. David handed me the wheel and sat back to talk with my mother.
So there I was, thirteen years old, master of the boat, gazing up at the endless night sky, while the mournful calls of train whistles echoed across the water. All my passions converged in one magic moment. For some, Pepin, Wisconsin may be just another small town, but for this young boy, it was as close to heaven as a place could possibly be.
the_traveler
Engineer
And people who buy houses next to an airport and complain about jet noise
Or people who buy a house next to a highway, and then demand the Government to build those sound retention walls for them (so they're not "bothered" by the road noise)!
Or people who want to live in the country but don't want the smells that go with living in the country.
the_traveler
Engineer
AmtrakBlue said:
GoldenSpike
Lead Service Attendant
- Joined
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Because of that some cities require dicey takeoff procedures all in the name of noise abatement.And people who buy houses next to an airport and complain about jet noise
Sea-Tac went further and cleared out neighborhoods within a block of the end of the runway. A crying shame
because they could of offered low-cost housing to those willing to put up with it, or better yet offered low-cost
housing to couples who were both hearing-impaired.
How about communities that develop close to the tracks then squawk and ban train horns as they pass
through?
NW cannonball
Conductor
Me, I totally love that whole stretch of the Mississippi from Saint Paul to Dubuque. I've driven it in a car many many times, taken the Builder many many times, and even bicycled parts of it several times.
The little towns on either side of the river - the fishing down there where the river pollution is diluted - the deer hunting where the deer run down to the river from the cornfields on the bluffs - (don't hunt myself but friends do)
I read that this stretch of river is only 10,000 years old or so - from when the last glaciers melted - some of the bluffs and rocks are a few thousand times that old.
The rail tracks are a hundred years old, the Corps of Engineers dams are less than a hundred years old. Love em all.
The river is fairly clean - Lake Pepin is amazing - the eagles and herons and all seem to be really happy with the scene.
And the train tracks -- to me -- are a very welcome barrier to overdevelopment on the river banks.
Part of my feelings about this stretch of river might come from riding the Zephyr when I was a wee small one on the way to Chicago and points east.
The little towns on either side of the river - the fishing down there where the river pollution is diluted - the deer hunting where the deer run down to the river from the cornfields on the bluffs - (don't hunt myself but friends do)
I read that this stretch of river is only 10,000 years old or so - from when the last glaciers melted - some of the bluffs and rocks are a few thousand times that old.
The rail tracks are a hundred years old, the Corps of Engineers dams are less than a hundred years old. Love em all.
The river is fairly clean - Lake Pepin is amazing - the eagles and herons and all seem to be really happy with the scene.
And the train tracks -- to me -- are a very welcome barrier to overdevelopment on the river banks.
Part of my feelings about this stretch of river might come from riding the Zephyr when I was a wee small one on the way to Chicago and points east.
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VentureForth
Engineer
Very nice! Submit it to the newspaper as an equal time editorial!
TraneMan
Conductor
I agree, send that to the paper!
I was at Pepin a couple of weekend ago, and I thought it was nice seeing the train rolling along the river.. here is my photos from our view.
I was at Pepin a couple of weekend ago, and I thought it was nice seeing the train rolling along the river.. here is my photos from our view.
George Harris
Engineer
Anyone who builds/buys next to a railroad, airport, highway, or farm and then complains about the noise and smells, etc. should be declared mentally defective. End of story. For myself, I would rather see what is out there than be looking at all these claustrophobic sound walls.
Texan Eagle
Conductor
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- 1,705
And right after submitting that article, I bet he/she went out for a drive from their home in "calm, serene valley" in a gas guzzling automobile. I might stop and consider their point of view if it was established that they travel purely by foot or by horse carriages.
Ispolkom
Engineer
A reply appeared in today's Star Tribune:
That roar in the river valley? That's the sound of progress.
That roar in the river valley? That's the sound of progress.
He could have summed up his views in four words: "I am a NIMBY."
Swadian Hardcore
Engineer
Bravo to him, but I thought that buses are the most fuel efficient way to move people! This is confusing. I will need further research.
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Buses are not the most fuel efficient way to move people!
Trains are!
Cars use 3,447 BTU's per passenger mile.
Personal trucks use 3,848 BTU's.
A bus uses 4,118 BTU's.
Amtrak 2,271 BTU's.
From the US DOE's Energy Handbook.
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How come no one posts the caution prominently noted by DOE with the energy intensity tables?
Using the DOE figures as absolutes to declare this mode is better than that mode is not supported by the people who collect and publish the data. Yet, everyone, including Amtrak themselves, plays the "we're the best" game.
By the way, the last time DOE collected intercity bus data (2000), the energy intensity was 713 BTU/PM. Just sayin'.
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Swadian Hardcore
Engineer
Hmm, well I remember that planes use 3,000-something BTUs, so how can a bus be the least efficient mode of transport when fuel comsumption tests and bus companies show differently.
This is what got me confused: http://www.nrel.gov/docs/fy00osti/26758.pdf. Even the regular fueled buses seem "too efficient" to be the least efficient. BTW, 102DL3s are one of America's most common line-haul buses.
With the caveat noted by PRR, airplanes came in at 2,735.
As for why bus companies would show differently, well they want to make a profit. They're going to look for things, or ways, to make the data favorable towards them even if it isn't. And I'm not saying that it isn't favorable to them, just that they would tend to want to find things that make them look good and bury things that make them look bad.
There are multiple ways to look at the data of course. If one looks at how many gallons of fuel a bus consumes on a 50 mile trip for example, clearly the train will use more gallons of fuel. That however doesn't really mean that the bus was more fuel efficient as you're not including what the bus & train accomplished with the usage of that fuel, namely getting people from A to B. And again, I'm not suggesting that's what happened, only that there are plenty of ways to look at data and come up with different conclusions.
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