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Daily Nebraskan
Monday, May 6, 1835
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Amtrak's California Zephyr pulls into the Lincoln train station. More photos on Page 22.
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Mark DavisDaily Nebraskan
Passenger mourns loss of unique Amtrak service
Analysis By
Mark Davis
Assistant Photo Chief
For some, an Amtrak train ride is
an addictive form of travel filled
with mad adventure.
For others, trains are a last resort
But if a traveler has a week or two for
relaxation, trains are unique and in
expensive. As travelers slide through the back
yards of the nation, they see the world
from a different perspective that
may mean straight down a cliff or at the
edge of vast bodies of water.
Train fares are fairly inexpensive.
Travel from Lincoln to anywhere from
Canada to Mexico between the Rockies
and the Mississippi is $150 for a round
trip. Round trips to either coast and
back cost only $250. And those coasts
stretch from Southern California to
Washington and from Maine to Florida.
Despite being unique, passenger
trains have had little success.
When President Richard Nixon signed
the Amtrak Act in 1971, he formed one
large quasi-public corporation from the
broken-down services of failing and
bankrupt passenger rail runners. At
first the travel was unreliable and
unpleasant and only desperate people
rode trains.
But things started to piece together,
and as Amtrak acquired new cars and
refurbished the old ones, people started
riding trains, again.
Now as Amtrak attempts to best the
odds that have almost killed the rail
was industry, Congress has thrown
Amtrak's budget on the chopping block
to cut.
y the time Amtrak dies, people
will begin to realize the ramifica
tions of being the only nation in
the industrialized world without a
passenger-train system. The only remai
ning U.S. train system will probably be
in the northeast corridor on the east
coast where many people ride the train.
Until Oct. 21, when the execution
er's ax is sharpened, passengers can
still catch a train to most parts of the
United States.
Dave, my semi-paranoid traveling
companion, and I jumped the Califor
nia Zephyr the same train that
derailed a couple months ago in Colo
rado and the same train that derailed
enroute to Lincoln that day, belating
our trip on the long haul to unknown
destinations.
We were heading to Chicago so we
could catch a train south to warm
weather and a spring break excursion
to Texas. I was sitting in a nearly empty
coach looking out the window and
thinking about the times I had put
coins, rocks or anything that needed to
be flattened on tracks. I was feeling a
certain amount of fright.
When we reached Omaha, I got off
the train. I wandered around for awhile,
but I was still in Nebraska and not in
the mood for exploration. I noticed a
trainsman who looked very relaxed, sol
started a conversation.
He said he had been an Amtrak
employee for more than a decade and
had yet to experience a derailment of
any consequence: I simmered into an
uneasy calm.
I guess there was a certain lock to
my sweaty sun glassed face that said
"sedative" because this trainsman
asked me if I had any smoke. Realizing
that he didn't mean my stale cigarettes,
I shook my head and got back on the
train with a fresh batch of paranoia
brewing in my brain.
I noticed a lot of people who work
and ride trains walk quietly through
the cars with their eyes sinking into
their sockets. One baggage man told
me that drug use is common among
train employees, so much so that
straight employees are sometimes lon
ers on board.
The trainsman who asked me for
some smoke said a little pot is
always appreciated, especially
when the train is playing catch-up after
a derailment like the one that had just
happened or the one that happened in
that remote Colorado pass.
"Trains used to be
high class and very
comfortable until
people started buy
ing cars and tak
ing airplanes. 11
But the problem also exists in busi
nesses that place people in union jobs,
traveling on boats, trucks or trains. In
comparison to other forms of traveling
in America, trains are probably as safe
as any.
We were about four hours from Chi
cago when Dave and I decided to try
the lounge car.
Lounge cars are notorious for their
unique atmosphere. It always
sounds like a business luncheon with
out food in the lounge car. If you spend
any time there, which most people do,
you will inevitably be sucked into deep,
extended conversations with any and
everyone that is within speaking dis
tance of you.
As I was slamming down my first
beer, I noticed an old man sitting in the
seat across from me. He was small but
he had a rough look to his face He had
thin, white hair, thick brows, a shaggy
moustache and liver spots thick enough
to look like a deep tan from a distance.
He was the last person I expected to
converse with, but in a short time we
both knew where we were going and
where we came from.
Somehow the old man knew this was
my first train trip. I told him that I had
taken a short train ride on an antique
train when I was young, but I didn't
remember much. He said that when he
was very young he crossed a major por
tion of the continent on a covered
wagon.
He said he was young, but he still
could remember the inconsistent swing
of buckets strapped to the side of the
wagon. Every once in awhile, he said,
they would stop the wagon and grease
the axle with something his mother
had told him to keep his hands out of.
"Trains are much more comforta
ble," he said. But he went on to say that
he had been riding trains for a long
time and that trains aren't what they
used to be either.
"Trains used to be high class and
very comfortable until people started
buying cars and taking airplanes," he
said.
The old man headed back to his
coach as we rolled into Chicago. We
had a 24-hour lay-over because our
train going south only made the trip
three dzys a week.
We checked into a $80-a-night hotel
and prepared to catch up on some
spending. From our room, we had an
inspirational view of a torn-down build
ing, the loading docks of a post office,
and the inner industrial city. We slid
into some cool duds and fat wallets and
caught a cab to Rush Street. While
riding through the area, our cabbie
asked if we were from out of town. After
telling him we were from Nebraska, he
gave us some advice. As we were pul
ling up to a bar on Rush Street, he said,
"Don't leave this block."
We cruised all the popular bars,
but I wasn't impressed with the
Saturday night crowd. It was
probably because the bars charge too
much for beer and everyone was sober.
The next morning we woke up to a
stiff breeze and a cold shower in down
town Chicago. It was a foggy Sunday
morning, the streets were vacant, and
only the distant cries of drug dealers
could be heard.
We walked through the dirty streets,
watching fat pigeons peck at their
Sunday dinners, and a gauntlet of deal
ers lined the street to sell their wares.
As we walked through the streets, a
couple of the dealers approached us
and as we talked to them my curiousity
started to get the best of me.
I followed a couple of guys into a bar
just off one of the main streets. I was
the only white person in the bar. It
suddenly became very quiet. Except for
the raspy sound of an old juke box, the
only thing I could here was my heart
beating.
I stayed for a while and before long I
was approached by a hairlipped man
wanting to sell me some pot. He also
wanted my wallet. So I quickly left.
I ran most of the way back to the
train and again I found myself in the
lounge car, not quite remembering
when I got on the train and not quite
caring.
Dave came over to our table (I had
met a nice Taxas woman) with an elder
man and a book called "Man and
Plants" and soon we were all playing
Continued on Pa3 21
