St. Paul

I am looking out from the third floor of the St. Paul public library. The church-like spires of the old city hall are visible above the trees of Rice park.

We began on Friday morning with goodbyes to Josh in the early morning light of Albany. The Cascades was on time and we began the bumping/rocking that was to be the background to our journey for the next two days. The journey to Seattle was uneventful. We rolled along admiring the flickering scenery, speculating on the glimpses into the backyards and thus lives of folks as we bounced along the way. Once out of the Willamette Valley, we crossed the Columbia river (named according to our daughter, when she was young, for Christopher Columbia) into Washington’s more open farm country and ultimately to the Nisqually Basin and the Puget Sound. At one point, we saw a deer swimming across a small inlet, again fostering speculation. Where was it going? Was it just out for a swim on a warm day, and do deer even do that?

I should note that for this trip Lydia has packed very economically and precisely. We have a large bag, a smaller bag, my rather large backpack, her pack, and my CPAP machine. [For reference purposes only, I have emphysema and COPD, which on occasion restricts my walking to a few yards at a time. Hence, dragging suitcases while carrying a pack can be difficult at times.] Her expertise at packing and organization always astonishes me and I cannot help but think that her true calling should be logistics and supply coordinator for FEMA.

We bumped to a stop at King Street station in Seattle and made the trek into Union Station, note by the way that nearly all train stations in America are called Union Station, where we had a four hour wait. Once having taken care of the biological necessities, we settled in to people watch and wait. Lyd at one point ventured into the surrounding neighborhood to find sustenance as the station had only a snack machine on offer as a food source. She returned with giant hotdogs, very hot and peppery. They were marvelous and fortified us until we had supper on the train.

At 4:00 travelers began to queue in front of us though the train was not in sight. I turned down an offer of “assistance” to board, but Lydia persuaded me otherwise. This put us on board early when the train had arrived and the porter carried our bags up the narrow winding stair to our room. Stairs being the biggest challenge for me in getting about, I was grateful for her foresight. While others boarded, we organized our nest for the next two nights, setting out changes of clothes and dop kits before we sent the large bag down stairs via Carl, the porter for our car. We began to roll east.

The scenery through the northern Cascades was impressive, the hills more abrupt than in those of the central Oregon Cascades area of home. The vine-maples had begun to take on their fall colors. Some of this we observed while eating a pleasant meal of seared shrimp (Lydia) and chicken carbonara (me) with David, an English-speaking French wine merchant and a young woman who bonded with Lydia over their shared medical conditions. Train dining is always communal and it is often a toss of the dice as to whether dining companions will be pleasant, or just annoying. That being said, I am sure that disregarding the midwestern taciturnity that I inherited from my father, who grew up in Kansas during the depression, with only a very grim father for a mentor, I am always a delightful table companion. I am glad to report that our companions on this night were quite nice, though the recollection may be colored by the half bottle of cabernet with supper each night.

We spent 15 minutes in the dark going through the mile-long Cascade Tunnel, then had the beds made up for the night. Based on an unfortunate previous experience, Lydia volunteered to sleep in the upper berth, being less subject to claustrophobia than I and more able to ascend the ladder. (As I write this I begin to wonder why I ever venture out of our front door, after all I have difficulty getting around and I am not all that fond of other people or crowds. I need an Archie Goodwin.) We did not anticipate an easy first night of sleep and our anticipations were well rewarded.

The next morning, we reorganized our thoughts and having used the in-room convenience, not unlike using a porta-potty while friends gently roll it down the hill, we refreshed ourselves with French toast, Lyd, and scrambled eggs, me. Note by the way, that I document the meals of our journeys. This is not unusual in travel journals. Sustenance on the road is of key importance, a survival item that is duly documented for future travelers. I refer you to the journals of Lewis and Clark, though my meals have not been as exotic as theirs since I last visited China. In any case, I do the family cooking so food is central to what I do in life.

By this time, Saturday, August 26, we had begun the long roll across northern Montana, skirting around the southern tip of Glacier National Park. It would take us all day and part of the evening to cross the Big Sky State, the landscape changing from steep blue mountains with small splashes of glaciers at their tips to flat prairie which alternated between sage and fields of wheat stubble.

Lydia has now finished her research into prior generations who built a portion of their lives here in Minnesota, so I’ll finish this post for today. This is a glorious library, made of huge grey blocks and scrolled tin ceilings. I have been sitting across from the F. Scott Fitzgerald Alcove as I’m writing today. What a pleasure to have this chance to work here.

Blessings.

The Road