We left Washington early on Sunday morning. It seems that I had scheduled all our departures for pre-dawn conditions. Washington was not like New Orleans, there was no cache in the early hours, it was just a city getting ready for another work day. We navigated the beautiful great hall of Union Station and found the small corral where passengers for The Vermonter were collected. Many were spread out and asleep on several benches. Most ultimately revealed themselves as transients, wandering away as the corral filled with ticketed personages. We let the line grow until it extended out of sight into the great hall, then went to the front when boarding for seniors and passengers needing assistance was called. An attendant heaved our bags onto the train for us and we stashed them in what later proved to be only a coat closet. We heaved ourselves into a pair of seats and settled in for a 13-hour ride to White River Junction, Vermont.

White River was the cornerstone of our trip. We were attending a 5-day seminar on how the birth of railroads in Vermont sparked the American Industrial Revolution, by making the products produced from the abundant natural resources, particularly water power for factories, accessible to the rest of the country. And so, we rode north through Maryland, New Jersey, and New York. From a distance, the Manhattan skyline was just as we expected. As we got closer, I could see how close the buildings stood. The Wyoming goat-roper in me was not interested in moving east.

A family had boarded the train with us in Washington, a couple, a baby, and a young boy. When the baby got fussy, the father would turn on a recording to sooth the child. It seemed to us that it was a sound track of either a fetal heart- beat, or someone sweeping their porch. As is typical in a train, one easily overhears the conversations of those nearby. Over time we learned that they were going to his mother’s, having fled the coming hurricane. During the entire trip, the parents spent their time either quieting the baby, or asking the boy to be quiet when he began to sing along to the program on his I pad. For the 11 hours they were with us, the boy had his face on the screen with ear-buds on. He will never remember what it is to take a train ride. We felt sorry for him and anger at what seemed to be a very poor job of parenting.

Across the aisle from us sat a young woman, late teens to early twenties, who alternated between sleeping, texting, and writing in a notebook, her nose only inches from the book. She took a couple of calls on her phone from her father and one from a friend. By then we were in Vermont. She responded to her friends comment by saying, “Yeah, I’m glad to be back in the woods.” It was an insight into how Vermonters thought of the place they lived in.

Vermont was rolling hills in every direction. The trees had only a blush of the color they would have in a few weeks, the nights were still too warm to foster the transition. We passed farms and villages snugged along creeks or the Connecticut river, but they were always backed by hills of green. Where the Pacific Northwest is a land of green valleys and stunning mountains on the valley rims, Vermont is an expanse of gentle hills and valleys that repeats itself over and over.

It was after 7 by the time we arrived in White River Junction. We trundled our bags across the tracks to the Hotel Coolidge, this third iteration having been built in 1925. We were greeted by one of our hosts for the week and escorted into the dining room where most of our compatriots for the week were just finishing dinner. We were served immediately and, having sustained ourselves, joined the group for a brief orientation in the next room.

It quickly became clear to us that the week would be interesting, as in “may you live in interesting times” interesting. As has happened to us often in following our interests, such as 40’s music, it became clear that we were the youngest participants. At 67, we were the kids in the room. We were the only westerners’ other than a rancher from Texas, and my long hair clearly labeled me as the hippie from Oregon and Lydia as my co-conspirator. Still, we were all there because we had an interest in trains, perhaps we could find commonalities that would bridge our differences.

The Road