I’ve been back for a few days and decided I’d better post about my first Amtrak trip while it’s fresh in my mind. Somehow I missed out on the experience of an overnight train trip in my youth, so I decided to ride to Salt Lake. When I calculated the fare vs. the cost of gas, it was less, but since I planned to rent a car, it wouldn’t be a bargain. It was really for a change of scene and the experience of riding the train.

S.F. passengers take a bus to the Amtrak depot in Emeryville, the western terminus of the California Zephyr that goes to Sacramento, Reno, Salt Lake, Denver, Omaha, and Chicago. The entire route takes 2½ days, but Salt Lake is a good choice because I go there often anyway, and it’s only one overnight so if I don’t like it, I won’t suffer long. I have an upper coach seat; a sleeper compartment doesn’t seem essential for one night. We have more space and comfort than in an airliner. The seats are wider and recline farther, and have fold-out tables and footrests. With the overheard bins and lots of floor space, there is room for most luggage within reason. The eastbound Zephyr leaves at 8:10 a.m. PDT. Not many people get on at Emeryville, and folks soon start getting acquainted.

Those who study American history know that every kind of settlement followed watercourses. Whatever the topography, climate, or agricultural potential, everything else was irrelevant if there was no water. The first pioneer trails did so, and railroads followed, linking the places the original settlers had populated. Modern freeways for cars are different, because they don’t need this natural lifeline. Thus, the railroads built a century ago often go places we modern drivers rarely see, which is one of the exciting things about train travel.

We skirt the Bay, passing Pinole, Hercules, and Rodeo and the oil refineries; Crockett and a close-up view of the C&H Sugar refinery; and Port Costa, once a port for shipping wheat and other commodities from the San Joaquin Valley (think Frank Norris and "The Octopus." Remains of old wooden piers stick out of the water like gravestones. Martinez is the first stop before crossing the Bay and passing Suisun and Vacaville to the next stop, Davis. On the way, we see wetlands not visible from I-80. The next stop is Old Town Sacramento, where a few people detrain and many board. Everyone knows where everyone is going because the conductors place a paper “check” above each seat with the destination on it; two who get on at Sacramento and sit across from me are going to be in those coach seats all the way to Omaha and Galesburg IL. In summer, docents from the State Railroad Museum board in Sacramento and ride to Reno, commenting on the scenery and history. This enhances the ride a lot. I go up to the lounge car (we used to call it the Vista Dome in my childhood) periodically to get a better look at the places we were passing.

Roseville was once one of the biggest railroad maintenance yards in the West. Rocklin was known for its granite quarries, the source of stone and riprap for trestles, roadbeds, buildings, and monuments as distant as Hawaii. Colfax was named for a California congressman who was later U.S. Grant’s vice president. Everyone enjoyed the ascent of the Sierra and the dramatic views of places like Cape Horn, a 2000’ gorge on the American River. Blue Canyon is often the state’s coldest spot in winter, and a huge ice plant there supplied block ice for trains carrying produce east. When “reefer” cars were invented, the ice plants went the way of the dinosaurs.

We are told about the plight of the City of San Francisco, a Southern Pacific train snowed in at Yuba Gap for 4 days in the winter of 1952. Some people got sick, but no one died. It took the combined efforts of Army, Navy, Coast Guard, Highway Patrol, Pacific Telephone & Telegraph, Pacific Gas & Electric, and SP personnel to dig to the train and fetch the people. We had several alpine lakes pointed out, including the most famous, Donner Lake. (The Zephyr does not pass Lake Tahoe). Truckee is a charming historic town and the last stop in the Sierra.

Some stops are fresh air breaks, but not all. We have to stay by the train, ready to get back on. The ride is tough on some people with nicotine addictions and some beg to be let out at Truckee. The cabin attendants and conductor say no, “you can’t have a smoke break here, but you can have two or three in Reno.”

We’re late into Reno because of the need to wait on sidings for freight trains to pass, arriving about 4:00 p.m. Many people get off here, then we make a stop at Sparks and start the straight, level crossing of the Nevada desert, where the railroad is pretty much parallel to I-80—-or more accurately, I-80 was built to parallel the railroad. Winnemucca is a longer stop to change operating crews, the ones who run the train, so we get another outside break. It’s early evening, close to twilight. We have another siding stop for a freight train, then roll on in the dark to Elko where one of my car-mates from Emeryville gets off.

Many people don’t realize how big Nevada is. It’s a good 400 miles wide. The ride from Elko to Salt Lake is scheduled at 6 hours. Most of it is in darkness; Amtrak schedules the Zephyr in both directions so the Sierra and Rockies are crossed in daylight and folks can sleep all they want through Nevada, Nebraska, and Iowa. I’m able to sleep sporadically on the reclining seat or curled up on the double seat. There are few enough passengers that everyone who wants one is able to have a double seat. I’ve awakened when we arrived in Salt Lake at the new Salt Lake Central transit hub, where Amtrak, Greyhound, and the regional light rail systems converge. It's 5:00 A.M. MDT.

I call a cab to go to my hotel, where my room is actually ready so I can settle in and have a nap and shower. The first day I hang around downtown, relaxing and working out the train lag. The next day I’ll pick up my rental car for day trips: Bountiful on Saturday to visit old friends and attend a 60th wedding anniversary celebration; Nephi on Sunday for small-town church and an afternoon with other friends; Antelope Island on Monday.

My return trip to the Bay Area a few days later is at 11:30 p.m. It’s raining lightly when we leave. I avoided sleeping much in the evening so I can sleep on the train-—and I don’t even remember passing Elko. I awake a little before Winnemucca, and just doze occasionally the rest of the way. I chat with one of the cabin attendants (I think we used to call them stewards or stewardesses), who was spending the last hour or two vacuuming, collecting pillows, picking up litter, etc. I ask when her shift started, and she says Chicago. Unlike the engineers, attendants stay with the train for the entire trip, getting breaks when they can in the crew car or lounge car when it’s quiet. She says the railroad chooses hotels for them and they get to shower, sleep in a real bed, and get back on the train the next day. It’s the kind of work that might excite the imagination of someone who loves the lore of travel and seeing different places, even if only from a train window, trackside, or a hotel of Amtrak’s choice. I give her a small gratuity as I get off in Emeryville, because that’s what civilized travelers did in the old days before we were all in such a hurry that getting there mattered more than going there.