It's taken nearly seven hours to get Owensville, but we got here just in time for me to look back at the widest grin I’ll see today. The tracks are giving out from under me, but for thirty long seconds, I don’t pay them any mind as I wave back at the boy in a truck, heading with his dad out to their acreage, at an unguarded crossing signal. A little over ten years ago, I was that boy, wanting to get up in that handsome Rock Island cab and drive that powerful locomotive across the Ozark highlands. Come to think of it, it’s closer to twenty years ago.
I’m a Rock Island man for now, but not for long, or so they tell me. As I hit the bend north to head up to the Owensville depot, I know this locomotive, the heart of the line, is willing. But the rails are a ribbon of rust and they are sickly and weak. It’s been years since 443 or any engine has been able to open up on this line. Keeping her upright and heading east is pretty much all that is left.
We picked up orders last night in Eldon, in the fading shadows of dusk and the dying days of this line. Each run seems to go a little slower. I used to keep track, but the extra seconds and minutes behind schedule are just more time to remind me that any sunset I see from this cab may be the last.
People have asked me if running the same line ever gets boring and I always tell them “no”. The Rock Island is a proud Granger railroad and it’s never the same run twice. We may be on the same rails every day, but the loads, the stops, the weather, the kids waving at the tracks – something is always different.
Passing the forlorn depot at Meta I remember that just a few years ago, business illuminated it from the inside. Now, I see, barely see, the evidence of its last operations from a dim street light as we slip away out of town, unnoticed. We creep toward and then under Freeburg in the deep of the night, emerging from the tunnel into brilliant moonlight as the clouds break. A long shadow falls off the Gasconade River bridge. I shudder as the bridge creaks and engines strain with the load. I catch the moon’s reflection off the river, running low, 90 feet below.
When I started on this line, an Eldon to Saint Louis run began and ended while nearly everyone, even the farmers who supported the line, were still dreaming. But then the Rock has always been an afterthought in Missouri, except for boys like me who sat on the edge of the school property at lunch, wanting to see, praying to see, the local operation pass and wonder where the men driving those mighty engines would end their day. The sound of the horn in the distance was enough for me to forget reading, writing, and arithmetic and launch head long into the daydream of driving that train.
MFA grain elevators and water towers stand like sentinels watching the night fade away. As we pass through them, I wonder how cities like Belle and Bland got their names. The long grade out of Bland gives me an opportunity to give the throttle a nudge. I restrain against the urge to open it up, as I know the line between here and Canaan barely supports our running speed.
Purple hues in the east brighten to red, then orange as the clay factory silhouette gains sharpness in the hazy morning. I rub the sleep from my eyes then catch the young man’s eyes in the Ford truck. He looks at his dad, who seems almost as happy as his son to be stopped by the train. I see the boy excitedly reach for the handle to roll down the window. He grabs a seat on the window sill, waving hard enough to almost raise a breeze. As he slips out of view back into the haze, I know our days are numbered as I realize our schedule is lost again. But I couldn’t imagine a night at work slipping by better as I say it again, “Owensville by morning, 10 miles per hour at a time.”
I’m a Rock Island man for now, but not for long, or so they tell me. As I hit the bend north to head up to the Owensville depot, I know this locomotive, the heart of the line, is willing. But the rails are a ribbon of rust and they are sickly and weak. It’s been years since 443 or any engine has been able to open up on this line. Keeping her upright and heading east is pretty much all that is left.
We picked up orders last night in Eldon, in the fading shadows of dusk and the dying days of this line. Each run seems to go a little slower. I used to keep track, but the extra seconds and minutes behind schedule are just more time to remind me that any sunset I see from this cab may be the last.
People have asked me if running the same line ever gets boring and I always tell them “no”. The Rock Island is a proud Granger railroad and it’s never the same run twice. We may be on the same rails every day, but the loads, the stops, the weather, the kids waving at the tracks – something is always different.
Passing the forlorn depot at Meta I remember that just a few years ago, business illuminated it from the inside. Now, I see, barely see, the evidence of its last operations from a dim street light as we slip away out of town, unnoticed. We creep toward and then under Freeburg in the deep of the night, emerging from the tunnel into brilliant moonlight as the clouds break. A long shadow falls off the Gasconade River bridge. I shudder as the bridge creaks and engines strain with the load. I catch the moon’s reflection off the river, running low, 90 feet below.
When I started on this line, an Eldon to Saint Louis run began and ended while nearly everyone, even the farmers who supported the line, were still dreaming. But then the Rock has always been an afterthought in Missouri, except for boys like me who sat on the edge of the school property at lunch, wanting to see, praying to see, the local operation pass and wonder where the men driving those mighty engines would end their day. The sound of the horn in the distance was enough for me to forget reading, writing, and arithmetic and launch head long into the daydream of driving that train.
MFA grain elevators and water towers stand like sentinels watching the night fade away. As we pass through them, I wonder how cities like Belle and Bland got their names. The long grade out of Bland gives me an opportunity to give the throttle a nudge. I restrain against the urge to open it up, as I know the line between here and Canaan barely supports our running speed.
Purple hues in the east brighten to red, then orange as the clay factory silhouette gains sharpness in the hazy morning. I rub the sleep from my eyes then catch the young man’s eyes in the Ford truck. He looks at his dad, who seems almost as happy as his son to be stopped by the train. I see the boy excitedly reach for the handle to roll down the window. He grabs a seat on the window sill, waving hard enough to almost raise a breeze. As he slips out of view back into the haze, I know our days are numbered as I realize our schedule is lost again. But I couldn’t imagine a night at work slipping by better as I say it again, “Owensville by morning, 10 miles per hour at a time.”
