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1st
of 5 parts: Chicago to La Plata,
Missouri
EVER THINK ABOUT vacationing like wealthy swells of a century
ago?
They often took a leisurely train to a luxurious "destination hotel"
that sat right by the tracks, then took the air, the waters or the
links without leaving the property, winding up their evenings with
brandy and cigars in a rocker on the verandah. Sometimes the hotels
also served as a base of operations for forays into the countryside.
You can do the same thing today (but hold the cigars). And you
don’t need to be Mr. and Mrs. Gotrocks, for most of today's
railroad-oriented destination hotels
are
quite affordable.
For instance, the Izaak
Walton Inn in Essex, Montana, attracts not only
rail buffs riding Amtrak's Empire
Builder but also skiers and hikers
bound for Glacier National Park next door.
In the park proper, Glacier
Park Lodge at East Glacier on the same
line is a favorite of train-borne summer campers and hikers.
On the route of the California
Zephyr, Glenwood
Springs, Colorado, features a number of hotels
either at or
within walking distance of the station and a hot springs pool complex
across the tracks.
If you can afford to spend large coin, the storied and super-luxurious Greenbrier
Resort in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia,
on the route of the Cardinal
attracts wealthy golfers and spa-loving
matrons.
Last week my wife, Debby, and I visited two destination
hotels on the route of Amtrak's Chicago-to-Los Angeles Southwest Chief. One of them, the Depot Inn and Suites in
La Plata,
Missouri, is a mecca
for hardcore railfans. The other, La
Posada in Winslow, Arizona, is a
grail for Southwest-minded art lovers and gastronomes.
These two hostelries differ vastly in ambience and amenities, but share
three
similarities: They are in the midst of interesting places, they lie
right on the tracks (and therefore are easy to get to), and neither is
expensive.
There was an unusually
large crowd for a Monday in April in the passenger lounge at Chicago
Union Station.
We began our journey on a
Monday afternoon in early April.
Surprisingly, the passenger lounge at Chicago Union Station was packed
with travelers, as if it were the eve of a
holiday and everybody was heading home. Long, long lines snaked through
the south concourse gates for
the Texas Eagle, California Zephyr and
Southwest Chief.
Boarding for
each train started a full hour before departure time instead of the
usual 20 minutes.
Shortly after the Southwest Chief
pulled out for Kansas City,
Albuquerque and Los Angeles at 2:45 p.m, the conductor announced on the
intercom, “We had expected a light load today, but the train is full
because Southwest Airlines has canceled all its flights and Amtrak is
receiving its passengers.”
A
refugee from Southwest Airlines hoping to escape Chicago?
Involuntarily my eyes shot to the ceiling before it hit me
that a
stainless-steel Superliner roof isn't going to peel away like fatigued
jetliner aluminum, creating inadvertent outdoor seating.
It was spring break, too, and many of the passengers on the Chief were
college students. Debby and I
were heading for La Plata just five hours from Chicago, so we chose to
ride thriftily in
coach instead of our usual roomette in a sleeper, our preferred
occupancy for overnight trips.
The Southwest Chief bears
west at the south
end of the Metra commuter train yards.
Within half an hour of departure the reek of cigarette smoke wafted up
from the lower level, and Sue, the coach attendant, righteous fire in
her eye, dashed downstairs. A few seconds later a young man climbed up
and slouched to his seat, embarrassed guilt in his eye.
Sue followed. “Told him if he tried it again he'd be put off the
train,” she growled. She was small, and she was round, but she was
tough.
Shortly after departure
we caught a last glimpse of the Willis Tower and downtown Chicago.
Unfortunately, with a passenger load that heavy, Sue and
the two
conductors couldn't be everywhere. Every half hour or so the young man
went below, followed shortly afterward by the sickening smell of
tobacco. Everyone in the car knew what he was doing, and some of the
passengers gave him a piece of their minds, but evidently the crew had
to catch him in the act themselves in order to banish him from the
premises. Uncannily the kid knew where the authorities would be every
time he needed to feed his jones.
He was not, however, the student or students whose behavior provoked
Steve, the lounge car attendant, to announce more than once, “Although
I may look young and people might think I haven't been anywhere or know
much, I can tell when someone has had too much to drink and I mean it.
You may say you only had one beer on the train, but that does not
include the twenty-four you had before. I alone decide whether to sell
alcohol or not. There is no discussion. I want everyone to enjoy adult
beverages, but I have no tolerance for overuse of alcohol which is why
I quit drinking seven years ago.”
Students on spring break
filled the lounge car. Most of them were courteous and well
behaved.
When Debby went forward to buy a bottle of water to wash down our
dinner sandwiches–we bought them from the Corner Bakery (highly
recommended for traveling provender) in Chicago Union Station's
fast-food mezzanine–she saw that the lounge-car attendant was a
grizzled, white-haired veteran, not a callow rookie. One wonders how
many times in his career he had delivered that spiel.
I hasten to add that other than these two incidents, the students were
well behaved, polite to their elders and helpful to those with
disabilities, at least until we detrained at La Plata at 7:45 p.m.,
five hours after departing Chicago. The tobacco fiend hadn't yet been
busted, and we hoped very much that somewhere down the line the crew
would nail him red-handed.
Perhaps this Native
American was on his way to Albuquerque and the great Navajo Reservation.
Farmland in western Illinois on
a gray and chilly spring day.
Night had nearly fallen
when we
reached our target for the first day.
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