On May 1, 2007 I flew from my home in the beautiful Comox Valley on Vancouver Island to Halifax, Nova Scotia. One reason for setting out on this country-wide adventure was to complete my crossing of Canada by rail. I had begun this project in the 1970’s while living in Winnipeg, Manitoba, one of Canada’s truly great rail-fanning centres. From Winnipeg I made numerous rail journeys to Vancouver, on both the CNR and CPR mainlines. I had ridden The Canadian when it was still a CPR entity, passing through the southern cities of Regina, Calgary and threading the spiral tunnels at Field, British Columbia. I had travelled on the Super Continental when it was equipped with the ex-Milwaukee Road superdomes. I had also travelled to Toronto and Montreal by train, but always on the CPR’s Lake Superior route.
In May 2006 I added the Northern Ontario CNR route to my roster of completed journeys, travelling from Toronto to Winnipeg on The Canadian. That trip had some interesting side-effects. The passengers berthed in the sleeping car ahead of me were without air conditioning – and it wasn’t until late at night that the crew decided to give up their air conditioned accommodations to the suffering paying public. In hindsight, I wished it had been my car that was like an oven, for when I awakened the morning after being hauled clanking and protesting through Northern Ontario, I found red welts on my arms and belly. A quick visit to the doctor once I arrived home told me I’d been infected with scabies – a quick note to VIA to have the bunk in my roomette fumigated and disinfected resulted in a note from them hoping that I would continue to patronize VIA Rail Canada!!
This time I had no such experiences. My flight to Halifax was through mainly clear skies, so I had fine views of the Canadian landscape. Except for the prairie grainlands, Canada appeared to be a land of rocks, trees and lakes. When I arrived in Halifax my luggage had not arrived with me, but fortunately I was staying at an airport hotel, and by 7:45 a.m. the next day I had my luggage in hand. I set out in my rented Nissan Altima for Truro, an old railway town. There I reserved a room at the Comfort Inn and then spent the morning hiking in the Five Islands district, enjoying the views of Minas Basin.
Around noon I hurried back to Truro where I purchased some victuals at a Sobey’s supermarket and then parked by the train station to await the arrival of The Ocean. This was a traditional moment for me – while growing up on the farm near Brandon, Manitoba, dad would drop mother off at the shops in town, then seek out a good vantage point overlooking the CPR mainline, station and railyard. Sometimes he would take us to the roundhouse where he seemed to know people – at least they didn’t kick him off the premises. I was always rather frightened by the steam locomotives that could at any moment emit a jet of steam across the platform, but I did fall in love with the GMD F and E units that sat idling on the station tracks, waiting to haul the passenger trains.
The westbound Ocean arrived in Truro on time at 2:13 p.m.. I knew that the equipment was European in origin, but I wasn’t prepared for the, low, streamlined cut of the coaches and the lovely paint scheme – two tones of blue separated by a yellow stripe at the beltline. The locomotives were the typical boxy-looking SD45s (could be wrong about that designation – I’m not an expert on locomotives since the passing of the Fs and Es.) There was a scurry of activity as luggage was loaded, and then the platform cleared and away the train glided.
That afternoon I drove out towards the eastern end of Minas Basin. For a time the road paralleled a former railway right of way, its surface gravelled for pedestrian and cycle traffic. At Maitland I discovered a former Dominion Atlantic Railway (DAR) caboose mounted just off the right of way. I parked and followed the roadbed for several kilometres, until I came to where a long trestle with a swing section had crossed the Schubenacadie River. Only the stone piers were left standing, the deck having been removed. The water was tidal, thick with the gooey red clay that makes up that part of the world.
The next day I set out to hike up Cape Blomidon, something I had yearned to do since reading a travelogue written in the 1950’s by an American who had motored through the Maritime provinces. When I reached the town of Windsor I turned off to explore the earthworks of Fort Edward. I had just climbed out of the Altima (which sits very low to the ground compared to my Honda Element) when I heard a diesel horn. I ran across the earthworks and saw down below a CN freight. I had thought that with the DAR gone, the only rail service in Nova Scotia would be the CNR mainline through Truro and the branchline to Cape Breton. How had this line reached Windsor? And how far up the valley did it go?
I followed it through Hantsport where there appeared to be a large gypsum plant, then on to Grand Pre where I stopped to visit the chapel dedicated to the memory of the Acadians who were deported to the New Orleans area. What all the tourist brochures had failed to show was that a well-maintained rail line bisects the National Historic Site property! In fact, to reach the chapel grounds from the parking lot, one must walk across the railway line! I found this very exciting and hung around for a bit, hoping that a train would come along so that I could capture a “real” picture of the chapel, but I was out of luck. I drove on to Wolfville where I found a station (now a restaurant) at trackside. Is Wolfville the end of the line? Perhaps someone will be able to comment on that.
I spent the afternoon hiking up Cape Blomidon, and the experience and views of the red cliffs and green fields was well worth the cross-country flight. After returning to the Altima, I drove up the Annapolis Valley, reaching Digby where I checked into a motel. However, just before reaching town I had pulled off the road to photograph another abandoned railway trestle that curved over the saltchuck – what a spectacular experience riding that line must have been for the passengers. From the motel I walked downtown, found the railway right of way, but no other physical remnant of its presence.
The next day I continued my tour to Yarmouth, stopping at one place just past Church Point to walk along the abandoned railway line. What a satisfying cycling experience it would be to follow it from the Annapolis Valley all the way to Yarmouth. I had once toyed with the idea of moving from my prairie home to Yarmouth – I had checked it out as best as one can via books and letters to the Chamber of Commerce. In those days (1970’s) it had Air Canada service to and from the US and Canadian cities. I decided to check out the airport to see what kind of service it now had. There were only two cars in the parking lot when I pulled up to the terminal – inside all was darkness – two men were sitting at a desk in a far corner – they asked if they could help me. I was surprised to learn that the air terminal was mothballed – there were no flights in or out – air passengers had to drive the 3.5 hours to Halifax. What a pity the DAR wasn’t still in service to provide them with a relaxing rail journey to Halifax International.
A few days later I arrived in Halifax, turned in the Altima, and checked into the Citadel Inn. I then set out on foot to find Pier 21, a museum in the building that was many immigrants’ first view of Canada. Outside the entrance a 1940s era CNR passenger coach was parked. It’s heavy-weight steel body appeared to have weathered the years quite well. One could not enter it, but looking through the windows the seats appeared to be well-upholstered, but greatly lacking in height so that one’s head would have been jerked about each time the old steam engines tugged the train into motion.
I then walked over to the CN yards and was shocked to see the next day’s Ocean hitched to an SD45 sporting the likeness of the latest Spiderman movie! Surely VIA has not had to stoop to such a low level to make ends meet – how I yearned for a CN F9 in Action Red or the original black, gold and green they sported when new in 1954.
My trip was slated for Monday, May 7th. I arrived at the grand old station (formerly CNR), which is attached to the Hotel Nova Scotian, at 11:38 a.m. It is a small space, as grand stations go, but it is very welcoming with the flags of all the provinces draped from the exposed steel beams that appear to have been added to provide extra strength in the event of a seismic event (earthquake). The fellow behind the glass wicket was very friendly as he printed out my ticket and handed it to me. He, and everyone else in Halifax, was talking about the “wonderful weather”. It had turned clear and sunny, whereas the previous few days had been dull and cool – perfect hiking weather for me, but a bit of a trial for those tired of winter’s dullness.
Sitting down on one of the original commodious wooden benches, I proceeded to write up my diary. Two Chinese boys were bubbling over with excitement across from me. They had come with provisions – a big bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. They asked me to take their photograph. Suddenly my attention was grabbed by the familiar strains of “God Save the Queen”. I looked up at the TV monitor and saw Queen Elizabeth II standing beside George W. Bush in the garden of the White House. I wondered what was going through their grey cells as the image of them standing side by side was being beamed around the world. What message were they hoping us train-riding plebeians would get from their staged tableau?
About twenty minutes before departure time the sleeping car passengers were given permission to board. There were a lot of them, all pushing or pulling full complements of luggage. They were a noisy bunch and appeared to know one another – perhaps they were an organized tour. There weren’t very many “Comfort Class” passengers and our seating was on a rush basis. Inside the beautiful robin’s egg coach I found that seating was 2+1. Being alone, I chose Seat 13c in Coach 7108. The blue theme was continued inside the train and the seats were jacked up from the aisle. The overhead bin with safety net was only large enough for my shoes, while my roll-along backpack slid into a slot beneath my seat.
Before the train began to move the VIA attendant came along to make sure that I had settled in. She said that she would be coming through with a refreshment cart every 90 minutes. At 12:35 p.m. the train began to move and we cleared the yard and slipped beneath the overpass that carries South Park Street over the railway cut. During a visit in 1978 I had photographed The Ocean leaving town behind a MLW built cab unit. I never liked their sawed off corners – in my opinion, not nearly as attractive as the GMD units, though perhaps a tad more macho in character.
It took about half an hour to slip past Bedford Basin. I could not look at it without thinking of the many wartime photographs I had seen – black and white images of convoys grouped for the Atlantic crossing – but on this day very few water craft were evident. The high railway grade gave good views into people’s backyards where I searched, mostly in vain, for signs of kitchen gardens. As one who enjoys gardening and especially growing my own food, I marvel that some single-family homeowners do absolutely nothing with their backyards. Don’t they relish the taste of a real carrot with dirt in its pores, or a bowl of freshly steamed green peas?
As we left Bedford Basin behind, the attendant came through with her trolley of nourishment. I purchased a diet Coke for $1.50 and flipped down the table stored in the seatback in front of me. The speed limit was 50/40 mph and the ride was quite smooth and quiet, except for a regular shriek from the area of the vestibule behind me. As 2:00 p.m. approached we were creeping through Truro where I spied four dilapidated raised bed frames and two black, plastic compost bins like I have. On the far side of the station a crane fitted with an electro-magnet was loading scrap metal into a hopper car. No doubt it would be hauled to Vancouver, then shipped to China so that it can come back to us in the form of inferior consumer goods (should read “consumer bads”).
At 2:32 p.m. we met and passed the eastbound Ocean. Unfortunately I didn’t have my camera out, and by the time I’d scrambled through my fanny pack to find it the robin’s egg blue streak had whistled past us. As a consolation prize, I walked back to the snack bar which was directly behind Coach 7108. There were several groupings of seats around small tables. The two attendants didn’t appear to have a lot to do so I engaged them in conversation and discovered that reservations for dinner would be offered to coach passengers that evening, since the sleeping car load wasn’t too onerous.
At 3:26 p.m. we were zipping along parallel to a four-lane highway where a large sign announced the exit for Springhill, childhood home of Anne Murray and scene of several terrible coal mine disasters. The rail line doesn’t pass through the town so I didn’t get a chance to view the Anne Murray Centre. At 4:05 p.m. we were ten minutes late into Amherst, perhaps due to some yellow flags I had seen alongside the right of way. As we left the town with its fine red brick station, the speed limit read 70 mph. By 4:52 p.m. I had to make a second visit to the washroom where I sensed disaster on the floor. During my first visit I had been attempting to urinate while standing up, when a sudden lurch and sway of the car had brought the toilet seat crashing down, interrupting me at full stream. I had taken paper towels and mopped up, but apparently some of the other patrons had not been quite so conscientious as the floor was now awash in urine. This time I sat to urinate and avoided adding to the mess. (Eventually the floor semi-dried up, leaving only a sticky and rather smelly residue).
Promptly at 5:00 p.m., just as we approached Moncton, I was called to dinner. The dining car was behind the snack car and did not appear to contain the kitchen. There were tables at both ends of the cars with a serving/staging area in the centre. The kitchen must have been in the following car. I cannot remember whether I had a choice of entrees, but I was pleased with what was set before me by the friendly waiter: a garden salad, followed by baked salmon on a bed of rice with green beans, followed by chocolate mousse. It was all very good, very gourmet, in other words, not much of it, but since I wasn’t likely to be doing any heavy exercise for the next few hours I suppose it was not to be sniffed at. For some reason I didn’t record the price, but I believe it was about $20.00.
When I got back to my seat at 5:47 p.m. pillows and blankets were being handed out by one of the most excruciatingly handsome men I have ever seen. I always feel a certain pity for men like that, what a burden to have to carry such a visage around throughout their lives – to have people stare at them and want to take their photograph. (I resisted the urge). By 7:32 p.m. I was making up for all the times mom refused my kiddie request to buy something from the candyman when he came walking through the coach with his display of “candy, gum, peanuts”. This time I found it difficult to resist the cashews, Kit Kat bars and soft drinks (perhaps that’s why the meal had been so gourmet – to leave room for me to deposit more funds in VIA’s coffers).
As evening drew on there were patches of snow in the woods and we appeared to be running at high speed about a mile inland from Northumberland Strait (or was it Bay of Chaleur?). The motion had become quite violent and I expected it would keep me awake all night – just as it had through Northern Ontario a year earlier when I’d taken a roomette – despite the comfort of being able to stretch out in the bed I had lain half awake, drifting in and out of fiery train wrecks in which my leg bones were crushed like a collapsible steering wheel assembly when the steel wheels hit the ties and gravel. But I must have slept, because I missed our stop at Matapedia where the Chaleur was to be joined to our train. When I next awakened the train was backing over a trestle, a white rush of chilly looking melt water in a rocky bed down below.
When I awakened for good at 6 a.m. sunshine was streaming across the plains as we headed for Drummondville, and the speed limit was 80 mph. When we approached a curve I could see the silvery flute-sided cars of the Chaleur tacked on behind the locomotives (which didn’t wear the Spiderman design). A lady across the aisle asked whether we were allowed to go forward to ride in the dome car (an ex-CPR Skyline car) but the attendant said that would be impossible unless she wanted to leap a gap of about four feet between the two trains. She didn’t elect to try it.
The Ocean was scheduled to arrive in Montreal at 8:15 a.m. but it was only 8 o’clock when we pulled into the station. I hurried upstairs, found the commodious men’s room, washed and shaved and changed my shirt, and then left my roll-along backpack at the baggage check. I then went in search of nourishment and soon discovered that my francais which had been quite good in 1989 when I had studied for a year in dear old Trois Rivieres, had decayed, in fact, was almost decede (dead). Fortunately, everyone I babbled to was very welcoming and quickly spoke English to make me feel comfortable.
I spent quite a few hours over the next couple of days camped at trackside just down the street from my hotel (the Maritime Plaza). I was hoping to photograph some high speed VIA action, but all I got were commuter trains, most of them pulled by streamlined looking diesels of unknown origin to me (here on Vancouver Island we have two RDCs that take care of passenger service on the “Malahat” route, so I’m out of the loop when it comes to locomotives). The second day I rented a bicycle in Old Montreal and cycled south along the Lachine Canal – it is a wonderful route, for the most part free of motorized traffic – I was hoping to find the high steel bridge that had brought The Ocean across the St. Lawrence River, but I didn’t find it, or at least I didn’t recognize it. When I was returning to town I caught the flash of an LRC train (Light, Rapid, Comfortable) whisking its tail between some red brick warehouse-style condos. I realized that I had been staking out the wrong tracks near my hotel.
The next day I checked out of the hotel and returned to the station. I was not sorry to leave Montreal. It had become a world class city with its many attractive office towers and condo blocks, and its hordes of pedestrians that threatened to send me into sidewalk rage. I was glad to be heading west to Oshawa where I would visit my brother and sister-in-law for the weekend before flying home to the dear little Comox Valley.
This time the Comfort Class seating was reserved – I had Seat 39 in Car 4. This coach was rather plain compared to what I’d experienced on The Ocean. The exterior was stainless steel (or aluminum??) and the interior was rather dull in muted shades of grey and brown. The train left promptly at 3:43 and it was a fast and comfortable ride to Oshawa with only a few stops in between. I was hoping to see the penitentiary at Kingston, but perhaps I didn’t know where to look, or it is not viewable from trackside. Again the attendant patrolled the aisle with her refreshment cart and once again I surrendered more of my money to VIA for the privilege of eating cashews and drinking diet Coke while travelling at 90 mph.
This time the washroom floor stayed clean, though there was one unsettling incident when I walked back to use it just before arriving in Oshawa. I grabbed the handle and started to roll the door open when someone inside grabbed it and shoved it shut. Fortunately I didn’t see anything upsetting, and I could understand their failure to lock the door adequately as it did seem a little unclear how to do it. I stepped across the aisle and found a much larger washroom there – one large enough to change a fairly large child’s diaper, or perhaps even an incontinent adult’s soiled clothing.
I returned to my seat to grab a couple of photographs as we hurtled across the trestle that spans the canal at Port Hope and moments later we arrived in Oshawa where my brother was all set to take a photograph of me alighting from the train. I had a look of satisfaction on my face, for finally I had completed my crossing of the dominion from sea to sea. It had been a good run.
In May 2006 I added the Northern Ontario CNR route to my roster of completed journeys, travelling from Toronto to Winnipeg on The Canadian. That trip had some interesting side-effects. The passengers berthed in the sleeping car ahead of me were without air conditioning – and it wasn’t until late at night that the crew decided to give up their air conditioned accommodations to the suffering paying public. In hindsight, I wished it had been my car that was like an oven, for when I awakened the morning after being hauled clanking and protesting through Northern Ontario, I found red welts on my arms and belly. A quick visit to the doctor once I arrived home told me I’d been infected with scabies – a quick note to VIA to have the bunk in my roomette fumigated and disinfected resulted in a note from them hoping that I would continue to patronize VIA Rail Canada!!
This time I had no such experiences. My flight to Halifax was through mainly clear skies, so I had fine views of the Canadian landscape. Except for the prairie grainlands, Canada appeared to be a land of rocks, trees and lakes. When I arrived in Halifax my luggage had not arrived with me, but fortunately I was staying at an airport hotel, and by 7:45 a.m. the next day I had my luggage in hand. I set out in my rented Nissan Altima for Truro, an old railway town. There I reserved a room at the Comfort Inn and then spent the morning hiking in the Five Islands district, enjoying the views of Minas Basin.
Around noon I hurried back to Truro where I purchased some victuals at a Sobey’s supermarket and then parked by the train station to await the arrival of The Ocean. This was a traditional moment for me – while growing up on the farm near Brandon, Manitoba, dad would drop mother off at the shops in town, then seek out a good vantage point overlooking the CPR mainline, station and railyard. Sometimes he would take us to the roundhouse where he seemed to know people – at least they didn’t kick him off the premises. I was always rather frightened by the steam locomotives that could at any moment emit a jet of steam across the platform, but I did fall in love with the GMD F and E units that sat idling on the station tracks, waiting to haul the passenger trains.
The westbound Ocean arrived in Truro on time at 2:13 p.m.. I knew that the equipment was European in origin, but I wasn’t prepared for the, low, streamlined cut of the coaches and the lovely paint scheme – two tones of blue separated by a yellow stripe at the beltline. The locomotives were the typical boxy-looking SD45s (could be wrong about that designation – I’m not an expert on locomotives since the passing of the Fs and Es.) There was a scurry of activity as luggage was loaded, and then the platform cleared and away the train glided.
That afternoon I drove out towards the eastern end of Minas Basin. For a time the road paralleled a former railway right of way, its surface gravelled for pedestrian and cycle traffic. At Maitland I discovered a former Dominion Atlantic Railway (DAR) caboose mounted just off the right of way. I parked and followed the roadbed for several kilometres, until I came to where a long trestle with a swing section had crossed the Schubenacadie River. Only the stone piers were left standing, the deck having been removed. The water was tidal, thick with the gooey red clay that makes up that part of the world.
The next day I set out to hike up Cape Blomidon, something I had yearned to do since reading a travelogue written in the 1950’s by an American who had motored through the Maritime provinces. When I reached the town of Windsor I turned off to explore the earthworks of Fort Edward. I had just climbed out of the Altima (which sits very low to the ground compared to my Honda Element) when I heard a diesel horn. I ran across the earthworks and saw down below a CN freight. I had thought that with the DAR gone, the only rail service in Nova Scotia would be the CNR mainline through Truro and the branchline to Cape Breton. How had this line reached Windsor? And how far up the valley did it go?
I followed it through Hantsport where there appeared to be a large gypsum plant, then on to Grand Pre where I stopped to visit the chapel dedicated to the memory of the Acadians who were deported to the New Orleans area. What all the tourist brochures had failed to show was that a well-maintained rail line bisects the National Historic Site property! In fact, to reach the chapel grounds from the parking lot, one must walk across the railway line! I found this very exciting and hung around for a bit, hoping that a train would come along so that I could capture a “real” picture of the chapel, but I was out of luck. I drove on to Wolfville where I found a station (now a restaurant) at trackside. Is Wolfville the end of the line? Perhaps someone will be able to comment on that.
I spent the afternoon hiking up Cape Blomidon, and the experience and views of the red cliffs and green fields was well worth the cross-country flight. After returning to the Altima, I drove up the Annapolis Valley, reaching Digby where I checked into a motel. However, just before reaching town I had pulled off the road to photograph another abandoned railway trestle that curved over the saltchuck – what a spectacular experience riding that line must have been for the passengers. From the motel I walked downtown, found the railway right of way, but no other physical remnant of its presence.
The next day I continued my tour to Yarmouth, stopping at one place just past Church Point to walk along the abandoned railway line. What a satisfying cycling experience it would be to follow it from the Annapolis Valley all the way to Yarmouth. I had once toyed with the idea of moving from my prairie home to Yarmouth – I had checked it out as best as one can via books and letters to the Chamber of Commerce. In those days (1970’s) it had Air Canada service to and from the US and Canadian cities. I decided to check out the airport to see what kind of service it now had. There were only two cars in the parking lot when I pulled up to the terminal – inside all was darkness – two men were sitting at a desk in a far corner – they asked if they could help me. I was surprised to learn that the air terminal was mothballed – there were no flights in or out – air passengers had to drive the 3.5 hours to Halifax. What a pity the DAR wasn’t still in service to provide them with a relaxing rail journey to Halifax International.
A few days later I arrived in Halifax, turned in the Altima, and checked into the Citadel Inn. I then set out on foot to find Pier 21, a museum in the building that was many immigrants’ first view of Canada. Outside the entrance a 1940s era CNR passenger coach was parked. It’s heavy-weight steel body appeared to have weathered the years quite well. One could not enter it, but looking through the windows the seats appeared to be well-upholstered, but greatly lacking in height so that one’s head would have been jerked about each time the old steam engines tugged the train into motion.
I then walked over to the CN yards and was shocked to see the next day’s Ocean hitched to an SD45 sporting the likeness of the latest Spiderman movie! Surely VIA has not had to stoop to such a low level to make ends meet – how I yearned for a CN F9 in Action Red or the original black, gold and green they sported when new in 1954.
My trip was slated for Monday, May 7th. I arrived at the grand old station (formerly CNR), which is attached to the Hotel Nova Scotian, at 11:38 a.m. It is a small space, as grand stations go, but it is very welcoming with the flags of all the provinces draped from the exposed steel beams that appear to have been added to provide extra strength in the event of a seismic event (earthquake). The fellow behind the glass wicket was very friendly as he printed out my ticket and handed it to me. He, and everyone else in Halifax, was talking about the “wonderful weather”. It had turned clear and sunny, whereas the previous few days had been dull and cool – perfect hiking weather for me, but a bit of a trial for those tired of winter’s dullness.
Sitting down on one of the original commodious wooden benches, I proceeded to write up my diary. Two Chinese boys were bubbling over with excitement across from me. They had come with provisions – a big bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. They asked me to take their photograph. Suddenly my attention was grabbed by the familiar strains of “God Save the Queen”. I looked up at the TV monitor and saw Queen Elizabeth II standing beside George W. Bush in the garden of the White House. I wondered what was going through their grey cells as the image of them standing side by side was being beamed around the world. What message were they hoping us train-riding plebeians would get from their staged tableau?
About twenty minutes before departure time the sleeping car passengers were given permission to board. There were a lot of them, all pushing or pulling full complements of luggage. They were a noisy bunch and appeared to know one another – perhaps they were an organized tour. There weren’t very many “Comfort Class” passengers and our seating was on a rush basis. Inside the beautiful robin’s egg coach I found that seating was 2+1. Being alone, I chose Seat 13c in Coach 7108. The blue theme was continued inside the train and the seats were jacked up from the aisle. The overhead bin with safety net was only large enough for my shoes, while my roll-along backpack slid into a slot beneath my seat.
Before the train began to move the VIA attendant came along to make sure that I had settled in. She said that she would be coming through with a refreshment cart every 90 minutes. At 12:35 p.m. the train began to move and we cleared the yard and slipped beneath the overpass that carries South Park Street over the railway cut. During a visit in 1978 I had photographed The Ocean leaving town behind a MLW built cab unit. I never liked their sawed off corners – in my opinion, not nearly as attractive as the GMD units, though perhaps a tad more macho in character.
It took about half an hour to slip past Bedford Basin. I could not look at it without thinking of the many wartime photographs I had seen – black and white images of convoys grouped for the Atlantic crossing – but on this day very few water craft were evident. The high railway grade gave good views into people’s backyards where I searched, mostly in vain, for signs of kitchen gardens. As one who enjoys gardening and especially growing my own food, I marvel that some single-family homeowners do absolutely nothing with their backyards. Don’t they relish the taste of a real carrot with dirt in its pores, or a bowl of freshly steamed green peas?
As we left Bedford Basin behind, the attendant came through with her trolley of nourishment. I purchased a diet Coke for $1.50 and flipped down the table stored in the seatback in front of me. The speed limit was 50/40 mph and the ride was quite smooth and quiet, except for a regular shriek from the area of the vestibule behind me. As 2:00 p.m. approached we were creeping through Truro where I spied four dilapidated raised bed frames and two black, plastic compost bins like I have. On the far side of the station a crane fitted with an electro-magnet was loading scrap metal into a hopper car. No doubt it would be hauled to Vancouver, then shipped to China so that it can come back to us in the form of inferior consumer goods (should read “consumer bads”).
At 2:32 p.m. we met and passed the eastbound Ocean. Unfortunately I didn’t have my camera out, and by the time I’d scrambled through my fanny pack to find it the robin’s egg blue streak had whistled past us. As a consolation prize, I walked back to the snack bar which was directly behind Coach 7108. There were several groupings of seats around small tables. The two attendants didn’t appear to have a lot to do so I engaged them in conversation and discovered that reservations for dinner would be offered to coach passengers that evening, since the sleeping car load wasn’t too onerous.
At 3:26 p.m. we were zipping along parallel to a four-lane highway where a large sign announced the exit for Springhill, childhood home of Anne Murray and scene of several terrible coal mine disasters. The rail line doesn’t pass through the town so I didn’t get a chance to view the Anne Murray Centre. At 4:05 p.m. we were ten minutes late into Amherst, perhaps due to some yellow flags I had seen alongside the right of way. As we left the town with its fine red brick station, the speed limit read 70 mph. By 4:52 p.m. I had to make a second visit to the washroom where I sensed disaster on the floor. During my first visit I had been attempting to urinate while standing up, when a sudden lurch and sway of the car had brought the toilet seat crashing down, interrupting me at full stream. I had taken paper towels and mopped up, but apparently some of the other patrons had not been quite so conscientious as the floor was now awash in urine. This time I sat to urinate and avoided adding to the mess. (Eventually the floor semi-dried up, leaving only a sticky and rather smelly residue).
Promptly at 5:00 p.m., just as we approached Moncton, I was called to dinner. The dining car was behind the snack car and did not appear to contain the kitchen. There were tables at both ends of the cars with a serving/staging area in the centre. The kitchen must have been in the following car. I cannot remember whether I had a choice of entrees, but I was pleased with what was set before me by the friendly waiter: a garden salad, followed by baked salmon on a bed of rice with green beans, followed by chocolate mousse. It was all very good, very gourmet, in other words, not much of it, but since I wasn’t likely to be doing any heavy exercise for the next few hours I suppose it was not to be sniffed at. For some reason I didn’t record the price, but I believe it was about $20.00.
When I got back to my seat at 5:47 p.m. pillows and blankets were being handed out by one of the most excruciatingly handsome men I have ever seen. I always feel a certain pity for men like that, what a burden to have to carry such a visage around throughout their lives – to have people stare at them and want to take their photograph. (I resisted the urge). By 7:32 p.m. I was making up for all the times mom refused my kiddie request to buy something from the candyman when he came walking through the coach with his display of “candy, gum, peanuts”. This time I found it difficult to resist the cashews, Kit Kat bars and soft drinks (perhaps that’s why the meal had been so gourmet – to leave room for me to deposit more funds in VIA’s coffers).
As evening drew on there were patches of snow in the woods and we appeared to be running at high speed about a mile inland from Northumberland Strait (or was it Bay of Chaleur?). The motion had become quite violent and I expected it would keep me awake all night – just as it had through Northern Ontario a year earlier when I’d taken a roomette – despite the comfort of being able to stretch out in the bed I had lain half awake, drifting in and out of fiery train wrecks in which my leg bones were crushed like a collapsible steering wheel assembly when the steel wheels hit the ties and gravel. But I must have slept, because I missed our stop at Matapedia where the Chaleur was to be joined to our train. When I next awakened the train was backing over a trestle, a white rush of chilly looking melt water in a rocky bed down below.
When I awakened for good at 6 a.m. sunshine was streaming across the plains as we headed for Drummondville, and the speed limit was 80 mph. When we approached a curve I could see the silvery flute-sided cars of the Chaleur tacked on behind the locomotives (which didn’t wear the Spiderman design). A lady across the aisle asked whether we were allowed to go forward to ride in the dome car (an ex-CPR Skyline car) but the attendant said that would be impossible unless she wanted to leap a gap of about four feet between the two trains. She didn’t elect to try it.
The Ocean was scheduled to arrive in Montreal at 8:15 a.m. but it was only 8 o’clock when we pulled into the station. I hurried upstairs, found the commodious men’s room, washed and shaved and changed my shirt, and then left my roll-along backpack at the baggage check. I then went in search of nourishment and soon discovered that my francais which had been quite good in 1989 when I had studied for a year in dear old Trois Rivieres, had decayed, in fact, was almost decede (dead). Fortunately, everyone I babbled to was very welcoming and quickly spoke English to make me feel comfortable.
I spent quite a few hours over the next couple of days camped at trackside just down the street from my hotel (the Maritime Plaza). I was hoping to photograph some high speed VIA action, but all I got were commuter trains, most of them pulled by streamlined looking diesels of unknown origin to me (here on Vancouver Island we have two RDCs that take care of passenger service on the “Malahat” route, so I’m out of the loop when it comes to locomotives). The second day I rented a bicycle in Old Montreal and cycled south along the Lachine Canal – it is a wonderful route, for the most part free of motorized traffic – I was hoping to find the high steel bridge that had brought The Ocean across the St. Lawrence River, but I didn’t find it, or at least I didn’t recognize it. When I was returning to town I caught the flash of an LRC train (Light, Rapid, Comfortable) whisking its tail between some red brick warehouse-style condos. I realized that I had been staking out the wrong tracks near my hotel.
The next day I checked out of the hotel and returned to the station. I was not sorry to leave Montreal. It had become a world class city with its many attractive office towers and condo blocks, and its hordes of pedestrians that threatened to send me into sidewalk rage. I was glad to be heading west to Oshawa where I would visit my brother and sister-in-law for the weekend before flying home to the dear little Comox Valley.
This time the Comfort Class seating was reserved – I had Seat 39 in Car 4. This coach was rather plain compared to what I’d experienced on The Ocean. The exterior was stainless steel (or aluminum??) and the interior was rather dull in muted shades of grey and brown. The train left promptly at 3:43 and it was a fast and comfortable ride to Oshawa with only a few stops in between. I was hoping to see the penitentiary at Kingston, but perhaps I didn’t know where to look, or it is not viewable from trackside. Again the attendant patrolled the aisle with her refreshment cart and once again I surrendered more of my money to VIA for the privilege of eating cashews and drinking diet Coke while travelling at 90 mph.
This time the washroom floor stayed clean, though there was one unsettling incident when I walked back to use it just before arriving in Oshawa. I grabbed the handle and started to roll the door open when someone inside grabbed it and shoved it shut. Fortunately I didn’t see anything upsetting, and I could understand their failure to lock the door adequately as it did seem a little unclear how to do it. I stepped across the aisle and found a much larger washroom there – one large enough to change a fairly large child’s diaper, or perhaps even an incontinent adult’s soiled clothing.
I returned to my seat to grab a couple of photographs as we hurtled across the trestle that spans the canal at Port Hope and moments later we arrived in Oshawa where my brother was all set to take a photograph of me alighting from the train. I had a look of satisfaction on my face, for finally I had completed my crossing of the dominion from sea to sea. It had been a good run.
