The purpose of my mini-trip is to try out Amtrak. After reading posts that include references to surly employees and poor service I decide I need to check Amtrak out for myself before committing to a trip of any length. I live on Vancouver Island, British Columbia, Canada. My trip involves taking a bus to Victoria, BC, the Victoria Clipper catamaran boat to Seattle, Amtrak’s Cascade 510 Talgo service from Seattle to Vancouver, BC, and Greyhound coach home (which includes a ride on BC Ferry’s Queen of Oak Bay). I will confine this account to my Amtrak experiences.
Monday, January 15, 2007: I walk from the Days Inn Downtown in Seattle to the King Street Station…coming up to the corner of South Jackson and 2nd I spy the red-brick tower that rises above the station. It has taken me 30 minutes to walk from the hotel, and I arrive just as Cascade 510 is boarding for Vancouver, BC. I follow the “guests” onto the platform and take a few photographs of the train, though the light at that hour is still very dim. As soon as the train disappears into a black hole at the north end of the station the Amtrak employee tells me that he’s going to lock the door, so unless I want to walk the long way around I’d better get back inside. I get back inside and take a look at the station which is in a rather dilapidated state, though a poster display threatens renovations that will return it to its former splendour. I take the stairway to the street and take a few other photographs of the Sounder commuter trains with the city skyline in the background.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007: I get up feeling privileged to see Seattle in the snow, a rare event apparently. As I walk to the King Street Station with my pack on my back I am careful not to slip, which is not always easy in a city built on hills. I find that if I keep close to the buildings the sidewalk is clear. I descend via 4th Avenue which isn’t as steep as some of the streets and so I manage to retain an upright position all the way. At South Jackson and 4th I am held up a moment by a flagger who is clearing the way for an articulated bus that is trying to swing around the corner and mount the grade. I am interested to see the buses using chains, something I have never seen before. I guess the buses were fitted with snow tires in Winnipeg.
I stop at a coffee house and purchase a bottle of orange juice and two poppy seed lemon muffins which will serve as my breakfast on the train, however when I reach the station I have lots of time so I consume them there. I am just wiping the grease from my arteries when the boarding call is made, so along with the other 40 or so passengers I line up. When I picked up my ticket I was assigned Seat 17 in Car 4 on the Cascade 510. There appear to be seven cars besides the dining car and Café bar car. The powerful F40-style locomotive at the front is numbered 90252. (I’m not sure who is the conductor – there’s a rather handsome man wearing a high-crested hat – he looks somewhat like the conductor in The Polar Express, very pleasant looking. Then there’s a young lady with long blond hair who wears no hat, but carries a portable radio and throughout the trip she rushes back and forth as though attending to important duties. When we approach Vancouver a voice over the PA tells us that our good-looking conductor is going to get off the train and hand-throw a switch – could be the man or the woman.)
According to the manufacturer’s site on the web, the Talgo train has an interesting technology that is supposed to give a smoother ride than conventional American systems. The coaches appear very low by North American standards and are semi-permanently coupled. There is only one axle at each end of the coach, though with the articulation there don’t appear to be quite enough axles to go around. The cars are divided by automatic sliding glass doors. There are only eight people in Car 4. One couple, sitting at the rear of the coach are sharing a table, and one of them promptly announces in a voice that everyone can hear that they love to travel, they visit Vancouver frequently, and really enjoy Europe, especially all the gay sites. They continue to talk quite loudly to the fellow across the aisle throughout most of the trip. The recipient of their chatter is a young man working on a laptop computer, so whether he is recording every word they utter or trying to do some complicated engineering calculation, I don’t know.
Behind me, one on either side of the aisle, are businessman types. One promptly leaves for the café or dining car which are two coaches behind. The other sleeps for an hour, then he too departs rearward. In front of me sits a short man clad in a heavy coat and a fur helmet with flaps that come down over his ears. He wears this throughout most of the journey, whether to protect himself from the gay chatter or because he is sensitive to the cold, I never find out. In front of him is a middle-aged couple who rarely speak to each other, so perhaps they have been married for some years and have said all that needs to be said.
At exactly 7:40 a.m. the train glides away from the station and our locomotive leads us into the tunnel that passes beneath downtown Seattle. It is a rather dark beginning to the journey but in a few moments we break out into daylight and find ourselves rolling alongside Elliott Bay where the Victoria Clipper had dumped me two days previously. The coach is equipped with television monitors that show a map of the route, our approximate location, the current time and the time we will arrive in Vancouver. The latter keeps changing until eventually it reads 11:57 a.m. which is exactly 22 minutes off our scheduled arrival time of 11:35 a.m. Just south of Edmonds I notice that the speed limit for passenger trains is 60 mph but of course we are slowing down to stop. A gang of construction-style men with yellow hard-hats and thick leather gloves mount the train and travelled as far as Everett where they detrain after we pass through a long tunnel. I notice a major rail junction at the north end of Everett and I wonder if that is where the Empire Builder heads east to Chicago, but I don’t have a railway map so I can’t verify that.
It is exciting to see the Burlington Northern Santa Fe engines idling, but I don’t spy a war bonnet paint scheme which is a bit of a disappointment. At 9:10 a.m. the train is doing a very fast run through Marysville and the ride is extremely smooth. I walk back to the Café Car where the cashier is standing with arms folded, no passengers to look after. I order an orange juice and am given a cold one for $2.75 in greenbacks. I sit at one of the small tables for a few minutes and watch the passing scenery as we skim over the snowy surface. I go into the washroom on the way back to my seat and find the cubicle huge, then realize it is probably meant for wheelchair passengers. Everything is clean, but then it should be with only a handful of passengers.
I watch for the Peace Arch in the park along the US-Canada border north of Bellingham and manage to snap a photograph of it. A few moments later the train is rocking and rolling along the seafront in White Rock, BC. I had read on the web that this section of track was rough, but “rough” doesn’t describe it – the curtains which have been deathly still until this part of the trip are swaying back and forth like fronds in the hands of Pharaoh’s slaves as they try to cool his temper. The track smooths out as the train rounds the bluff and heads towards New Westminster where we wait briefly before crossing the Fraser River. I recall waiting much longer to cross this bridge on my first trip to Vancouver in the 1970s – that was on CNR’s Super Continental which included one of the ex-Hiawatha Superdomes in its consist. I had enjoyed the trip across the prairies because we were running late and it seemed quite magical to be warm and snug in the dome while the blizzard raged around us. There’s no dome on this train but the view is clear on both sides as we follow the Skytrain monoliths into the depths of the city, and come to a halt at Pacific Central Station just three minutes before 12 noon.
I hang back a few moments to take a photograph of the coach interior after everyone has left. Having worked in government and dealing with information and privacy issues I don’t want to give anyone a fit by snapping their photograph without permission. When I pull my wheeled pack onto the platform I find myself behind the gay men who have their matching suitcases bound with rainbow straps, their names engraved on them, B---- and J---. (Later I pass them on Hastings Street downtown). The man with the fur helmet, now buttoned firmly around his head, asks one of the Amtrak people whether the head-end engine is powered. The Amtrak fellow says, “No, it’s just an empty shell.” I was shocked, as the whole time I was snapping photographs of the head-end through my window when we circled curves I was assuming that we were being pulled to Vancouver. Being pushed to Vancouver had a totally different connotation to it.
This time I stand before a female border guard. Her main concern is whether it was snowing in Seattle. I wonder if this is a trick question, but can’t think of anything to say except, “It was snowing when we left.” At this she brightens up and says, “Are you travelling with someone then?” “No,” I reply. “I was just using the royal we.” This seems to satisfy her and she wishes me a good day. It used to be that border guards would dismantle my carefully packed suitcase and pull the air cleaner and wheel discs off my car when I tried to cross the international boundary – either they have slacked off in their vigilance or I now look like someone too old and tired to bother smuggling anything. I do feel a little bit guilty because I’ve purchased nothing, absolutely nothing, to bring back. Not a t-shirt, not a key chain, not a CD or DVD, nothing at all. I figure that will make me look suspicious for sure, but this doesn’t seem to concern her.
Pacific Central is also the bus depot which makes travel very convenient. I purchase my ticket to Courtenay. The bus will leave at 5:45 p.m. so I have several hours to enjoy Vancouver...When I return I retrieve my pack and write up my diary. While doing that there’s an ugly incident. I hear someone yelling, “Don’t do it ma’am. Don’t give him anything.” The big voice is coming from a large man garbed in a black jacket reading Security. When I look in the direction his nose is pointing I don’t see anything untoward, so I go on with my writing.
A moment later I hear, “Get out. Get out of my station!” and I see the big voiced security man and two others grappling with a feral youth, a haunted look of emotional and physical hunger pinching his narrow, grey face. Two of the officers finally get hold of him and give him the bum’s rush out the front door. When the officers brush off their clothing and return to the concourse, the big-voiced one says to a little, grey-haired lady, “You see what you encourage. You shouldn’t give out any money.” I know the officers are doing what must be done; they cannot have tiny grandmothers handing over their hard-saved cash to those who will squander it on unsatisfying drugs, but one cannot help feeling sorry for these feral humans who appear to’ve never felt a loving arm around them, and in their current state don’t stand much of a chance of finding one. What a bleak existence they must live.
I buy myself an egg salad sandwich and a diet 7-up which I consume while waiting out my last few minutes in the station. At the far end of the station is the VIA counter and there seems to be a rumpus over there. No intruder is causing this one, the employees are chortling and teasing each other in loud voices. Even though no customers are at their counters it seems most unprofessional to behave in such a way in full view of the public. After writing in my diary I check out the Silver-Blue Lounge for VIA’s first class passengers. It seems rather cramped compared to Toronto’s lounge. There are a few people taking advantage of the easy chairs. Around 5 p.m. VIA calls passengers for The Canadian and they head out onto the platforms. At the same time passengers are lining up for their seat assignments on the Talgo for the trip back to Seattle which is scheduled to leave at 6 p.m.
At 5:45 p.m. I and the other half dozen passengers board the Greyhound motor coach for Courtenay. My Amtrak experience has been positive so now I shall plan a trip to visit my nephew in Sacramento.
Monday, January 15, 2007: I walk from the Days Inn Downtown in Seattle to the King Street Station…coming up to the corner of South Jackson and 2nd I spy the red-brick tower that rises above the station. It has taken me 30 minutes to walk from the hotel, and I arrive just as Cascade 510 is boarding for Vancouver, BC. I follow the “guests” onto the platform and take a few photographs of the train, though the light at that hour is still very dim. As soon as the train disappears into a black hole at the north end of the station the Amtrak employee tells me that he’s going to lock the door, so unless I want to walk the long way around I’d better get back inside. I get back inside and take a look at the station which is in a rather dilapidated state, though a poster display threatens renovations that will return it to its former splendour. I take the stairway to the street and take a few other photographs of the Sounder commuter trains with the city skyline in the background.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007: I get up feeling privileged to see Seattle in the snow, a rare event apparently. As I walk to the King Street Station with my pack on my back I am careful not to slip, which is not always easy in a city built on hills. I find that if I keep close to the buildings the sidewalk is clear. I descend via 4th Avenue which isn’t as steep as some of the streets and so I manage to retain an upright position all the way. At South Jackson and 4th I am held up a moment by a flagger who is clearing the way for an articulated bus that is trying to swing around the corner and mount the grade. I am interested to see the buses using chains, something I have never seen before. I guess the buses were fitted with snow tires in Winnipeg.
I stop at a coffee house and purchase a bottle of orange juice and two poppy seed lemon muffins which will serve as my breakfast on the train, however when I reach the station I have lots of time so I consume them there. I am just wiping the grease from my arteries when the boarding call is made, so along with the other 40 or so passengers I line up. When I picked up my ticket I was assigned Seat 17 in Car 4 on the Cascade 510. There appear to be seven cars besides the dining car and Café bar car. The powerful F40-style locomotive at the front is numbered 90252. (I’m not sure who is the conductor – there’s a rather handsome man wearing a high-crested hat – he looks somewhat like the conductor in The Polar Express, very pleasant looking. Then there’s a young lady with long blond hair who wears no hat, but carries a portable radio and throughout the trip she rushes back and forth as though attending to important duties. When we approach Vancouver a voice over the PA tells us that our good-looking conductor is going to get off the train and hand-throw a switch – could be the man or the woman.)
According to the manufacturer’s site on the web, the Talgo train has an interesting technology that is supposed to give a smoother ride than conventional American systems. The coaches appear very low by North American standards and are semi-permanently coupled. There is only one axle at each end of the coach, though with the articulation there don’t appear to be quite enough axles to go around. The cars are divided by automatic sliding glass doors. There are only eight people in Car 4. One couple, sitting at the rear of the coach are sharing a table, and one of them promptly announces in a voice that everyone can hear that they love to travel, they visit Vancouver frequently, and really enjoy Europe, especially all the gay sites. They continue to talk quite loudly to the fellow across the aisle throughout most of the trip. The recipient of their chatter is a young man working on a laptop computer, so whether he is recording every word they utter or trying to do some complicated engineering calculation, I don’t know.
Behind me, one on either side of the aisle, are businessman types. One promptly leaves for the café or dining car which are two coaches behind. The other sleeps for an hour, then he too departs rearward. In front of me sits a short man clad in a heavy coat and a fur helmet with flaps that come down over his ears. He wears this throughout most of the journey, whether to protect himself from the gay chatter or because he is sensitive to the cold, I never find out. In front of him is a middle-aged couple who rarely speak to each other, so perhaps they have been married for some years and have said all that needs to be said.
At exactly 7:40 a.m. the train glides away from the station and our locomotive leads us into the tunnel that passes beneath downtown Seattle. It is a rather dark beginning to the journey but in a few moments we break out into daylight and find ourselves rolling alongside Elliott Bay where the Victoria Clipper had dumped me two days previously. The coach is equipped with television monitors that show a map of the route, our approximate location, the current time and the time we will arrive in Vancouver. The latter keeps changing until eventually it reads 11:57 a.m. which is exactly 22 minutes off our scheduled arrival time of 11:35 a.m. Just south of Edmonds I notice that the speed limit for passenger trains is 60 mph but of course we are slowing down to stop. A gang of construction-style men with yellow hard-hats and thick leather gloves mount the train and travelled as far as Everett where they detrain after we pass through a long tunnel. I notice a major rail junction at the north end of Everett and I wonder if that is where the Empire Builder heads east to Chicago, but I don’t have a railway map so I can’t verify that.
It is exciting to see the Burlington Northern Santa Fe engines idling, but I don’t spy a war bonnet paint scheme which is a bit of a disappointment. At 9:10 a.m. the train is doing a very fast run through Marysville and the ride is extremely smooth. I walk back to the Café Car where the cashier is standing with arms folded, no passengers to look after. I order an orange juice and am given a cold one for $2.75 in greenbacks. I sit at one of the small tables for a few minutes and watch the passing scenery as we skim over the snowy surface. I go into the washroom on the way back to my seat and find the cubicle huge, then realize it is probably meant for wheelchair passengers. Everything is clean, but then it should be with only a handful of passengers.
I watch for the Peace Arch in the park along the US-Canada border north of Bellingham and manage to snap a photograph of it. A few moments later the train is rocking and rolling along the seafront in White Rock, BC. I had read on the web that this section of track was rough, but “rough” doesn’t describe it – the curtains which have been deathly still until this part of the trip are swaying back and forth like fronds in the hands of Pharaoh’s slaves as they try to cool his temper. The track smooths out as the train rounds the bluff and heads towards New Westminster where we wait briefly before crossing the Fraser River. I recall waiting much longer to cross this bridge on my first trip to Vancouver in the 1970s – that was on CNR’s Super Continental which included one of the ex-Hiawatha Superdomes in its consist. I had enjoyed the trip across the prairies because we were running late and it seemed quite magical to be warm and snug in the dome while the blizzard raged around us. There’s no dome on this train but the view is clear on both sides as we follow the Skytrain monoliths into the depths of the city, and come to a halt at Pacific Central Station just three minutes before 12 noon.
I hang back a few moments to take a photograph of the coach interior after everyone has left. Having worked in government and dealing with information and privacy issues I don’t want to give anyone a fit by snapping their photograph without permission. When I pull my wheeled pack onto the platform I find myself behind the gay men who have their matching suitcases bound with rainbow straps, their names engraved on them, B---- and J---. (Later I pass them on Hastings Street downtown). The man with the fur helmet, now buttoned firmly around his head, asks one of the Amtrak people whether the head-end engine is powered. The Amtrak fellow says, “No, it’s just an empty shell.” I was shocked, as the whole time I was snapping photographs of the head-end through my window when we circled curves I was assuming that we were being pulled to Vancouver. Being pushed to Vancouver had a totally different connotation to it.
This time I stand before a female border guard. Her main concern is whether it was snowing in Seattle. I wonder if this is a trick question, but can’t think of anything to say except, “It was snowing when we left.” At this she brightens up and says, “Are you travelling with someone then?” “No,” I reply. “I was just using the royal we.” This seems to satisfy her and she wishes me a good day. It used to be that border guards would dismantle my carefully packed suitcase and pull the air cleaner and wheel discs off my car when I tried to cross the international boundary – either they have slacked off in their vigilance or I now look like someone too old and tired to bother smuggling anything. I do feel a little bit guilty because I’ve purchased nothing, absolutely nothing, to bring back. Not a t-shirt, not a key chain, not a CD or DVD, nothing at all. I figure that will make me look suspicious for sure, but this doesn’t seem to concern her.
Pacific Central is also the bus depot which makes travel very convenient. I purchase my ticket to Courtenay. The bus will leave at 5:45 p.m. so I have several hours to enjoy Vancouver...When I return I retrieve my pack and write up my diary. While doing that there’s an ugly incident. I hear someone yelling, “Don’t do it ma’am. Don’t give him anything.” The big voice is coming from a large man garbed in a black jacket reading Security. When I look in the direction his nose is pointing I don’t see anything untoward, so I go on with my writing.
A moment later I hear, “Get out. Get out of my station!” and I see the big voiced security man and two others grappling with a feral youth, a haunted look of emotional and physical hunger pinching his narrow, grey face. Two of the officers finally get hold of him and give him the bum’s rush out the front door. When the officers brush off their clothing and return to the concourse, the big-voiced one says to a little, grey-haired lady, “You see what you encourage. You shouldn’t give out any money.” I know the officers are doing what must be done; they cannot have tiny grandmothers handing over their hard-saved cash to those who will squander it on unsatisfying drugs, but one cannot help feeling sorry for these feral humans who appear to’ve never felt a loving arm around them, and in their current state don’t stand much of a chance of finding one. What a bleak existence they must live.
I buy myself an egg salad sandwich and a diet 7-up which I consume while waiting out my last few minutes in the station. At the far end of the station is the VIA counter and there seems to be a rumpus over there. No intruder is causing this one, the employees are chortling and teasing each other in loud voices. Even though no customers are at their counters it seems most unprofessional to behave in such a way in full view of the public. After writing in my diary I check out the Silver-Blue Lounge for VIA’s first class passengers. It seems rather cramped compared to Toronto’s lounge. There are a few people taking advantage of the easy chairs. Around 5 p.m. VIA calls passengers for The Canadian and they head out onto the platforms. At the same time passengers are lining up for their seat assignments on the Talgo for the trip back to Seattle which is scheduled to leave at 6 p.m.
At 5:45 p.m. I and the other half dozen passengers board the Greyhound motor coach for Courtenay. My Amtrak experience has been positive so now I shall plan a trip to visit my nephew in Sacramento.
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