Tuesday, May 30, 2006: 6:50 a.m. I’m at the VIA station in Oshawa, Ontario, aboard the GO train that will take me to Toronto’s Union Station. The ticket cost $7.30. When my brother dropped me off at the station a VIA passenger train with LRC equipment was leaving for Toronto. Just heard the “All Aboard” and away we go. I’m sitting on what I’d call the mezzanine level at the front of a car, facing forward. It’s very crowded seating, my knees almost touching the lady sitting across from me. No one speaks to me and I don’t speak to anyone – I suppose I would expose myself as a country yokel from the beautiful Comox Valley, British Columbia, if I was to say something to the three women setting beside and across from me. They would maybe think I was bent on wicked deeds if I uttered pleasantries in their direction.
I’ve been visiting my brother John and sister-in-law Lucille who live in Courtice, a suburb of Oshawa. The first day of my visit we spent the morning beside the railway line linking Montreal with Toronto. I expected we’d see a great number of high speed passenger trains but we had time to eat our Subway sandwiches and were about to give up when finally a CN freight came rumbling along on a line to the left of the double-tracked cut we had staked out. We were so busy looking at it that we almost missed the roar of an F40 hauling a five coach set as it sneaked up behind us. It was moving pretty fast because I only had time to snap a couple of pictures before it had raced out of sight around the bend. We then drove to Port Hope were two high railway trestles carry the tracks across the valley that bisects the town. We were walking by the canal when a P42DC dashed across one of the trestles with a number of coaches in tow.
Later that evening I convinced my brother and sister-in-law to forego the NHL hockey game in favour of a trip to the VIA station. Lucille found a television set inside the station where she could enjoy the game while my brother and I patrolled the platform. We were examining its far end when another P42DC whistled by, drying our hair and giving us somewhat of a scare as we had not heard it approaching until the last moment.
The GO train is underway, with its engine backing the train up. We amble along at an easy lope with stops at Whitby, Ajax and Pickering, after which we attain a speed that can reasonably compete with the automobiles on the 401 that paces our trackbed. Along the way an LRC passes us heading east.
7:44 a.m. I’m in the lower concourse of Union Station. I’ve taken refuge on a bench in an alcove where I can safely observe the hordes of eager commuters. As usual, I’m early – The Canadian which will take me to Winnipeg, Manitoba isn’t scheduled to leave until 9 a.m. – but I’ve always had a fear of missing a train so I’ve given myself lots of time.
8:00 a.m. An announcement is made that sleeping car passengers may check in for VIA’s Train Number 1, The Canadian. I make my way upstairs where I use one of the computer terminals to print out my ticket. Then I head back downstairs to join the long line of passengers. I can’t believe that all these people with their carts of luggage are actually expecting to obtain sleeping car accommodation. The last time I rode VIA was in the winter of 1989. I was studying French in beautiful Trois-Rivieres, Quebec, and I travelled home via VIA to Winnipeg for the Christmas holiday. That train had the winter consist of two sleeping cars plus one Skyline, one dining car, a couple of coaches, one baggage-dormitory and the Park car.
My turn finally comes to speak with the two agents: one assigns me to Roomette 4, Car 125. The other agent asks me which lunch sitting I want, first, second or third. I choose first, then move forward into the Silver/Blue lounge provided for first class passengers. There are comfortable armchairs, newspapers, muffins, coffee, and soft drinks. I pull out the breakfast my sister-in-law has prepared for me: her delicious date-filled oatmeal cookies and two apples. I supplement it with a can of diet Coke from the buffet.
8:50 a.m. and I’m settled in Roomette 4, Carleton Manor. When I came up the stairway onto the platform the train stretched into infinity in both directions. I was directed towards the rear of the train. Looking forward I could not see the engines – they were hiding in the gloom of the train shed. There seemed to be some confusion about the car numbers. The train personnel were hurriedly changing them and so I paused for a moment or two before boarding. Now there appears to be some confusion in Carleton Manor too – a man and woman are sitting together in the roomette across the aisle from me – the service attendant is telling them, “Bear with me a moment. I’ll sort it out. I’ll get this all settled,” but he doesn’t seem to do anything.
9:03 a.m. People are still wandering along the platform, dragging their suitcases. A few mount the steps to Carleton Manor and I feel the suspension respond to their weight. The Budd Company designed these cars so delicately. I wonder if Budd is still in business.
9:25 a.m. The Service Attendant tells the couple across from me that they should be in a bedroom, and all will be sorted out once the train is moving and the Service Manager comes along to see them. There is a little booklet in my roomette describing the services available, how to drop the bed, use the sink, toilet and lights. I’m reading through it when the Service Attendant pops his head into my space. He introduces himself as Leonard and asks if I’m familiar with my surroundings. I tell him that I am and after a few pleasantries he goes on his way.
9:34 and we are backing up. I don’t know Toronto well but it appears that we are backing up the Don Valley which John, Lucille and I drove down a few days previously when we travelled to Niagara Falls. At 10:09 we back beneath the 401 highway and at 10:25 stop alongside a freight hauling a string of loaded auto-carriers. At 10:28 we begin to move forward and at 10:30 we veer away from the freight and head north, passing the GO stations for Langstaff and Richmond Hill. We are to be in Washago at 11:08 but it doesn’t look like we’re going to be there anytime soon. We parallel the 404 highway for a time. I’m always so happy to be on a train when I see the crowded highways – it’s so much more peaceful to let someone else do the driving even though the cars are leaving us far behind.
10:55 we have stopped. The sun is shining with a few white clouds in a blue sky. I have time to examine the willows, grass and poplar trees lining the right of way. The first call for lunch comes at 11 a.m. Leonard tells me to go back two cars, which I do and I have just sat down at the table when a furor develops. The hostess comes and asks to see my lunch reservation. When she sees it she asks me to leave in the crispest manner. Apparently Leonard has told me to go the wrong way – and so I backtrack to Carleton Manor and continue forward through two sleepers. It is beastly hot in the vestibules between the cars. This time I’m in the right dining car. I have the chicken burger with potato salad, apple juice and orange cream cake for dessert. I decline the wine that is freely offered.
12:48 I’m in the Skyline car that is located two sleepers behind me. From the dome I can see that the train has four Skyline cars and three dining cars plus the Park car at the rear. I try to count the whole consist but can’t seem to get a handle on it due to the curves. I figure something like 30 cars counting the F40 engines. We’re stopped at Mile 79 of some division. The speed limit is 40/40.
I’m watching for Orillia but we seem to bypass it and I realize that I’m not familiar with our route. When the CPR was operating the Canadian I travelled from Winnipeg to Toronto a couple of times, but that was years ago. I never travelled the Super Continental CNR route, which is the main reason I’m taking the train from Toronto to Winnipeg this year. I want to see what I’ve missed all these years – I recall my Aunt Alma telling me about a time she and her family were travelling from Ottawa to Saskatoon on the CNR route – they suffered a derailment when the engine hit a bear – she and the children had a double bedroom and were thrown from their bunks when the mishap occurred. They had to walk around the derailed engines to reach the rescue train that had been sent east from Winnipeg.
2:20 p.m. we creep like a snail which gives me time to examine every leaf on every tree. Once in awhile there’s a puff of oily black smoke far head as we move through the green jungle – from my vantage point in the dome it appears that we are a long, silver snake crawling through a green swamp. Eventually I recognize some of the landmarks and realize that we’re now just south of Parry Sound where we rattle over the high steel trestle that spans the main road into town. We roll right past the historic station with its rounded end.
There is a large British contingent of tourists on board. I overhear one of them telling her seatmate that the train is made up of “forty carriages, each one sixty feet long”. She adds that the train cannot move as quickly as the two-carriage trains in England because of the drag. She must be a retired physicist. The leader of the British contingent appears to be Alice, a lively woman who maintains a humorous commentary of the passing scenery. She says she’ll write in her diary that she’s seen trees and water, and water and trees and some of the trees were burnt. I tell her not to forget the rocks. Someone says, “Is it rocks that rattle your cage?” I’m not sure how to respond to that. Alice says that someone thinks they spotted a moose, but it may have been only a burned stump.
6:40 p.m. and we’re approaching Capreol. The sleeper ahead of mine is an oven – Leonard says the air conditioning has quit working and it will be looked at in Capreol which is a division point. The rumour is that our stop will be for 1.5 hours while the repair work is carried out. Leonard says there are 32 cars carrying 500 souls. During the stop I have Leonard take my photograph and then I walk up to the front end where the three F40s are being refuelled. At 7:15 the All Aboard is called so I get back on, but the train is just moving up so that the people in the rear sections can get off for their smoke and exercise break. Fifteen minutes later we leave, so obviously the mechanics gave up on the air conditioning. Rumour is that it will not be repaired until Winnipeg. Meanwhile, the doors at either end of the hothouse sleeper have been opened and the top section of the barn doors have been latched open. It is quite thrilling to stand there with the hot wind whipping my face, the trees and rocks a blur in front of me.
7:34 p.m. When leaving Capreol I see there’s a small section of the old roundhouse still being used. I ring for Leonard. I’m concerned about the people in the hothouse sleeper. Leonard doesn’t appear even though I’ve pushed the button several times. When he finally comes through the car I offer to exchange accommodation with one of the elderly in the hothouse sleeper. He thanks me and seems to think it quite selfless of me to make such an offer – it isn’t really – I just think how my dad would be feeling if it was him in that steamy car – he’d be feeling pretty sick. Leonard says that things should cool off later in the day as the sun slips towards the horizon. I wouldn’t think that a satisfactory answer if my dad was dying in his berth. (Dad always wanted to go to Ottawa to see parliament in session, but by the time I was free to accompany him he wasn't up to the trip.)
8:30 p.m. Back from my first ever shower on a train – how wonderful to feel clean and refreshed – as I’m showering in the tiny cubicle I hope we won’t hit a bear – I can imagine the Budd car slipping over the embankment, the stainless steel ribbing splitting wide open and there I am butt naked in the middle of the boreal forest, a luncheon meat prepared for the mosquitoes and bears that must be out there praying for such an occurence. But there’s no mishap and after towelling off I head back up to the dome for the evening. While rounding a curve one of the Brits points forward excitedly and says, “Look, there’s another train ahead of us.” We all look – sure enough – and then we all realize that it’s our own engines a half-mile ahead.
Wednesday, May 31: 5:20 a.m. I haven’t slept very well – my roomette is right over the wheels and it’s been a noisy and bumpy night. I’ve felt that at any moment we could jump off the rails, and I’ve found it difficult to find a comfortable position. I finally settled on my stomach as the most comfortable – then it seemed like someone had roped me around the ankles and was yanking me through the northern Ontario bush. I had to use the toilet a couple times during the night too – which entailed raising the bed. The toilets in these refurbished Budd cars use some type of electronic flush – one pushes a plastic button – for a time nothing happens, then suddenly there’s an angry bark, like a large dog deprived of its food, and with a powerful whoosh everything is washed away.
Since reading “Across the Canadian Shield, CNR Main Line Railroading in the mid 1950’s” by Alan Lill and Robert Wanner (Published by CN Lines Special Interest Group) I’ve wanted to examine these northern Ontario town through the window of a train, so I head back to the Skyline until breakfast is served at 7. I get a look at Nakina where the Nakina Saloon appears to be the most prominent building. Later in the morning I miss Armstrong because I’m standing in the vestibule of the hothouse sleeper letting the breeze caress my hair and looking out the wrong side of the train. Leonard has assured me that the passengers from that sleeper were given the crew’s quarters for the night – I wonder why that wasn’t done early in the trip so that they didn’t have to suffer so many hours in the heat.
12:50 p.m. we are stopped in Sioux Lookout, a pleasant looking town. We were to be here at 9:05 a.m. with departure at 9:25 p.m. Leonard tells me that we are running this late because an elderly Chinese lady fell out of her berth and had to be taken to the hospital in Hornepayne. The poor lady – if she is a tourist from China she will wonder to what remote corner of the world she has been transported, but then, perhaps she will appreciate the wide open spaces, the uncrowded streets and scarcity of human life. Since we’re over 3 hours late I’m glad that I chose to book a hotel in Winnipeg instead of flying home to Comox tonight – I would miss my flight for sure. While stopped for servicing I walk to the front of the train, then to the back where I see Waterton Park is carrying the marker lights.
For lunch I have salmon on French bread. The dining car staff are so efficient – it is amazing how they can serve so many people in such short order and not appear to rush us out of our seats before we’ve had time to thoroughly masticate the delicious food they’ve prepared. In the dome car the Brits are having a great time. They talk of eventually getting to Edmonton where they’ll board a coach for the trip to Calgary, then go on to Banff where they’ll ride on the Rocky Mountaineer to Vancouver.
Most of the route has been through land with little relief. Lakes, ponds, swamps, trees, a few isolated cabins and no impressive railway structures such as trestles or tunnels. The landscape improves around Sioux Lookout with higher rocky hills and larger lakes. There are a few lakeside cottages and we thread several tunnels.
4:15 p.m. at Reditt and sunshine gives way to dark clouds. We stop to give way to a freight. While waiting for it to arrive I see an ant running along the polished rail surface, unaware of the approaching train. I wonder if that’s how we humans appear to the heavenly intelligences – pursuing some seemingly important activity, totally unaware that danger is approaching at high speed.
Because we are running late, we get an extra meal in the dining car. The talk is louder and everyone seems to’ve let their hair down a little, confident that we’ll soon escape the bush and will be arriving back in civilization. While eating I hope to get a look at the lodge at Minaki but no stop is made, and because the track is steeply banked inside a cut I see absolutely nothing.
I do get a quick glimpse of the bridge over the CPR mainline just west of Indigo, Manitoba. When I lived in Winnipeg it was one of my favourite haunts – many Sundays found me hanging out there at trackside with my Super 8 movie camera, waiting for the passenger trains to appear. One time a black bear sow appeared out of the scrub bush with her cub. I yelled and she took off towards Indigo. Another time I discovered a hawk’s nest in the bridge decking. What a place to raise young ones – they must have been terrified when the Super Continental pounded over top of them or when The Canadian rushed beneath, sending up its oily exhaust fumes.
The final dash to Winnipeg is the most exciting part of the trip. The land is flat and my vision is uncluttered by rocks and trees. Like calves let out of the barn after a long cold winter, the F40s let loose along the straight-of-way and what a beautiful sight it is from the Skyline, the stainless steel ridges of the Budd cards lined up in a perfectly straight line, an oily smudge in the damp air above the locomotives as we race across the road crossings, and past the farms where the cows are being turned out from the milking parlours.
7:30 p.m. (instead of 3:45 p.m.) we arrive at Union Station in Winnipeg. Because of the length of the train we have to hike through many cars before we find ourselves at the paved platform, and then it’s another long trek to the train shed and downstairs to the concourse. Most of the station has been rented out to tenants – the VIA counter is now at the bottom of the concourse beneath the train shed instead of being out in the grand, echoing rotunda. The heavy wooden pew-like seats have been replaced by metal ones, but the place still brings back memories of my teaching days when I waited here for trains to carry me to Vancouver for spring break. They were usually late and so I’d wait until the wee hours of the morning, the rumble of passing freights the only entertainment. Finally there’d be the squeal of brakes as the Super Continental rolled in, weary from its crawl through northern Ontario, the doors would open, a blast of frigid air would drop into the concourse, and in an hour or so we’d be permitted to board our snug roomettes.
When I reach my hotel room and step into the shower I find red welts on my arms, chest, belly and arms. What can they be? I walk over the Osborne Bridge to a drugstore to get some rubbing alcohol, the all-time favourite healing potion in my family. It doesn’t help. When I arrive home the next day I go directly from the airport to a walk-in clinic. “Scabies”, the doctor says, touching my wrists. She prescribes an insecticide to rid me of them. After dousing myself I e-mail VIA, advising them to fumigate Roomette 4 in Carleton Manor, which should be pulling into Vancouver the next day. I receive a polite note back hoping that I will continue to patronize VIA. The insecticide doesn’t seem to work. I visit my family doctor who also pronounces “Scabies”. Three weeks later and after multiple applications of insecticide the spots disappear, but I’m still not sure what afflicted me and whether or not it was a gift from VIA.
I’ve been visiting my brother John and sister-in-law Lucille who live in Courtice, a suburb of Oshawa. The first day of my visit we spent the morning beside the railway line linking Montreal with Toronto. I expected we’d see a great number of high speed passenger trains but we had time to eat our Subway sandwiches and were about to give up when finally a CN freight came rumbling along on a line to the left of the double-tracked cut we had staked out. We were so busy looking at it that we almost missed the roar of an F40 hauling a five coach set as it sneaked up behind us. It was moving pretty fast because I only had time to snap a couple of pictures before it had raced out of sight around the bend. We then drove to Port Hope were two high railway trestles carry the tracks across the valley that bisects the town. We were walking by the canal when a P42DC dashed across one of the trestles with a number of coaches in tow.
Later that evening I convinced my brother and sister-in-law to forego the NHL hockey game in favour of a trip to the VIA station. Lucille found a television set inside the station where she could enjoy the game while my brother and I patrolled the platform. We were examining its far end when another P42DC whistled by, drying our hair and giving us somewhat of a scare as we had not heard it approaching until the last moment.
The GO train is underway, with its engine backing the train up. We amble along at an easy lope with stops at Whitby, Ajax and Pickering, after which we attain a speed that can reasonably compete with the automobiles on the 401 that paces our trackbed. Along the way an LRC passes us heading east.
7:44 a.m. I’m in the lower concourse of Union Station. I’ve taken refuge on a bench in an alcove where I can safely observe the hordes of eager commuters. As usual, I’m early – The Canadian which will take me to Winnipeg, Manitoba isn’t scheduled to leave until 9 a.m. – but I’ve always had a fear of missing a train so I’ve given myself lots of time.
8:00 a.m. An announcement is made that sleeping car passengers may check in for VIA’s Train Number 1, The Canadian. I make my way upstairs where I use one of the computer terminals to print out my ticket. Then I head back downstairs to join the long line of passengers. I can’t believe that all these people with their carts of luggage are actually expecting to obtain sleeping car accommodation. The last time I rode VIA was in the winter of 1989. I was studying French in beautiful Trois-Rivieres, Quebec, and I travelled home via VIA to Winnipeg for the Christmas holiday. That train had the winter consist of two sleeping cars plus one Skyline, one dining car, a couple of coaches, one baggage-dormitory and the Park car.
My turn finally comes to speak with the two agents: one assigns me to Roomette 4, Car 125. The other agent asks me which lunch sitting I want, first, second or third. I choose first, then move forward into the Silver/Blue lounge provided for first class passengers. There are comfortable armchairs, newspapers, muffins, coffee, and soft drinks. I pull out the breakfast my sister-in-law has prepared for me: her delicious date-filled oatmeal cookies and two apples. I supplement it with a can of diet Coke from the buffet.
8:50 a.m. and I’m settled in Roomette 4, Carleton Manor. When I came up the stairway onto the platform the train stretched into infinity in both directions. I was directed towards the rear of the train. Looking forward I could not see the engines – they were hiding in the gloom of the train shed. There seemed to be some confusion about the car numbers. The train personnel were hurriedly changing them and so I paused for a moment or two before boarding. Now there appears to be some confusion in Carleton Manor too – a man and woman are sitting together in the roomette across the aisle from me – the service attendant is telling them, “Bear with me a moment. I’ll sort it out. I’ll get this all settled,” but he doesn’t seem to do anything.
9:03 a.m. People are still wandering along the platform, dragging their suitcases. A few mount the steps to Carleton Manor and I feel the suspension respond to their weight. The Budd Company designed these cars so delicately. I wonder if Budd is still in business.
9:25 a.m. The Service Attendant tells the couple across from me that they should be in a bedroom, and all will be sorted out once the train is moving and the Service Manager comes along to see them. There is a little booklet in my roomette describing the services available, how to drop the bed, use the sink, toilet and lights. I’m reading through it when the Service Attendant pops his head into my space. He introduces himself as Leonard and asks if I’m familiar with my surroundings. I tell him that I am and after a few pleasantries he goes on his way.
9:34 and we are backing up. I don’t know Toronto well but it appears that we are backing up the Don Valley which John, Lucille and I drove down a few days previously when we travelled to Niagara Falls. At 10:09 we back beneath the 401 highway and at 10:25 stop alongside a freight hauling a string of loaded auto-carriers. At 10:28 we begin to move forward and at 10:30 we veer away from the freight and head north, passing the GO stations for Langstaff and Richmond Hill. We are to be in Washago at 11:08 but it doesn’t look like we’re going to be there anytime soon. We parallel the 404 highway for a time. I’m always so happy to be on a train when I see the crowded highways – it’s so much more peaceful to let someone else do the driving even though the cars are leaving us far behind.
10:55 we have stopped. The sun is shining with a few white clouds in a blue sky. I have time to examine the willows, grass and poplar trees lining the right of way. The first call for lunch comes at 11 a.m. Leonard tells me to go back two cars, which I do and I have just sat down at the table when a furor develops. The hostess comes and asks to see my lunch reservation. When she sees it she asks me to leave in the crispest manner. Apparently Leonard has told me to go the wrong way – and so I backtrack to Carleton Manor and continue forward through two sleepers. It is beastly hot in the vestibules between the cars. This time I’m in the right dining car. I have the chicken burger with potato salad, apple juice and orange cream cake for dessert. I decline the wine that is freely offered.
12:48 I’m in the Skyline car that is located two sleepers behind me. From the dome I can see that the train has four Skyline cars and three dining cars plus the Park car at the rear. I try to count the whole consist but can’t seem to get a handle on it due to the curves. I figure something like 30 cars counting the F40 engines. We’re stopped at Mile 79 of some division. The speed limit is 40/40.
I’m watching for Orillia but we seem to bypass it and I realize that I’m not familiar with our route. When the CPR was operating the Canadian I travelled from Winnipeg to Toronto a couple of times, but that was years ago. I never travelled the Super Continental CNR route, which is the main reason I’m taking the train from Toronto to Winnipeg this year. I want to see what I’ve missed all these years – I recall my Aunt Alma telling me about a time she and her family were travelling from Ottawa to Saskatoon on the CNR route – they suffered a derailment when the engine hit a bear – she and the children had a double bedroom and were thrown from their bunks when the mishap occurred. They had to walk around the derailed engines to reach the rescue train that had been sent east from Winnipeg.
2:20 p.m. we creep like a snail which gives me time to examine every leaf on every tree. Once in awhile there’s a puff of oily black smoke far head as we move through the green jungle – from my vantage point in the dome it appears that we are a long, silver snake crawling through a green swamp. Eventually I recognize some of the landmarks and realize that we’re now just south of Parry Sound where we rattle over the high steel trestle that spans the main road into town. We roll right past the historic station with its rounded end.
There is a large British contingent of tourists on board. I overhear one of them telling her seatmate that the train is made up of “forty carriages, each one sixty feet long”. She adds that the train cannot move as quickly as the two-carriage trains in England because of the drag. She must be a retired physicist. The leader of the British contingent appears to be Alice, a lively woman who maintains a humorous commentary of the passing scenery. She says she’ll write in her diary that she’s seen trees and water, and water and trees and some of the trees were burnt. I tell her not to forget the rocks. Someone says, “Is it rocks that rattle your cage?” I’m not sure how to respond to that. Alice says that someone thinks they spotted a moose, but it may have been only a burned stump.
6:40 p.m. and we’re approaching Capreol. The sleeper ahead of mine is an oven – Leonard says the air conditioning has quit working and it will be looked at in Capreol which is a division point. The rumour is that our stop will be for 1.5 hours while the repair work is carried out. Leonard says there are 32 cars carrying 500 souls. During the stop I have Leonard take my photograph and then I walk up to the front end where the three F40s are being refuelled. At 7:15 the All Aboard is called so I get back on, but the train is just moving up so that the people in the rear sections can get off for their smoke and exercise break. Fifteen minutes later we leave, so obviously the mechanics gave up on the air conditioning. Rumour is that it will not be repaired until Winnipeg. Meanwhile, the doors at either end of the hothouse sleeper have been opened and the top section of the barn doors have been latched open. It is quite thrilling to stand there with the hot wind whipping my face, the trees and rocks a blur in front of me.
7:34 p.m. When leaving Capreol I see there’s a small section of the old roundhouse still being used. I ring for Leonard. I’m concerned about the people in the hothouse sleeper. Leonard doesn’t appear even though I’ve pushed the button several times. When he finally comes through the car I offer to exchange accommodation with one of the elderly in the hothouse sleeper. He thanks me and seems to think it quite selfless of me to make such an offer – it isn’t really – I just think how my dad would be feeling if it was him in that steamy car – he’d be feeling pretty sick. Leonard says that things should cool off later in the day as the sun slips towards the horizon. I wouldn’t think that a satisfactory answer if my dad was dying in his berth. (Dad always wanted to go to Ottawa to see parliament in session, but by the time I was free to accompany him he wasn't up to the trip.)
8:30 p.m. Back from my first ever shower on a train – how wonderful to feel clean and refreshed – as I’m showering in the tiny cubicle I hope we won’t hit a bear – I can imagine the Budd car slipping over the embankment, the stainless steel ribbing splitting wide open and there I am butt naked in the middle of the boreal forest, a luncheon meat prepared for the mosquitoes and bears that must be out there praying for such an occurence. But there’s no mishap and after towelling off I head back up to the dome for the evening. While rounding a curve one of the Brits points forward excitedly and says, “Look, there’s another train ahead of us.” We all look – sure enough – and then we all realize that it’s our own engines a half-mile ahead.
Wednesday, May 31: 5:20 a.m. I haven’t slept very well – my roomette is right over the wheels and it’s been a noisy and bumpy night. I’ve felt that at any moment we could jump off the rails, and I’ve found it difficult to find a comfortable position. I finally settled on my stomach as the most comfortable – then it seemed like someone had roped me around the ankles and was yanking me through the northern Ontario bush. I had to use the toilet a couple times during the night too – which entailed raising the bed. The toilets in these refurbished Budd cars use some type of electronic flush – one pushes a plastic button – for a time nothing happens, then suddenly there’s an angry bark, like a large dog deprived of its food, and with a powerful whoosh everything is washed away.
Since reading “Across the Canadian Shield, CNR Main Line Railroading in the mid 1950’s” by Alan Lill and Robert Wanner (Published by CN Lines Special Interest Group) I’ve wanted to examine these northern Ontario town through the window of a train, so I head back to the Skyline until breakfast is served at 7. I get a look at Nakina where the Nakina Saloon appears to be the most prominent building. Later in the morning I miss Armstrong because I’m standing in the vestibule of the hothouse sleeper letting the breeze caress my hair and looking out the wrong side of the train. Leonard has assured me that the passengers from that sleeper were given the crew’s quarters for the night – I wonder why that wasn’t done early in the trip so that they didn’t have to suffer so many hours in the heat.
12:50 p.m. we are stopped in Sioux Lookout, a pleasant looking town. We were to be here at 9:05 a.m. with departure at 9:25 p.m. Leonard tells me that we are running this late because an elderly Chinese lady fell out of her berth and had to be taken to the hospital in Hornepayne. The poor lady – if she is a tourist from China she will wonder to what remote corner of the world she has been transported, but then, perhaps she will appreciate the wide open spaces, the uncrowded streets and scarcity of human life. Since we’re over 3 hours late I’m glad that I chose to book a hotel in Winnipeg instead of flying home to Comox tonight – I would miss my flight for sure. While stopped for servicing I walk to the front of the train, then to the back where I see Waterton Park is carrying the marker lights.
For lunch I have salmon on French bread. The dining car staff are so efficient – it is amazing how they can serve so many people in such short order and not appear to rush us out of our seats before we’ve had time to thoroughly masticate the delicious food they’ve prepared. In the dome car the Brits are having a great time. They talk of eventually getting to Edmonton where they’ll board a coach for the trip to Calgary, then go on to Banff where they’ll ride on the Rocky Mountaineer to Vancouver.
Most of the route has been through land with little relief. Lakes, ponds, swamps, trees, a few isolated cabins and no impressive railway structures such as trestles or tunnels. The landscape improves around Sioux Lookout with higher rocky hills and larger lakes. There are a few lakeside cottages and we thread several tunnels.
4:15 p.m. at Reditt and sunshine gives way to dark clouds. We stop to give way to a freight. While waiting for it to arrive I see an ant running along the polished rail surface, unaware of the approaching train. I wonder if that’s how we humans appear to the heavenly intelligences – pursuing some seemingly important activity, totally unaware that danger is approaching at high speed.
Because we are running late, we get an extra meal in the dining car. The talk is louder and everyone seems to’ve let their hair down a little, confident that we’ll soon escape the bush and will be arriving back in civilization. While eating I hope to get a look at the lodge at Minaki but no stop is made, and because the track is steeply banked inside a cut I see absolutely nothing.
I do get a quick glimpse of the bridge over the CPR mainline just west of Indigo, Manitoba. When I lived in Winnipeg it was one of my favourite haunts – many Sundays found me hanging out there at trackside with my Super 8 movie camera, waiting for the passenger trains to appear. One time a black bear sow appeared out of the scrub bush with her cub. I yelled and she took off towards Indigo. Another time I discovered a hawk’s nest in the bridge decking. What a place to raise young ones – they must have been terrified when the Super Continental pounded over top of them or when The Canadian rushed beneath, sending up its oily exhaust fumes.
The final dash to Winnipeg is the most exciting part of the trip. The land is flat and my vision is uncluttered by rocks and trees. Like calves let out of the barn after a long cold winter, the F40s let loose along the straight-of-way and what a beautiful sight it is from the Skyline, the stainless steel ridges of the Budd cards lined up in a perfectly straight line, an oily smudge in the damp air above the locomotives as we race across the road crossings, and past the farms where the cows are being turned out from the milking parlours.
7:30 p.m. (instead of 3:45 p.m.) we arrive at Union Station in Winnipeg. Because of the length of the train we have to hike through many cars before we find ourselves at the paved platform, and then it’s another long trek to the train shed and downstairs to the concourse. Most of the station has been rented out to tenants – the VIA counter is now at the bottom of the concourse beneath the train shed instead of being out in the grand, echoing rotunda. The heavy wooden pew-like seats have been replaced by metal ones, but the place still brings back memories of my teaching days when I waited here for trains to carry me to Vancouver for spring break. They were usually late and so I’d wait until the wee hours of the morning, the rumble of passing freights the only entertainment. Finally there’d be the squeal of brakes as the Super Continental rolled in, weary from its crawl through northern Ontario, the doors would open, a blast of frigid air would drop into the concourse, and in an hour or so we’d be permitted to board our snug roomettes.
When I reach my hotel room and step into the shower I find red welts on my arms, chest, belly and arms. What can they be? I walk over the Osborne Bridge to a drugstore to get some rubbing alcohol, the all-time favourite healing potion in my family. It doesn’t help. When I arrive home the next day I go directly from the airport to a walk-in clinic. “Scabies”, the doctor says, touching my wrists. She prescribes an insecticide to rid me of them. After dousing myself I e-mail VIA, advising them to fumigate Roomette 4 in Carleton Manor, which should be pulling into Vancouver the next day. I receive a polite note back hoping that I will continue to patronize VIA. The insecticide doesn’t seem to work. I visit my family doctor who also pronounces “Scabies”. Three weeks later and after multiple applications of insecticide the spots disappear, but I’m still not sure what afflicted me and whether or not it was a gift from VIA.
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