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THE DARK CLOUDS I'D seen far away on the horizon finally caught up to the tiny train, dwarfed as it was by the hills and valleys it wound through, and a steady rain began to fall on the green coaches. As the train turned through one sharp curve after another, I caught sight of the 478 as it drifted along, acting as a brake against the forces of nature that wanted the train to dash to the bottom of the steep grade. Steam came from the two safety valves atop the steam dome, and white tendrils of steam came from the cylinders as the pistons moved back and forth.
Just as Johnson had promised, we slowed to a crawl to cross a spindly iron trestle. I heard the brakemen tell another passenger we were crossing over Lobato Creek. Once the 478 cleared the bridge, the pace picked up, and before long, we'd descended into the Chama River Valley. I watched with interest as the train crossed the two truss bridges spanning the Chama River.
Minutes later, the conductor stood at the front of the seating area in the parlor car Alamosa examining his watch. With pride, he announced the train was fifteen minutes early, and if anyone wanted to get something to eat, they could, so long as they were back on board by the scheduled departure time of 11:15.
Once again, the 478 slowed to a crawl as it entered the rather narrow confines of the Chama yards. I had no doubt freight trains were broken up here regularly, moved in smaller sections to the sidings I'd spotted at Cumbres. There they would be reassembled when the entire train had been brought up the steep four percent grade. As such, Chama's yard was long with multiple sidings. I spotted a water tank and a tall wooden coaling tower for servicing locomotives. There was even a sand drying shed and a small engine house and with shops facilities. There was no doubt the little village was an essential operational point on the route between Durango and Alamosa.
With his usual skill, the engineer stopped the train directly in front of the Chama depot. Those interested in taking their chances in the local diners got off and hurried up to the village's main street, which ran parallel to the yard. The crew had promised to talk to me, so I hurried forward to the locomotive.
“Hey,” I shouted up to the fireman who stood in the gap between the tender and the cab. “Lunch is on me if you’ll answer my questions.”
The engineer, who was leaning outside the cab window, smiled and shook his head no. "The beers are on you in the Strater tonight. We got to water the locomotive, oil around, and do an inspection.”
Not wanting to interfere with their jobs more than I already had, I agreed to buy a round at the Strater. It was convenient enough to agree. I’d already booked a room from Alamosa before the train’s departure that morning.
“Any suggestions on where to get a bite to eat?”
"Try Fosters, or you can get a steak in the parlor car," the engineer called down. He waved and returned his attention to the job at hand. I watched with interest as the engine crew worked with the brakeman who lined the switches as the 478 had cut loose from her consist and navigated her way over to the water tank for a drink.
The fireman filled the cistern to overflowing before allowing the spout to rise and cut off the flow of water. The crew waited until the excess water finished washing over the tender sides before backing up several feet to repeat the process, this time washing off the coal in the tender. Water was still streaming out of the coal pile when the 478 was spotted underneath the coal shoot, and the fuel was topped off with the black diamonds stored within the big coaling tower.
Having taken care of watering the locomotive, the crew reversed the process of working the 478 trough the yard, back to her train. Once coupled and the air brakes given a test, the brakeman climbed up in the cab, and the three sat down to eat the lunches they'd brought with them and drink coffee the fireman had brewed himself on the boiler.
As a Special Agent who often had to travel on the Bureau’s dime, the idea of another sandwich for lunch when I could eat steak with Callahan’s blessing was an opportunity that was too good to pass up. I returned to the Alamosa and ordered a Porterhouse steak and baked potato, loaded with butter, and a hot cup of coffee and a glass of water to wash it all down with.
No sooner had the porter taken my order than the westbound section of the San Juan Express eased to a stop with its matching consist, short a second baggage car but sporting an additional RPO. A coach and the parlor car Chama completed the train. I watched as the passengers who wished to eat locally got off, and the crews engaged in good-natured banter for a moment. The locomotive, another example of the K-28 class, numbered the 473, like its sister the 478 had earlier, cut off from its train to make a run for the water tank.
I watched with interest as the 473's crew went about the same tasks as had that of the 478, but did them in a slightly different manner. It seemed the crew of the 473 preferred to wash down the entire coal load and topped off its fuel supply first before taking on water, allowing them to clean the fines off all of the coal.
With no interest in watching a repeat performance of the switching process in reverse, I sat down at the tiny counter to finally try and read the rest of my paper while my steak cooked. One after another, the passengers reboarded the train. I had no doubt Andrew, the conductor, wouldn’t leave anyone behind so long as they weren’t too late.
As it turned out, everyone returned by the published scheduled time for departure, made possible only because we’d arrived fifteen minutes early. With a whistle and the bell clanging, the 115 once again resumed its journey to Durango.
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ARKADY HAD EATEN AN early lunch at Foster's. While he had plenty of money, the thought of paying an extra fare to travel in the parlor car and order his lunch on the train was appalling to him. When possible, Arkady preferred to live his life according to the worker's principles as he believed them to be. Eating a fancy meal in a luxury parlor car, even if it was on the narrow gauge San Juan Express, was an act of a member of the bourgeoisie, and that Arkady would not do.
He'd have a proper meal at a diner in Durango. By then, the sandwich Arkady had consumed for his lunch would have left his stomach empty and in need of refilling.
As the 478 turned the consist to head west towards the town of Lumberton and then on to Durango, Arkady watched with interest as the locomotive's stack talk could be heard plainly. It barked loudly from the effort of getting the train started and up to speed.
He enjoyed traveling on the antiquated trains of the so-called narrow gauge circle. The labor involved was honest, and it served people whose cause Arkady could identify with. Miners, lumberjacks, and laborers produced the raw materials and finished goods the Rio Grande’s freight trains carried. The same men and their families consumed the supplies and other necessary items those same trains carried to the towns along the Rio Grande’s right-of-way.
It wasn’t the railroad itself Arkady had a problem with. It was an honest industrial creature, built to provide jobs and make employment possible for others who labored. He had a problem with the fact the stock speculators and wealthy stockholders who lived hundreds of miles away took the profits the little trains generated and pocketed them for themselves.
Change was hard and took time. History taught that lesson to those who took the time and expended the energy to study the subject. Bloodshed was often required as well. When the revolution came to the capitalist United States, Arkady would be proud to have played a small part in bringing about the massive change that would reshape the nation into a worker's paradise.
