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Throwback Thursdays: The greatest train trip ever! [1]
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Date: 2025-04-17
Dateline: March 1989.
A succession of storms moving off the eastern Pacific were hammering northern California’s citizenry with above-normal rainfall amounts causing localized flooding, the torrential downpours unrelenting for ten days total. By the time any threat of the watery precipitation reached the Great Salt Lake Desert, it either settled on the terra firma as snow or it disappeared entirely, the storms having released much of their energy over the northern Sierra.
There were those Southern Pacific Railroad maintenance-of-way forces who remember all too well the devastation inflicted upon SP’s Great Salt Lake causeway just a scant three years earlier and were not at all receptive to an encore performance by Mother Nature. Fortunately for me, the passageway built by human hands, was spared any damage this time around and so Amtrak service was thus unaffected.
Meanwhile, inside the cavernous former Rio Grande, Salt Lake City depot (now used by Amtrak), it was definitely a waiting game. I had gotten there well ahead of schedule. Time was approaching the witching hour and the call to board Amtrak Train No. 5, the westward California Zephyr was but minutes away.
That night’s patrons consisted of skiers returning home from the slopes of Park City and Snow Bird (venues of the 2002 Winter Olympic Games). There were the usual passengers headed for Reno and Tahoe to try their hands and luck at the card and roulette tables and slot machines. Too, the true “snow birds” had their sights set on the Golden State to take advantage of the warm weather and sunshine that California is noted for. And then there I was, a lowly traveler fitting none of the above descriptions, but taking part in this real-life drama nonetheless.
On boarding the train, I felt it welcoming. In making my way through the coaches, I eventually spied and grabbed an unoccupied seat next to a young lady also traveling to the gold-rush state. We exchanged salutations and engaged in some friendly conversation until we were both too exhausted to keep the discourse going.
On the move, the train’s gentle rocking motion lulled its occupants to sleep. Instead of sleeping, however, I saw the conductor was making his way through the conveyance. Once getting my ticket punched, that was my cue that it was time to nod off. The chairback seat on which I was propped and into which I so relaxingly sunk sufficed as my makeshift sleeping quarters. As it turned out, once I dozed off, I slept all the way through my travels across the Great Salt Lake desert and through much of the gambling capital as well.
When I awoke, I’m guessing our train was about 100 miles out in the Nevada desert east of Sparks. Out in the middle of nowhere as it were before daybreak, there wasn’t much to do except gaze out the window or go back to sleep. I opted for choice number two since no one else seemed to be stirring at that early hour. I didn’t reawaken until the train pulled into the Sparks depot, I think around 9 a.m. Many passengers departed, others came on board, while still others went outside to stretch their legs or smoke, partaking in the crisp morning air, and soaking up some welcome sunshine. Meanwhile, the layover allowed our tour guide — a docent on loan from the California State Railroad Museum — to join us for the trek from Sparks to Sacramento. I must say she was extremely well-versed in Sierra-wilderness history, pointing out along the way places of interest. Our westward journey was as much enlightening as it was pleasant.
As the train made what I would describe as a leisurely pace through the streets of Reno, the municipality billed as “The Biggest Little City In The World,” people in cars at railroad crossings held up by the train presumably were beginning their days, and were likewise, presumably, ever-mindful of their schedules and the need to be on time, wherever they were headed. As a driver myself I could certainly relate.
There are things about this particular trip that I just don’t remember like what I chowed down on during the morning repast, with whom I shared a table, and what the across-the-table conversation was about. But knowing me, I most likely enjoyed a sumptuous meal consisting of either eggs, french toast, or pancakes. Regardless of what the selection of choice was, I can assure you, it was accompanied by a glass of orange juice.
My table companions were more than likely an elderly couple on their way to Sacramento or San Francisco to visit family or friends. Never have I been on a train where people I joined in the dining car weren’t married. And the verbal exchange most assuredly included origin and destination information and the reason for the trip. People traveling in this fashion tend to open up, just being their usual selves, myself included. Anyway, I know the onboard dining experience was a pleasant one, for if it was not, the particulars of which I would have remembered. Of this I am also sure.
Beyond the Reno city limits, Amtrak’s westward Train No. 5 (also known as the California Zephyr) begins its assault on the eastern approach to the great Sierra Nevada crossing. This is the same stretch where, before track was laid, during the now-infamous winter of 1846-’47 half the 80-member Donner Party perished, succumbing to the elements of the brutal cold.
We slowly made our way toward Southern Pacific’s 7,032-foot Sierra Nevada summit. It was sort of like getting a taste of what my Cal-Z predecessors experienced a generation prior.
Passing through the extreme western portion of the Silver State (Nevada), the train made its way along the Truckee River, paralleling the watercourse all the way to its namesake city. Rather than craning my neck in an effort to take in the vistas outside my window of rock-laced high canyon walls in and around the area from Verdi to Floriston, I instead decided to immerse myself in the reading materials I received coupled with my training when, over the public address system, the announcement rang out: “Next stop, Truckee”.
Sitting at just above the 6,000-foot elevation mark, Truckee is the gateway to Lake Tahoe, or, if not officially designated such, it should be. At the time, during winter months, the village served as SP’s snowfighting headquarters, the railroad called upon often to do battle with deep and, at times, unforgiving snows, all in an effort to keep the tracks clear and open to the passage of trains. Four-hundred inches or more of annual snowfall accumulating along the line at the higher elevations is not uncommon. During these times the railroad employs use of its so-called “heavy artillery,” relying on an armada of snow-removal equipment like Jordan spreaders, flangers and rotary snowplows. I presume these snowfighting implements still make their way back and forth, in what at times appears to be in defiance of seemingly unending winter storms pummeling the mountain. Mother Nature’s effects can be outright brutal as was evident in the winter of 1952, when the famed City of San Francisco streamliner was caught in a snowdrift at Yuba Pass and was stranded for up to three full days before rescue workers could get to the passengers to free them from their nightmarish plights. Which just goes to show how a sudden snowstorm and ensuing drift can stop a train in its tracks. It’s an event that will go down in the annals of American Passenger Train History as one of the worst weather-related train ordeals on record, if it hasn’t already. That the mountain pass was covered in the white fluff down to about the 5,000-foot-level revealed to that day’s Train No. 5 patrons what the ten-day succession of powerful winter storms arriving in the area just prior to, left in their wake. What a wonderful sight to behold and something I’ll remember for the rest of my life!
Slipping through the snowshed at Norden, where offices, a cookhouse, and crew and living quarters once stood, the train passed a turntable within eyeshot of the tracks. Not only had our train made the grade as it were, but it crested the summit and seemingly effortlessly to boot.
Upon exiting, the headend power pulling the assemblage of rolling passenger carriages coupled behind, began its descent down the pass’ western slope. At various times during, the onboard tour guide pointed out items of interest such as a flume noticeable outside windows at one spot, that conveyed water westward, and Yuba Pass, where Train No. 101, the City of San Francisco of January 13, 1952, became stranded. It was at Emigrant Gap at the 5,000-foot altitude, meanwhile, that the snow cover gave way to exposed granite rock.
The remainder of the ride into the Sacramento Valley in general and Roseville in particular, was gorgeous! Absolutely breathtaking! Aloft overhead were puffy white clouds amid promising blue skies. Around Newcastle, the lush carpet of greenery that bedecked surrounding hillsides made for quite the contrast with sky above. All was right with the world and there was nothing getting in the way of CZ’s forward progress that day.
My fantastic voyage was all but over the moment the train pulled into and came to rest at the Roseville station, where, along with other passengers, I, too, disembarked. There, I was greeted by a college friend who had made the area his new home. Courtesy of my buddy, I was provided a ride back to where my car had been parked awaiting my return. Our bidding each other adieu was punctuated by a handshake, farewells and friendly smiles all around.
After the time away, it was comforting knowing that I would soon be back home.
All material copyrighted 2025, Alan Kandel. All Rights Reserved.
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