Flying by Rail

I don’t recall how we first heard about the Champaign County Preservation Alliance’s excursion train, a one-day-only fall colors tour along trackage that hasn’t seen regular passenger service in decades. I do recall making a quick decision to procure tickets, and a good decision it was, as the three scheduled departures rapidly sold out. None of us Acuffs had ever been to St. Paris, Rosewood, Quincy, or any of the other off-the-beaten-path country through which the train was to pass, but the five of us were eager for a rare experience.

The day of the trip began overcast and breezy, but surprisingly warm for November. As our departure approached, the clouds thickened and released a light sprinkle of rain during our wait at the makeshift boarding platform. There is no semblance of a railroad station in St. Paris; for this excursion, a stack of wooden boxes alongside the rails would provide access onto the carriages.

When the train arrived, the amorphous throngs of ticketholders milling about the park spun out like yarn from a ball of wool into three queues to climb up into the rail cars, whose floors stood at eye level to those of us on the ground. We followed the conductor’s direction to move ahead to the furthest unoccupied seating, but upon reaching the open baggage car, with its four large doors, our family elected to forgo regular coach seats for the first-class experience and wonder of an unobstructed view.

I imagined myself a hobo of years gone by, standing at a boxcar door, watching the autumn fields and forests fly past. The smells of impending storms and working farmland mingled with the peculiar scent of decades-old metal, a scent I most strongly associate with a decommissioned submarine I once toured in Baltimore. I don’t know what causes that particular metallic mustiness, but I only ever notice it around large, old objects, like room-sized mechanical machines and retired rail cars. To me, it’s the smell of history.

With a single chord on its horn, the train creaked to life. We passengers waved farewell to those on the ground, some taking photos and some waiting to retrieve coins crushed thin by the passing of steel wheels on steel rails. The engineer opened up the throttle until we were clipping along at a more rapid pace than I would have expected from a sightseeing train. Farmhouses and paddocks were visible only because of their distance from the tracks. Everything up close sped by in a jumble of brown, green, yellow, and autumn reds.

A long blast from the train’s horn was followed by the clacking of a dozen sets of wheels as our special crossed the double track CSX mainline in Quincy. A short time later, as I watched out the baggage car door, the ground fell away and I realized we had reached the apex of our trip: the 1911 Quincy High Bridge. Seeing the valley of the Great Miami River seventy feet below us gave the feeling of soaring through the air, while photographers on the ground snapped pictures of our train crossing above their heads.

A short time after leaving the bridge, the train stopped and the trailing locomotive began to lead us back to St. Paris. Tiffany and I crossed to the opposite side of our baggage car to experience the trip in reverse: the High Bridge (somehow more impressive the second time), a pause for two freights on the mainline, all the tiny towns and country crossings. The skies darkened, and the occasional dendritic bolt of lightning fractured the sky as we rolled southward.

We returned to our van minutes before the heavy rains began. Despite the kids losing interest halfway through the trip, I thoroughly enjoyed being back aboard a train for the first time in years. The chance to travel by rail through a part of Ohio new to me proved satisfying, and every time I hear the distant blare of a horn, I’ll look forward to my next historic train excursion.