Cowichan Bay Village .com

This story was originally presented in March of 2011. We had just completed a three month leave of absence from work.

Every now and again for one reason or another, we leave Cowichan Bay and travel from Vancouver Island to the mainland by ferry.

These then are stories from “Overseas.“

“And so I have to travel from Vancouver Island to Saskatoon. I should probably leave tomorrow.”

With these chilling words, I declared to my dear wife Michelle, that the end had come to our winters respite from doing what we must to earn the money needed to do what we enjoy. The prospect was daunting.

The company had offered to fly me the distance, a trip which would have entailed two plane changes. One in Vancouver and another accompanied by a mad dash between distant air terminal gates in Calgary. Then hopefully a successful touch down in central Saskatchewan accompanied by the usual weepy prayers of thanks and kissing of the runway pavement. I could pick up the tickets at the airport. They would be waiting for me.

However, I don’t fly. Never, ever do I fly. I don’t like aircraft. I’ve never liked aircraft. The last time I flew, the pilot had the temerity to inform us all that we would be arriving in Cincinnati a full 45 minutes ahead of schedule due to a massive tail-wind. Apparently this zephyr had allowed the aircraft a ground speed which was well beyond it’s design limitations under normal circumstances. We were traveling with the jet-stream, a few miles an hour less than the speed of sound apparently.

The pilot was quite amused by the situation, one he confessed to having never experienced before to this degree. He mentioned this lightly over the intercom. We could hear light-hearted laughter from the cockpit crew behind him. I vowed then and there that never again would I attempt to fold myself into an aircraft passenger seat, there to  ensure my tray be in it’s fully upright and locked position. Once on the ground, I unfastened my seat-belt buckle, never to refasten it again.

I haven’t crawled inside one of those poorly ventilated aluminum tubes in some time and I wasn’t about to break my abstinentail record to mark this occasion of traveling half way across the country to return to work.

“I shall have to take the bus I suppose”; I said. And I had said it. The words were out. The horror of what was potentially to come had plainly been laid bare.

Bus travel is not for the timid of heart. It combines all the discomforts of air travel with the tedium of driving yourself. It’s not so much an aluminum tube as a stainless steel box in this instance, a box which lumbers with the poise and grace of a seasick hippopotamus from one town to another gorging on and vomiting passengers. Often it stops just sufficiently to let the chronically addicted flee their seats, race for the door and once at a legal distance from the coach, to greedily suck deep lungfuls of the fresh outside air through the lit ends of their cigarettes.

I have traveled by motor coach for more miles than I care to recount. In my youth, I criss-crossed the United States on a series of one month unlimited mileage passes in a fit of exploration that nearly exceeded the visitation limits allowed by US immigration law. It was on a bus from San Antonio Texas to Los Angeles that I met an 85 year old man who claimed to be a Voodoo King from New Orleans. He was on his way to Washington State at the request of a patron he’d said. His services were needed there. He gave me a Ju-Ju bag which I still keep. “It brings you what you need”; he had said, “But not always necessarily what you want.” Over the years I have found that to be more or less true.

I’d met people traveling for work, to school, to join the armed forces. I’d met young mothers fleeing the realities of a troubled home life, leaving the city and the abusive boyfriend for sanctuary on the family farm in Iowa. Other times, the young woman would be fleeing the country for a better life in the City.

The motor coaches I passed through were rolling hostels, temporary halting points of humanity. These buses were places where people parked their reality for just a short while, trying to come to grips with a phase of life just ended, even as they were being driven to the spot where the next was going to be born. Then again there were just as many folks bright eyed and merry, traveling to see and Uncle Dan and Aunt Martha for a few days.

The bus had been many years ago, and it had been cramped and a bit uncomfortable even then. The 18 hour layover in Billings Montana, the fact that they closed the station between midnight and 6am and that it had been a cold March morning that found my dozing in the TV room of a broken down truck-stop, these things have stuck with me. I would take the bus, but I didn’t look forward to the journey.

“You could always take the train, it goes right through Saskatoon”; said Michelle. “I wonder how expensive it is. I hear it’s a lot.”; I said. Passenger trains in Canada are notoriously expensive. Even if you look at them as waterless cruise ships without the live shows, the swimming pool and the kiddie entertainment, and simply ride across the country and back sitting in the dome car taking pictures of the wildlife, they are expensive. You can easily spend $2000 on a Canadian train ride and not once get to meet the sleeping car night porter. I didn’t hold out much hope. Still, it was the off-season, there might be discounts.

“The train costs exactly $50 more than the bus.”said Michelle. She’d been looking at the Via Rail website. The train leaves Vancouver at 8:00pm tomorrow and arrives in Saskatoon on the 17th at 7:00am.  It’s economy class but…

“I’ll take it!” I said. “Book the ticket before anyone else can.”

The Train! Oh the Train! What a good idea my dear Michelle! I shall take the Train!

Trains are substantial. Their speed is not effected by the wind. They do not lurch from smoke break to smoke break. A million positive thoughts rushed through my head. “I shall arrive rested and fresh, because I’ll be arriving by Train. I shall not have to eat bus station fare, because they have a nice dining car on the Train. I’ll be able to use the toilet without bouncing around the stall, fearing that I might fall into that inky black, sloshy hole under the seat or worse and much more likely, have some of that blue water splash up and… The horror! But I’ll be safe, because they don’t have motor coach toilets on the Train!”

“I’ll see the sights from the dome car, because they have not one, but TWO of them on the Train. I’ll have a mad grin on my face while waving at farmers at work in the fields, because this is what you do when you are passenger on a Train, and they will wave back because that’s what you do when you see a grinning idiot waving furiously at you from the Train.”

The last time I had been on such a Train, was back in 1972 when I  traveled with my then 20 something mother and baby sister from Moosomin Saskatchewan to Elliot Lake Ontario. We were on our way to visit relatives. During that trip, I earned quite a handful of coins by loudly singing my ABCs, peddling them from seat to seat in the day car, I spoke at length with an elderly man in the dome car who claimed to own a balloon mine, and I had my hair accidentally set on fire by a real live and genuine Albertan cowboy who felt so badly about having done so, that he gave me his cowboy hat as compensation. He had been trying to demonstrate his lighter and how you could hear the gas come out. I owned that hat for quite a few years.

This time I was sure to meet more such interesting people and be able to sit comfortably and enjoy engaging, lurch free conversation because this, ladies and gentlemen, is how it works on the Train. Not just any Train,  but The Canadian and I was going to be on it and I was going to love every minute of it.

But first I had to take the bus from Nanaimo to Vancouver. Oh well. It’s only a short hop. With just two extra stops.

The Vancouver bus terminal is in the same building as the Via Train station. This is a convenience that must have happened completely by accident. There is no way this could possibly have been planned in advance. Had any thought gone into the matter at all, the bus depot would have been on Vancouver’s North shore, and the Via station would be in Surrey. A taxi fare of around $150 might have just covered it.

I alighted from the bus at 3:00pm, my Train was set to depart at 8:00pm. There were a few hours to be killed before departure time. I explored the station. The Via desk stood at the far end, opposite to the one belonging to the bus company. It would have been possible for the competing desk clerks to glare across the space at each other, to spy with binoculars on the goings on at “The Competition”. It was much like in that Clint Eastwood movie, A Fist Full of Dollars where the Rojos and the Baxters kept houses at opposite ends of main street and warred with each other.

I approached the sign marked “Tickets”. The clerk smiled at me, actually smiled. I’d formed a small plan while on the bus. My ticket thus far, had cost a full $50 more than the cost of a bus ticket to the same destination. How much more then could it possibly cost to do the small upgrade from sitting in a reclining seat to being able to rest a bit more comfortably at night in the sleeper?

“How may I help you?”; asked the clerk, expressing a genuine interest in both my well being and what my question might be. It is refreshing is it not, to meet someone in the service industry who actually takes the matter seriously, and who goes out of his way to be pleasant and accommodating? This, is what you may expect when you choose to travel by Train, I thought to myself.

I made my inquiry. He consulted his computer. The cost would be, for the sleeper roomette berth, meals and access to the shower included, $600. “About double the bus then”; I said contemplating this extravagance with at least a little bit of sincerity. No, he advised, that would be in addition to the fare already paid.

Good God.

I thanked the fellow.  He printed my discounted Economy Class ticket. “Boarding time at 7:45pm Sir.”; he said, having the good grace to act as if I hadn’t just made a bit of a fool of myself. I suppose he deals with people like me all the time.

That accomplished I wanted to get rid of my bags. There is nothing so tiresome as being handicapped by a pair of overstuffed bags, particularly when one wants to get onto public transit in order to explore a city. On the one hand, they hold precious cargo, everything needed for the journey to come. On the other you want to get rid of the damn things almost to the point where you begin to wish you’d forgotten them at home. Fortunately, I’d noticed a rack of self-service lockers in the bus terminal part of the Via station. I approached and was soon accosted by security.

“How may I help you sir?”; said a voice with words heavily marinated in the most pleasant of East Indian accents. He was a small man, about 55 with bright eyes and a cheering smile. “I want to be rid of my bags.”; I said, “I’m catching The Canadian this evening and I have a few hours to kill.” “I’d like to take the SkyTrain to down-town, go see the tugboats at Lonsdale Quay.” “Certainly sir.”; he said. “The lockers cost $5 for four hours, that should be enough time. How large is your luggage? I see. Buy the small locker sir, they are only $4 and a dollar is a dollar isn’t it sir?”

Indeed it was. I thanked him, stuffed my bags into a space seemingly built for luggage just my size, force fed the mechanism the $4, took the plastic key and departed.

By 7:00pm I had returned. “How was your walk sir?”; asked the same gentleman his voice as sincere as it was melodic. “Fine thanks.”; I said. “Did you make it to the Lonsdale Quay?”; he asked. I replied that I had indeed, and that I’d enjoyed a nice late lunch there. It had rained furiously I had told him, but that was of no matter. The man smiled. “It rains here all winter long. I am so pleased when I finally see the sun again. Have a pleasant journey sir.”; he said. I thanked him again.

A small group of passengers began milling around the locked doors which led to the platform. Boarding time would soon come and they were growing slightly impatient. One after another they tried to walk through to where the Train could be seen waiting, but the doors were strongly locked. Tug though they might, and one red faced woman tugged almost violently before giving up with a mutter of complaint, the ancient, thickly painted portals would not budge.

There were a few steel chairs just past the velvet ropes, behind the ticket collectors booth. I wandered over and sat down, spreading my bags, my coat and myself across three of them. I took the opportunity to plug my telephone and laptop computer into a nearby wall socket. One ever knows where one’s next charge is coming from.

As I sat there, people watching and charging, I noticed a small figure out of the corner of my eye. At first glance I thought the young oriental girl might be in her mid teens, but a closer look showed her to be in her twenties. She was staggering towards the door, under the combined weight and awkwardness of a large nylon suitcase, a cup of McDonald’s coffee and three small but greatly overstuffed paper shopping bags.

She pulled at the door twice, then looked at me. “It’s going to stay locked until boarding time at 7:50pm.” I said. “You can wait here, put your bags down on that chair over there if you like.” “Oh yes. Thank you.” she said and smiled. She fairly dumped her possessions on the chair, flipped open her cell phone and like a hummingbird, flitted around the station taking pictures of everything in sight.

After a while, she sat down and engaged me in hesitant but none the less competent English. She was Satoko Shimizu from Okinawa Japan, here in North America to fulfill a life’s dream. She was traveling alone across North America by Train. From Seattle to Vancouver, then on to Toronto, Montreal and Quebec City. From there she had tickets to New York and Washington DC. After that, the flight back home to the Islands south of Japan. She was making this all work by using hostels and economy rate travel tickets. Still, it was a lot of money she admitted and she had been saving for some time. We chatted a while and waited for the call to board. I mentioned that it wasn’t a good idea to abandon half full coffee cups in public places, then to drink from them again. Also, the counting of money was best done out of public view and never out in the open in a train station or bus terminal. She seemed genuinely surprised at the thought someone might take advantage. Apparently this doesn’t happen in Japan.

The Train, which was to have left at 8:00pm, was still sitting in the station at 8:15pm. It gleamed dully in the steady rain, lit from overhead by orange mercury vapor lamps, a metallic eel in silver, bronze and gold, biding time with an air of confident patience.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we regret to inform you that our Train this evening, The Canadian, has been delayed due to a small service issue. We will board as soon as possible. We thank you for your patience and understanding.”

He would have liked to have gone on: “The newest car on our Train this evening was built in November of 1958. It has been in almost continuous service since then, barring those months when it was out of service for maintenance and during it’s five rebuilds. The problem involves an economy class toilet that will not co-operate, we could simply close it, there are several others on the Train, but that goes against Via’s standards of service policy. We are working on it as best we can.” I would have believed him.

 

We boarded at 8:25pm and were under way moments later.

The first thing that impressed me, aside from the fact that our section of the Train was all but deserted, was the smoothness of the ride. I know these coaches weigh thousands of pounds and were designed for the task, but I don’t remember them ever being like this. I was expecting more the ride offered by the little Budd Car, which runs on the E&N on Vancouver Island. Clunky, bumpy and wiggly, with hard seats and a bit of a bus-like lurch. It was made by the same people who had built these coaches. This, this was something other.

The second thing I noticed, was how absolutely spotless everything was. Not the usual sort of “Lick and a promise” spotless of the average hotel, but a genuinely deep down clean. Look at any of the photographs posted here and you won’t notice anything out of place. Every surface would have passed the white glove test. Every seat and arm rest was utterly dust-free. I will swear to that. I would bet a hundred dollars on that glove test too.

These cars are over 50 years old. The last dome car was built by Budd in 1958. Yet they look perfect. On arrival at Jasper Station, an overhead lift was used to wash the outside windows of both dome cars. Even the baggage car had a well swept floor. Perfect cleanliness.

We glided past rail-yards, past the container-port along the Fraser river. At Mission, we crossed the Fraser and onto the Canadian Pacific line, apparently all traffic east uses the CP track while all traffic west uses the Canadian National. This saves time switching trains to sidings when meeting. The rail roads, both CN and CPR  are having a hard time keeping up with the demand for coal and wheat at Vancouver’s ports. Ships are waiting in harbours and bays all over the BC coast for their turn in dock.

At Mission the lights were lowered and most of the passengers made ready for sleep. When I say most passengers, I mean that 8 did and 4 did not. Two full sized day coaches, and 12 economy class passengers to fill them. At least two of those in our group were retired CN employees traveling on their gratis cards. Free rail travel is a perk these folks have earned after a lifetime’s service to The Company.

The first class cars had about 36 people aboard. The Canadian is a 10 car train, with two dome cars, one of which is the economy class dining car, the rearmost, with it’s swooping streamlined tail, is the bar car. They could have accommodated everyone on two cars had they chosen to do so, on one car with plenty of room left over if everyone had gone economy. I made my way to the first dome-car and watched the rain streak odd shapes onto the glass as we sped along. By the time we got to Yale it was 11pm and time for a rest.

Sleeping in a Train while riding on an Economy Class ticket is an interesting experience. They used to call it “Comfort Class” but it becomes obvious early on that while the ticket says “Comfort Class” the reality leaves a little to be desired. I’m not complaining, it’s miles ahead of what even the nicest commercial bus ride can offer, but it’s a bit difficult to sleep sitting up. The seat only goes back so far and your head tends to rattle against the window from time to time. Economy class gets you a nice seat by the window. Not a bed. That’s $600 extra.

Or is it? I’m going to pause here, and let you all in on a little secret that I found out about too late to do me any good. Here’s the deal. The conductor has the ability to sell off unused night time berths. If he has sleeper berths unused at night, economy class ticket holders can have one, just for that one night for $180. That sounds outrageous, but hold on. It’s a bargain compared to the regular fare for the same space. Let’s say you are traveling from Vancouver to Toronto. You stay in the economy seat until the last night. Pay the $180 in cash, get a great night’s sleep and arrive refreshed and ready for whatever you had planned. Of maybe not. As the friendly security guard said; “A dollar is a dollar.” and a berth at a knock down price still requires 180 of them. You do get a free breakfast and access to the on-board showers however.

At 5:00am we glided into Kamloops. We had traversed the entire Fraser Canyon in darkness. The night hours had gobbled up some of the most spectacular scenery of the entire trip. It really is a pity that Via couldn’t have The Canadian leave at 4:30pm instead of 8:00pm. That would throw off the arrival times at Jasper and Winnipeg I suppose. I was wide awake, slightly tired and wishing daylight would present itself so I could see the scenery. I had slept off and on for most of the previous hours, but now there would be no more sleep.

At 6:30 we were advised that the dining car was open for breakfast. First Call. I didn’t want to behave with unseemly haste, but hungry I was and the steward had indeed called for breakfast. I went in and sat down. I was indeed the first to table. In fact I seemed to be the only one in the entire car, and that included the staff. I was beginning to wonder about the veracity of the 6:30am breakfast when I collared a passing steward and asked him if I might place an order for two eggs… He smiled and I stopped ordering. I was informed with a further smile, that because this was the slower time of year, all our meals would be served in First Class and not in the Economy Class Dining Salon I had plunked myself down in.

I breakfasted in the rolling Taj-Mahal, right alongside the swells!

There were bacon and eggs, sausages, hashed potatoes, toast and coffee. All at a very reasonable $12 taxes in and well presented at that. BC ferries is more expensive and not as tasty. There were exquisite little one ounce glass jars of blackberry, strawberry and blueberry jam from exotic locations such as Yorba Linda California. There was marmalade too and honey and peanut butter. The coffee was excellent, the service friendly and the linen napkins crisp.

Our dining car steward, dressed in customary Via Rail shirt, tailored vest with golden buttons, bow tie, blue trousers with gold stripe, blue Via Rail apron and highly polished shoes, advised that reservations for lunch would be taken beginning at 10:30am. We were to decide then which of the two luncheon seatings we would prefer. In peak season, they have three seatings.

The Train ladies and gentlemen! I was riding on the Train making the most of the best $50 I’ve ever spent on the advice of my dear Michelle, that being the difference between the bus fare and the cost to ride this glorious Train.

Breakfast dispatched, it was time to sneak up to the dome car. It was light and there was much to be seen. There is a small sign posted at the head of the stairs leading up to the dome itself, politely requesting that passengers limit visits to the dome to what’s reasonable, so that everyone will have a chance to have the experience, essentially of sitting on top of the Train. The view is spectacular. On this trip, the car which can seat 24 people on it’s upper deck, held just three. Myself and a nice couple from Nova Scotia.

The kilometers oiled by. We were climbing towards Tete Jaune Cache and the sweeping corner which would angle us east, aimed towards Jasper and Edmonton. On up and into the snow-pack, still untouched by a spring which seems just around the corner this year, but which is taking its own time in coming.

First call for lunch arrived just after Blue River. First call is at 11:30 which some see as being too close to their second call breakfasts. Sleeping car slug-a-beds have all sorts of problems don’t they? We were well in the snow now, deep and smothering, the roofs of houses and buildings piled four feet high with it. The risk of avalanche was obviously still high in these mountains, the snowfall layers plain to see in cross-section on the roofs of all these buildings. The continuous freeze and thaw cycles so common this time of year heightens the problem.

My lunch companions in the Taj-Mahal were an older francophone couple from Winnipeg, the gentleman being one of those traveling on his golden retirement card, and Satoko Shimizu from Okinawa Japan.  She was keen and bright, happy to finally be taking this trip, one for which she had studied English specifically.

 

Our conversation was light and pleasant, centering around the menu and explanations for the benefit of the young lady as to the merits of Angus beef, dill pickles, the creaminess of coleslaw and how foreign this is to the Japanese pallet, and whether or not it is acceptable to eat the fruit garnish which accompanies the meal with one’s fingers. (It is, but one shouldn’t eat the kale at all.) Ms Shimizu seemed enchanted by everything and true to form, took digital pictures of her lunch when it arrived. I would have done the same thing, had I been in Japan.

I received the vegetable soup of the day with the customary smile and flourish, something which I had declined to order moments before, but since we were on the subject of the word “accommodate” and it’s meaning with regard to passengers and their special dietary needs as described on the menu card, I chose to use the situation as an example, and accommodated the soup without complaint. It was only $2 extra, and they later failed to charge me for it anyway.

At about 1:15pm, the first snow flurries began to swirl about. It was cold now, the temperature having dropped steadily as we climbed. By 1:30pm it was snowing quite hard, but the Train continued as before, not the least bit impressed the the weather’s latest proclivities. At 3:30pm local time, The Canadian rolled in to Jasper, flags flying. We were an hour early. The conductor declared a two hour stop for dining car restocking and general car cleaning, reloading of passengers to commence promptly at 5:00pm, the Train to depart at 5:30pm.

At first blush, Jasper is a tourist town. There are no houses or residences to be seen. Where the people who call Jasper “home” live is a mystery. The store fronts across the street from the station advertise a tremendous variety of the sorts of things tourists will appreciate, from hand painted pottery to hand crafted moccasins to railway memorabilia. Some of it made locally or in Canada, most of it however is stamped “Made in China”.

 

Do you realize Chinese tourists rarely buy trinket souvenirs while on holiday in Canada or the US? That’s because almost all the souvenirs sold at the tourist traps in North America, are made back home in China. The Chinese? They take pictures, preferably of themselves standing somewhere in the photo as proof that the visit had been as described.

While standing on the platform, I observed an odd phenomenon. A middle aged gentleman in a raincoat and cap was walking back and forth just outside the platform area, craning to see the names and numbers on the cars in our Train. He had a notebook and pencil and was jotting figures. A small digital camera hung from a strap around his arm. He seemed most excited by the fact that the first two passenger cars in our Train were dead-heading back to Winnipeg for refurbishment. He muttered to himself, then took more than a few pictures. I had spotted my first Train Spotter. He seemed to take the entire enterprise very seriously indeed, and wasn’t in any sort of mood for the idle banter of a mere railway passenger. “Gotta get the consist.” he said a bit sharply. “And the numbers of the engines.” Information gathered, he strode off with a purpose, perhaps to report his findings to friends on the Internet.

I meanwhile had decided to stride off and take a few pictures of my own. The railway station in Jasper is on Canada’s list of Historic Buildings, as is the Ranger’s house a few hundred feet away. Inside the station, there is the usual car rental kiosk, a snack machine and a combination coffee shop and gift boutique. I wandered inside not expecting to see anything more exciting that the usual trinkets, pens, postcards and so forth. They were there, but also some genuine railway memorabilia. Posters, timetables, old photographs, railway-man’s caps, model locomotives and genuine conductor’s hats.

Also, I noticed they had a lantern. A CPR brakeman’s coal oil lantern. With clear glass. With a wooden handle. Just like the one I had as a 16 year old kid, and later to my horror, lost during a house move.

I remembered how I’d gotten that first lantern as if it were yesterday. I was 15 or 16 years old, an avid railway buff, living and going to school in Mission BC. On weekends I would cycle or walk into town and to the small CPR switch-yard and station that were there. The station was manned then, I doubt it still is, and the yard rather busy considering it’s size. I was merrily snapping photographs when a gruffish looking man pulled up on a speeder. They still had speeders back in the early 80′s. “Would you like a ride?”; he asked.

Certainly I would like a ride. Silly question, but I maintained what shreds of dignity I could manage. “Yes that would be neat, thanks.”; I said and I hopped onto the seat opposite his. We travelled from one end of the yard to the other and back again, the little Fairmont Putt-Putting happily. “I meant on the big switcher.”; he said a slight grin on his face. I laughed, feeling sheepish, but fully prepared to be the butt of almost any joke in order to get onto a real actual live and running locomotive.

 

The afternoon passed wonderfully. Back and forth, chatting with the train crew, back and forth, the diesel rumbling with a confident air. They made up two trains, switched out a couple of cars from a third and then it was time for them to go down the line a fair distance to retrieve another set of cars. My ride was over. I thanked everyone and climbed down. The fellow climbed down after me, clutching a brown paper shopping bag.

“Is your Father a policeman?”; He asked, serious now. “No, he’s a miner. A hard rock miner and shift boss”; I said. “Any of your Uncles or older brothers policemen?”; He asked, again very serious. “No and I haven’t got an older brother”; I said. He gave me the bag. “All right then. Take this and don’t look inside until you get home.”; he said. I did as told in spite of a raging curiosity and as you have already guessed, inside the bag, besides the few rags stuffed in to give it a less obvious shape, was the lantern.

Now I stood in the Jasper Train Station, holding in my hands a duplicate lantern to the one I had been   gifted with by a man who in his kindness risked his job or at very least a severe reprimand to offer it. The CPR was and is very strict with regard to such “gifts”. I had lost it years later when I allowed life to come between me and what was, at least in the first years of ownership, a prized possession. Here was a second chance then?

I turned it over and looked at the price. I shuddered inwardly. Oh this was too much for such a lantern. Too much to ask. A ridiculous price really. Who in their right mind would pay such a sum for an old lantern like this? This was obviously the Idiot Tourist Price.

“I wonder if it’s all here?”; I said quietly.

I set the lantern on the counter and in a flash had it dismantled. This brought an expression of horror to the proprietor’s face, but he allowed me to continue. I obviously knew how these things came apart, perhaps I would also know how to put them back together again.

The wire frame was unbent, check. The weather cap was likewise unmarred, check. The wooden handle was intact and not cracked, check. The glass globe was complete and without cracks, check. The fuel canister was not dented and not rusted, check. The wick holder was stuck. I twisted right and left and then it gave just a little. No, I hadn’t bent it. Another try and it came loose.

The paper wadding was still in place in the fuel canister! I smelled the fuel canister, and the faintest whiff of kerosene hit my nostrils. The wick was there and…. this lantern had never been lit! The wick had no scorch marks! The wick holder likewise showed none of the customary signs of heating! There was no soot or heat marking in the weather cap!

So, here then was a railway lantern, not just any railway lantern, but a CPR railway lantern just like the one I had lost, in mint condition, never having been fired, but having been fueled at least once and that a very long time ago.

“How much was this thing again?”; I thought to myself. “A bargain! That’s what it was! A real bargain! I’m riding The Canadian from Vancouver to Saskatoon, it’s my first long distance train ride in more than 30 years, I’m having a wonderful time and now I’m going to buy this very reasonably priced lantern, a framed photograph of the 1920′s dining car and three very nice postcards besides.”

I didn’t have to explain, the proprietor knew exactly what was going on in my head. I reassembled the lantern as quickly as I had taken it apart and paid. He held onto my purchases for me so I could wander about the town of Jasper unburdened by excess baggage.

Back on the Train at 5:00pm, after the Station Master performed an amazingly good rendition of the old fashioned “Call to Board” in both English and French, the first order of business for the crew was to investigate a malfunctioning restroom in our car. It was probably the same on which caused the delay at the start of our trip. Each car has two, we have two cars, and while we had a picked up few more passengers in Jasper, there’ was no risk of us having to do without. The door was locked, an announcement was  made and we all adjusted accordingly.

There was a time when all railway coach toilets had a small sign above the flushing handle admonishing “Do not flush while train is in station”. This from the days when it was acceptable to simply spew the effluent onto the tracks while rolling along. The Budd car on Vancouver Island still has the signs, and the system.

Second order of business was to determine how many would chose the Taj-Mahal for dinner. Some fellow travelers were sporting bags of take-out sandwiches.

Our locomotives growled their turbocharger assisted growls promptly at 530pm and we slid smoothly out of the station. Leaving Jasper behind at a more rapid clip than we’d been able to manage in the mountains before, the first few miles east of Jasper proved to be a wildlife spotter’s dream. Elk, big horn sheep, mountain goats, moose and even a coyote were identified to the delight of a pair of recently embarked Australians, who claimed that our rail-side wildlife was much more interesting than the endless kangaroos they have back home. I thought it would have been interesting to see a kangaroo in the middle of that white wilderness, but I didn’t mention it.

The town of Jasper is at the heart of one of Canada’s Great National Parks and is it’s namesake, so the presence of wildlife when snow in the nearby mountains made foraging difficult, was not surprising.

6:00pm came quickly and we were called for Dinner’s First Seating. We of the Economy Class might well have been invited to dine in the finest style on offer, but there was a definite pecking order with regard to the reservations booklet. First call it was and so we went. Satoko Shimizu from Okinawa was there again, and our dinner companions were two gentlemen, Jean Paul, who hailed from Saskatoon, the other from Toronto. Menu discussion was again the order of the hour, everything was explained to perfect satisfaction. Everyone got along famously because after all, we were riding the Train, which was much better than the bus and we all not only knew it but reveled in it.

The crowning touch to an already pleasant afternoon came when one of our stewards performed two popular songs which he accompanied by guitar. The entire dining car erupted into applause after the second song. Then our entertainer went back to his pile of dinner dishes. Or so he said he was.

The service on this trip has been exemplary and not just because we were entertained over dinner. Canada has two official languages, French and English and both were equally represented on this train. I think everyone who works for Via is bilingual. It must be a requirement.

The staff, from the engineers who make each stop and start absolutely feather light and whisper smooth to the dining car staff who prepare and serve with flair, reasonable meals at decent prices, to the porters at track-side in the stations who give the same directions and helpful advice to all sorts of different people each day and who do it with a sincere, professional courtesy, to the cleaning staff, mechanics and car-men who see to it that this 50 year old equipment keeps running as it should; all these people work together to make sure Via Rail operates as smoothly and professionally as it does.

I spent the evening in the dome car chatting with new acquaintances. It turned out that my dining companion of a few hours before, Jean Paul from Saskatoon, was a gourmet. He was an amateur chef in the making as well, although he admitted he was just starting out on his hobby. When I mentioned I had once worked between stints in the forest industry as a line cook at a reasonably nice restaurant, he removed a notepad from his breast pocket and with pencil jotting notes, began peppering me with questions. I had answers to some, but not others. He was in such deadly earnest however, that I mentioned my favourite recipe for garlic roast potatoes, and shall mention it here again, because it really is a good recipe.

Garlic Roast Potatoes

Peel and wash Russet potatoes, sufficient for the meal. If you can’t get Russets, substitute any high starch “floury” potato (such as Maris Piper). Thin skin varieties like yukon gold can be used, but the results will be different, not as good. Cut into cubes any sharp edged shape, roughly the size of a golf ball, or smaller. Try to keep them about the same size, so they cook at the same rate.
Boil in lightly salted water until tender, almost falling apart.
Place in oven safe frying pan, the meat roasting pan that came with oven, or at last resort on a cookie sheet or pie pan.
Drizzle with garlic flavored olive oil. (Crush 5 whole cloves, slowly sauté until nut brown in 1 1/2 cups olive oil, strain) and stir lightly coating the potatoes. Sprinkle with salt to taste.
Broil (do not bake) at full heat until potatoes are golden, with chocolate brown edges, basting as required to keep potatoes moist with oil. They will not smoke much, if pan bottom is covered, because potatoes are full of water, and this prevents overheating.
Blot on paper towels to remove excess oil, serve in large pre-heated ceramic bowl.
Sprinkle with fresh chives and finely diced fresh garlic.

The result is a crisp crusty potato, with mashed potato inside. Great with roast beef, not so good with fish. Jean Paul was delighted. Thank you Heston Blumenthal.

The time and kilometers passed rapidly. The GPS in my phone suggested we were racing along at just under 80 miles an hour. We arrived in Edmonton at 11:30pm local time, and I stepped to the platform, the air crisp and scentless in the sub-zero weather. The coach had been a bit stuffy earlier and so the freshness of the platform did me some good. The stop would be half an hour, advised the Conductor. Time enough for a cigarette he suggested. I saw no one smoking on the platform the entire time I stood there. How times have changed.

Rolling once more with journey’s end in sight, I settled into my reclining seat for the rest I hoped would come. Streams of powdered snow kicked up by the urging locomotives made seeing out into the dimness difficult. 65 miles an hour, 68, then 72. A far different Train this than the one which carefully picked it’s way through the Fraser Canyon the night previous. Railway crossing lights flashed brightly but only for the instant we flew past. Each set winked in turn, their warning bells muted and at this speed, tone shifting deeply as they marked our progress.

The omnipresent sound throughout the night, besides the grinding hum of wheels on rail and the screech of the wheel-flanges at each railway crossing, was the howling of the engineer’s horn. Long steady confident blasts of 15 seconds and longer. Two long, two brief, then two long again. Crossing after crossing, warned well in advance by a train-crew unable to stop in time were that warning not heeded.

I slept off and on, the sleep of thousands of seated economy class passengers before me. Head against my pillow, pillow against window glass or against the seat opposite, it reclined slightly less than the one I sat in so as to provide a bit of a bolster, or with pillow behind my head, or jammed between the seats, or at an angle to the wall below the window, or finally scrunched up under my chin as I lay sprawled across both seats with feet yet on the floor, the armrest of the aisle seat sticking against the side of my head, my dreams full of boxing scenarios and cauliflower ears.

It’s a sleep, but not a great sleep. The sort of sleep you take in measured doses this is, the catching of cat naps to the sway of the cars, the rumble of the rail crossings and the red flashing two pitched jangle of the warning signals. It’s snatched between the times when need to shift position causes a virtual awakening and reorganization of ones personal situation. It’s a sleep hoarded up against the inevitable early awakening, when the need for rest is finally overruled by the discomfort of seated slumber, when you awake feeling slightly fuzzy at 6am and ready for breakfast and above all, coffee.

The Taj-Mahal lay empty before me when I arrived at 6:35am. Well perhaps not actually 6:35am, we have changed time-zones again in the middle of the night. Perhaps it’s 7:35 am. Scrambled eggs, bacon, potatoes, rye toast and coffee. Two full cups. The same friendly service as before. My breakfast is brought by a capable young woman of stocky build. Not stout, not matronly, but handsome in the sort one would imagine the farm women of a century ago. Strength there and a square-footed stance, borne of a few years juggling trays and dishes in the confines of a swaying railway dining car.

None of the service crew are new to their jobs, once you begin to work for Via Rail, it seems you become at loathe to quit. The Steward who brings me my coffee, the same one who sang for us the evening before has been with Via for 23 years, a fact he is proud of. Breakfast completed, then a quick look at my GPS and Google Maps equipped phone to see where we were; Biggar Saskatchewan. A stop here for 15 minutes to let a freight Train pass in the opposite direction. A few more miles until Saskatoon where I’d leave The Canadian. Time to make the most of them.

The young Japanese woman from Okinawa had just wakened when I returned to the Economy Class coach. She was surprised to see so much snow in Canada. The Japanese enjoy snow and snowfalls. They see the crisp whiteness as a perfection and purity only nature can achieve and which is easily marred. As I took my seat, she stumbled half asleep in the direction of the restroom and then off to the dining car, fully acquainted with the fuzzy morning rituals of the economy class railway passenger.

Just before we arrived at Saskatoon station, we stopped. The yard was busy and we had to wait. We had already stopped twice in the middle of the night as well, and this had put The Canadian behind schedule.  Canadian Railways are freight hauling enterprises. Government subsidized Via trains don’t have any sort of golden edged priority. The goal of the game, is to get Canada’s wheat, potash, coal, minerals and products to markets around the world. The fate of the rail passenger doesn’t factor too highly in the mix.

Still, there is the chance for a final chat with the conductor. I had grabbed my two bags from the overhead luggage compartment and stood now in the space between the baggage car and the first of the Economy Class coaches.  He stood there, fuming over the delay. “We’ve been late into Saskatoon the last two times.”; he said. “I had promised there wouldn’t be a third and now this. We should have been here at 7:45am.” It was almost 9:00am.

“It’s a pity,” I said “That they don’t subsidize these trains a bit more. I mean, if they are going to lose money, may as well make them as useful as possible to as many people as possible no? Perhaps drop the price a bit on the economy class and have more people ride to make up the money.”

The Conductor agreed. “Yeah but they keep cutting instead of that.” “We do the best we can with what we have.” “We try to be as good a train crew as before. That won’t change.” “Hold on, we’re going to start for the station now.” And we did.

Just before I stepped from The Canadian in Saskatoon Saskatchewan at 9:05am, Satoko Shimizu in a flurry of bows and smiles pressed a post card into my hands. “Thank you for teaching me English and helping.”; she said. I smiled and bowed as is the Japanese custom on such occasions. She thoughtfully included her email address, and so I shall perhaps learn more of her adventures in North America.

Once we had disembarked, the Conductor immediately began to see to the platform duties assigned him, and as soon as the last passenger had been politely escorted from beside the Train into the station and all baggage accounted for, he called for the engines to begin the pull to Winnipeg. No half hour break in Saskatoon. He was doing his best to assure arrival in Winnipeg would be closer to scheduled time. I walked to the station in search of a taxi. We who had disembarked called a total of five of them to the station. At first the dispatcher thought we were pranksters.

It’s 10:57pm local time in Saskatoon as I write this. I can see the last glimmers of light paint shades of grey on the bleak landscape outside the  window of my truck. Winter has yet to loosen all of it’s grip on this land, the hard scrabble snow still lies upon it thickly. It will be some days yet before the first leaf buds appear on the trees, as they already have in Cowichan Bay. I am waiting for morning and the load assignment that will see me retrace my steps back to Vancouver, there to pick up Michelle and the little cat which unknowingly kept her from sharing this rail journey with me. I can honestly say, I’ve never been this satisfied with a journey before in my life.

Next year I shall arrange to return to work in Winnipeg.