Full Throttle, and a Seat In the Tool Car

It’s very early in the morning--only a quarter of an hour or so past five.  The sun is still in full retreat., and the 611 does an expert job of camouflaging into the backdrop.  I find it by sound and by smell, not by sight. The rest of the consist, most of it painted in similarly dark colors, is likewise rendered invisible. Here and there, light from the railyard behind the train gives the outline of wheels or brake hoses, and a there are a few fleeting glances through the window and into the cars’ illuminated interiors, but there is nothing to show their form, their size, their magnificence.

If any of the people gathered around the train are groggy from being up this early, it does not show. There are dozens of people here, attending to the engine and making supply deliveries or filing back to their positions as car hosts or conductors. Dozens more appear by the time I haul my camera crate up to the tool car and settle into a spot within. Everyone seems of one mood: The adventure is soon to begin, and it will be one to remember.

Daylight extends a few curious tendrils into the yard, then sends its full glory down as sunbeams through the smoke and vapor. The empty rails to our port gleam like molten ribbons, and the layer of condensate we’ve put on nearby equipment begins to evaporate. An edge of restlessness begins to set it: These preparatory tasks are essential, but tedious when the hours later in the day promise to offer so much more. This anticipation is heavy in the air and a blatant undertone in every spoken word. Even the 611’s own grunts and hisses seem to urge the crew towards motion.

Around seven in the morning, the long-awaited double trill comes and we begin pulling up towards Downtown Roanoke. The sidewalks are crowded--not quite as much as when several thousand people crammed into the area to get a glimpse of their native daughter’s return, but crowded enough that I’d wager there will be no empty seats on any of the twenty cars behind us. They are young and old, male and female, enthusiast and hobby-outsider in equal portion, a holistic selection of humanity by any chosen measure. Boarding seems to begin and end in mere moments, compared to the long wait before we move into  position, and again  we are off.  The Link Museum and Taubman Art Museum send the sound of the 611’s barking pistons back in retort.

Within a few strokes comes a pleasant surprise, a perfect augmentation to the day’s event. The rails have been freshly ground--the night before, I am later told--and their noise cuts through all of the 611’s stack talk.  Fresh rails sound different, and better, when you hear them from inside of the train instead of next to the track. It is not a pattern of low groans, but one  steady, symphonic moan. It rises and falls in pitch in keeping with the train’s speed, and, at brief intervals, settles on a tone that is a perfect harmonic compliment to the chimes in the 611’s whistle.  Everything else we hear speaks of great mechanical power, of unbridled energy, but this speaks to the ethereal and ineffable parts of railroading.

We pick up speed heading out of Roanoke and run roughly parallel to the Blue Ridge Parkway. There are clusters of photographers at each crossing, a hundred or more at the most popular places. We leave them dusted with cinders and keep to our path. The city ebbs away, and we pass through increasingly inaccessible areas. Away from places of industry, from the structures dedicated to the railroad’s upkeep, it is striking how easily the contemporary railroad and the remnants of the bygone ones coexist with the natural world.

We turn around and pass the same scenery by again, the same crowds, this time rearranged at different points through the route. In downtown Roanoke the train is emptied quickly of passengers and refuse, and is quickly reloaded for the second run. More friends join us in the tool car for this run, too many for each of us to have a place at the railings. We improvise chairs out of coolers and pallets of water and circle around like friends before a camp fire. Away from the windows, we judge our progress down the line by the increasing circumference  of the deposits of cinders on the floor.  Tales of friends and family, of happenings at our home museums, of our experiences on previous runs begin to come through. There is laughter, attempts at mild practical joking, an unspoken but universal agreement that someday we will gather again and today will be a fond source of reminiscing. The lion's share of the stories have taken place only within the last year, on this same train. That is, perhaps, the most poignant sign that this restoration effort has succeeded. 

The light turns reddish again as  we return to Roanoke to disgorge the last of the passengers. The sun is shining low and hazy, this time from the opposite end of the yard. By the time we take on coal and water and move back towards our final endpoint, the light is scarce enough that the train is attempting to slip into occlusion again. For a few moments before its final retreat, though, it flares up bright. The train it is brilliantly backlit, aglow in the fiery hues of atmospheric reentry. It appears as a sprite, a mighty and protective guardian watching over Roanoke and its heritage. I head out with the last of that light still dancing around the 611's domes. I can think of nothing better to bring this day to a close.