Taking The Train: Salt Lake To Roseville — Part 2
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.
To Be Continued
An accounting of my westward Train No. 5 travels to resume in Part 3.
Updated: Apr. 15, 2025 at 4:10 p.m. PDT.
All material copyrighted 2025, Alan Kandel. All Rights Reserved.
This is the ride that got away. It was the summer of 1987. I was supposed to take the California Zephyr from Salt Lake City to Oakland as the third leg of a weekend of train riding around the West (The first two legs were Oakland - Seattle on the Coast Starlight and Seattle - Salt Lake City.)
When I got to the depot, I learned the westbound Zephyr was running NINE HOURS LATE. Since I would have missed my flight back to New York, I had to make other arrangements. I got a room, and the next morning flew to Oakland. My consolation prize was renting a car and driving to Sacramento to tour the California State Railroad Museum.
Two years earlier I came through Salt Lake City on the Desert Wind. Amtrak was still using the Union Pacific deport, which was much nicer than the Rio Grande/Western Pacific station. It was fun to watch crews break down the arriving CZ into three trains bound for LA, Oakland, and Seattle. The platforms were wide open and there were no canopies to obstruct the view. Alas, that was a piece of history that will probably never be repeated,