“How you going to harvest your corn?”
“My people will help me. They got a couple farms to do, then mine.”
“Weather man’s talking about a freeze. Then rain. May want to hurry a bit.”
“I suppose we’re victims of prosperity. So much corn, so little time.”
We talked more and Sarah brought tea. Such nice people, I could have sat there all day, and with nothing else to do, Samuel could talk all day. After a while my phone rang. Lindsay.
“Hey, where are you? Supper time.”
I looked at the time on the phone. “Sorry. Nursing the sick. At Sammy’s.”
“Oh, tell Sarah hi from me and sorry about his leg.”
“Ankle. Yeah, I’ll be right there.”
I tried excusing myself, stood and worked my way to the door. Between Sammy’s loneliness and the slow Amish lifestyle, it was another fifteen minutes before I stepped off the porch and hopped in the car. Surveyed the landscape over the hood. White house and barn, neat as pins. Corn to the horizon, ready to harvest, the tassels swaying in the breeze. But with Samuel down, and his people so busy, wouldn’t it be tragic if they couldn’t get it in time? Perhaps I could help. I shook my head and turned to home and dinner.
The next day Lindsay drove me to the shop to parole my pickup. I thought about the simple Amish lifestyle as I paid the bill. We convoyed back home, the heater taking the edge out of the cold. She called me as the Millers’ house appeared, a white island in the ocean of corn. As we drove by their farm, she said, “Poor Samuel. Such a nice man.” The corn ran to the roadway, a huge sentinel, the sun dipping behind it.
“Yeah, if he doesn’t get it soon… such a nice crop. That would sure be a waste.”
“Are his people going to help him?” She slowed for the highway.
“Supposed to.”
“Maybe we could help.”
“What could we do?” I asked, thinking of their rigidity about machinery. I’m not combining my corn, then going to Sammy’ place and slashing away at it with a machete with twenty friends.
“You’re smart. You can figure it out.”
As we drove in comfortable silence, I wondered how I could help him.
“You know, I got a few friends who owe me favors. Maybe I can make something happen.”
“See? You are smart.”
I ended her call and made a few others.
Remembering he was going to the doctor’s on Friday, I figured that would be a great day to help him out. I arranged a combine and two grain carts to hit his place on Friday morning. They started at seven, just after he clopped away with Sarah in their buggy. Sarah graciously helped with the plan, arranging it so they would visit friends after the doctor’s, then stall him by insisting he take her shopping, taking the entire day.
The machine gobbled up the corn in forty foot swaths and fed it into the carts that trundled off to the elevators. After so many years, I still stood in awe at the tremendous, efficient process. At six p.m., Samuel rode back into his farm with Sarah and gaped. His entire cornfield looked like it just returned from the barbershop. I smiled as I leaned on my pickup.
He struggled out of the buggy with Sarah’s help and tottered over. “What have you done, Tristan?”
“Well, I knew you could use a hand, so I called in a few favors.”
He backed into my pickup and leaned against the grille. “I can’t believe it.” Tears trickled down both Sarah’s cheeks. She wiped them with a handkerchief.
“You know how we feel about using machinery, don’t you?”
“Yep. But you didn’t use machinery, did you?”
“No, you’re correct. You did.”
“Actually, Sammy, here’s what I did. I stole your corn. Harvested it and took it to the mill and sold it all. Then my conscience got the best of me, and I felt so bad that I thought I would give you the money for it.” I handed him a check. “So now, I just need to ask you to forgive me for stealing your corn.”
He stared at the stubble, extending clear up over the hillside. Turned to me and looked me in the eye. “I forgive you, Tristan, you crazy and wonderful friend.”
“Thanks, Sammy. Now for six weeks, you can’t harass me about my machinery.”
“That’s too much to ask of a man.”
Just then Lindsay drove up and got out of the car. She reached in the back and stepped out.
With a casserole.
New Hampshire
The cog train and Mount Washington were fascinating. I marveled at how people could invent a train that could climb such steep grades. We hadn’t prepared for the stark difference in climate from the bottom to the summit either, the winds whipping, the temperatures cold. And this story, while not autobiographical, probably could be. Just ask my wife.
THE COG RAILWAY
Jennifer entered the Ladies’ room, so I surveyed the area. No use just sitting around. I wandered out to a fenced section as we waited for our train to take us up to the summit of Mount Washington. I walked over to a black locomotive and clicked off a few shots when she called.
“Doug? There you are. I went to the bathroom and you disappeared.” Jennifer marched up, her arms crossed over her chest. Oops.
“Sorry. I thought I’d go outside and take some pictures.” I pointed to the trains in the fenced area.
“Well, it would be nice if you would tell me.”
I should tell her how I just get distracted, see something and find myself wandering off, taking pictures of interesting things. Nothing against her, I just get bored easily and need to keep moving. ADD, I suppose. But all I said was, “Sorry.”
Another bright thing fought for my attention—a dragster looking locomotive, mint green and red with a black boiler. The name on it read, ‘Peppersass.’ It bore tiny front wheels and large drive wheels at the rear. The section of rail under it, set to display the little locomotive, slanted upward, yet the train engine looked level. Designed for the steep climbs.
“Look at this, hon. The first cog train.” I held out my arm as if to present the train. To her. She uncrossed her arms and peered at it. The sign indicated it worked the hill, back when they brought it up in pieces by ox carts and assembled it here on the bottom of the mountain.
Because the cog trains pull with a sprocket under them into the center track, they can climb straight up the hill, as the tracks shooting up the slope indicated. No switchbacks, no tunnels, no messing around.
“We better get in line,” she said, “people are forming up.”
We got in place as a train crawled down the hill, a green locomotive with a powder blue passenger car, coming down backward. When it eased into the loading area, I could tell by sound and smell that diesel was the new power of choice. That and the sticker that said, ‘Powered by Biodiesel.’
We loaded and I shot pictures of the conductor, the car, and the water tank next to the train. It filled the steam engine that carried tourists up once a day. Jen found a couple of seats and she said, “You sit by the window so you get good pictures,” and I complied. Funny, the seats tilted forward. Must be for feeling more level as the train crept up the slope. Jen nursed her diet soda.
The conductor did his best to get people seated, and some, of course, were unhappy with his oppression. I’d like to say something like, “Just take a seat, people,” but thought better of it and kept quiet.
Jen stared out the window and prattled. “Look at that water tank. It sure leaks a lot… That track is super steep… Beautiful trees… I think I read the mountain is 6,200 feet… Can’t people just take a seat?” and so on. I pointed and clicked.
The train started moving and in moments left the flat spot and climbed, sliding us into the seat backs. The train felt different than a traditional train, which went much faster with a rocking motion and a clicking feeling. This one shuddered and rattled, apparently due to the cog.
Halfway up we passed a water tower. The conductor told us to keep ourselves inside, as we passed within six inc
hes of it. The steam engines needed to stop and get more water here. Amazing, as we’d only gone a few miles. The conductor said the water tank was level, but when we passed it, it looked crooked. We were the tilting ones. We split off the main track and waited for another train to shuttle down the hill, a yellow locomotive with an orange car. The passengers took photos of one another as we passed.
The locomotive throttled up and we crept up the hill again while Jen oohed and ahhed at the views and I caught them on camera. Took some of her in silhouette as she enjoyed the territorial panoramas. The air felt cooler. I hung the camera out the side and clicked off a shot.
“Hon, I wish you wouldn’t do that. What if you dropped the camera?” she said.
“Nah. I’m careful.”
“Well, it was a gift from my mother… ”
As I slid my thumb to zoom, it slipped out of my grip. I fumbled for it, but it tumbled out of my hand. I let my hand drop to the side of the car, outside. But Jen saw what happened.
“You dropped it, didn’t you?
I hung my head, then nodded.
She sighed. “I told you.”
Sometimes people love to say, “I told you so,” but the defeat in her voice made me think she just wanted me to listen to her, to hear the voice of reason, and I blew it. Stuck my head outside the train, but couldn’t see the camera. Dang. Checked the landscape. We crept over a trestle. Maybe I could tell the conductor. No. They wouldn’t stop the train for every little thing.
Jen sighed. “Well. We can get a new one in Manchester. But now we can’t get any pictures on the summit.”
Dang.
The trail lumbered on and a wall of silence slid between us as both Jen and I mentally rehearsed the times I failed to listen to her, the voice of reason and safety, me taking risks that she perceived as reckless. And today her conservatism proved to be true.
We passed a monument to a woman who died on the hill at that place. A group of hikers waved at us as we passed.
Hikers. I could hike down and retrieve the camera.
The return train wouldn’t arrive for over an hour, so I could just scoot down and fetch it.
No use talking to Jen about it, she’d just say it was too risky, just get another camera, forget it. It would become a discussion, then an argument. I’d just take off, run there and back. Surprise, I got your camera back. All is forgiven and I would learn my lesson.
The train crawled to a stop and we disembarked by rows, people being courteous, apparently settled down from the loading process. The conductor announced we would return at 4:15, an hour and fifteen minutes. He indicated the temperature would be much cooler up here and the wind speed averaged thirty-seven miles per hour.
Jen zipped up her sweatshirt and I drew the hood of mine up over my hat. As we exited the wind shrieked. This felt like more than thirty-seven. The cold stung my cheeks as we hustled to the gift shop.
“Whew,” Jen said as we trotted through the door, the heat a welcoming balm. “That was cold.”
We wandered past the snack bar and like a first grade kid with a dog, she found the gift shop. She can smell them. I followed her inside, and soon she waded through islands of t-shirts with graphics that boasted of how the wearer conquered Mt. Washington. By riding up in a train?
This seemed like my chance, so I stole out of the store and headed straight to the hiking path, easy to find with hikers coming up with regularity, their cheeks red and flushed. The wind scudded clouds below us and the white covered the green hills, allowing brief views of trees below.
I walked a few hundred yards, trying to keep some speed while dodging rocks, and the path crossed the rail line. I stepped across to the side that the camera fell. It seemed prudent to just follow the track downhill, pick up the camera and return the same way. However, the area adjacent to the tracks lacked a path and became a maze of rocks, brush, and old railroad ties, tossed aside from repairs. I made my way down the hill and spotted the memorial to the dead woman. This must be two hundred yards from the summit. I glanced uphill and the gift shop already disappeared into the clouds.
Zipping the sweat shirt and tying the hood tighter, I resumed the trek. Soon the tracks kept a straight line, but the grade dropped, and a trestle held them up. This must be the spot. I searched, but no camera. Walking down, the clouds cleared and I saw another chasm ahead. Must be the one. The clacking of a train from behind drove me under the bridge. Couldn’t let them see me. I stood under the ties as the behemoth passed overhead, the noise attacking my ears and heat from the engine driving the cold away, for just a moment. The ties creaked and groaned and for a second I thought the thing would crash through, crushing me beneath ties, rails, and the steel of the train. Since being only two cars, it passed in a few moments. I waited for the train to pass and continued down the hill, tripping over boulders and searching for footing.
A few minutes passed as I picked my way along before realizing the wind contained little sharp shards of snow.
Snow?
We left the station, not long before, in seventy degree weather, a comfortable September day. Yet the specks of snow machine gunned my face and eyes. Fortunately, being so dry it didn’t stick, but eddied and bunched in the clefts of rocks and the lee of shrubs.
Need to walk more carefully now. This slowed the trip, which already took much longer than I anticipated. Once again the tracks remained straight and the ground dropped away. I stepped down and searched for footing so my feet didn’t slide out, sending me downhill only to crash onto a rock.
I stopped and rubbed my hands together, trying to keep them warm. Jennifer is going to kill me. Surely she’s seen I’m gone, and commenced the search. Hopefully she hasn’t notified the authorities. My self-abasement ebbed as I spotted a black snake—the camera strap—at the bottom of the ravine, draped over a rock. I’ll get it and hustle back to the summit, all forgiven as I hand her the camera.
I bent and grabbed the strap and the snow yielded as the camera floated out like a submarine breasting water. Shook it and took a shot. The screen appeared almost totally white and for a moment I thought it broken until I realized it captured the image of the weather.
My spirits soared, and I know Jen will be pleased, the camera recovered, Doug the hero returning from a successful recovery mission.
I hooked the camera over my head and strode up the hill. The rail ascended next to me but disappeared into the fog of clouds and snow. Not surprising but discouraging, progress uphill proved to me a much more arduous affair. My lungs screamed for oxygen and the icy air made them cramp. Going up takes much more energy. Better take a break. I stood and surveyed the landscape, the area a mixture of white, grey and pewter. Thank God for the tracks. Won’t get lost.
Regaining my breath, I made my way up when the sound of another train came from the fog uphill. The tracks were just a couple feet above the ground. I could move away from here, but they might see me and the daunting spectre of somehow disappearing into the fog and getting lost—then freezing to death—made my decision. I crawled under the tracks.
The train rumbled down, a monster out of the mist, grinding and crushing the ties beneath its mass. The heat and air blew snow into a white turbulence, and the cog wheel rotated along the center, squealing and screeching in my ears. The beast seemed to struggle to reach through the rails and crush me. I held my breath and closed my eyes. Please, dear God…
The passenger car passed next, continuing the darkness and immediacy of the huge monster. The rocks shook, the ground vibrated, and the ties groaned beneath its weight. Should I want, I could have reached and touched the steel beast, the tracks making me feel like an animal, crushed in a cage.
Snow turned to water, splattering my eyes and face. An eternity later, the demon passed and disappeared into the fog, much faster the sight than the sound. It creaked and shrieked into the mist, the evil noises warning me it would come back, to kill me or cut off an arm next time. I crawled out and stood, my hoodie soaked with m
elted snow and cooling sweat.
I better get walking and fast, before this wet turned to ice. I picked my way between rocks, a difficult endeavor as my shoes kept disappearing into the white.
Something caught my eye from across the tracks. The summit? No. The memorial to the dead woman, the letters on white, so it looked like they floated in the storm, a harbinger of things to come, or a warning. Now I could see how someone could die so close to safety. The rails seemed distant and difficult to see in the dense white.
I would walk on them, but the idea of a train coming out of the whiteout and crushing me kept me off. An unrealistic thought, as the sound would alert me, but the wind shrieked and caused me to wonder if I could hear it. I stumbled on, sure that the gift shop, with its warm lights and heat, must be close. Yet staring through the snow, I saw nothing. Just keep going. The cold crept in from my fingers to my wrist and arms, from my toes to above my knees.
While it felt like ten steps, it must have been many more, as the ground fell to the left and I realized I couldn’t see the rails. Panicked, I lurched left and fell over a rock, smacking my shin on another. I struggled to my feet and rubbed it. Can’t break an ankle or leg here. I wandered right and soon found the tracks, a relief that made me choke back a cry.
One step at a time. One step at a time. One step at a time. I marched upward, the air colder still, the wind shrieking, my lungs burning while demanding oxygen, but getting thin cold air. Couldn’t feel my feet, my running shoes wet and frozen. One more step.
I trod onward, staying tight to the tracks, not noticing the light to my right. Hearing a noise, I turned to see yellow light emanating from the shroud of fog and snow. I tripped over the tracks and found flat ground on the other side. The gift shop and museum loomed from the cloud. Couldn’t wait to find Jen and get the camera into her hands. Perhaps a tourist could take our pictures with it. It took a bit of searching to find her, but she sat in a chair downstairs, her elbow on the arm and her head in her hand.
“Jen.”
She stood and looked at me, then ran up and hugged me tightly. Just as quickly, she pushed me away.
“Where have you been? You’re soaked.”
50 Stories in 50 States: Tales Inspired by a Motorcycle Journey Across the USA Vol 1, Great Lakes & N.E. Page 3