Ticket to Ride — David K. Buchholz

For the second time in 2024 Jadyne and I climbed aboard the Amtrak ”Zephyr",” (a name that should require quotation marks), and prepared ourselves for the next 26 hours as we “hurtled” across America, through the Sierra, Nevada, Utah, and finally our destination, Glenwood Springs, more affectionately known as “Spgs” after the notation on the road signs.

It was a short stay, just three days, as we’re not “snow people”, and we really just wanted to touch base with Greg and Sean. We did.

We had been coming to Glenwood Springs since Teeny moved there sometime in the mid seventies. We know the town well. Businesses come and go, construction is ever present. Tourists flock there. It’s a place for skiers and snowboarders, too, cheaper digs than Aspen or Vail.

The visit. Greg and Sean showed me this photograph.

The 20 x 24” framed photograph of Teeny which hung at the entrance to the Emergency Room at the hospital for the past thirty-seven years. Greg was wandering through a room in the hospital where piles of discarded items from the hospital were stored. “What are you doing with this?” Greg asked the employee. *“Don’t know,”* was the reply, *“probably going to the junkyard.”* Greg took the print home and hung it above their stairway. Thirty-seven years. Teeny’s memorial service drew hundreds. Now no one remembers who she was, that she was Greg’s sister, that if the hospital wasn’t interested in remembering her anymore, ***perhaps her brother might like to have the image.*** Ya think?
In my 78th year I realize that thirty-seven years after I pass, there might be a few who remember. Jason will be closing in on ninety. Time does what time does. Dust to dust.
I hung out on Greg and Sean’s front porch, watching the avian visitors.

It was a lovely three days. One Chinese dinner, one evening at a Vaudeville performance in Spgs, one home-cooked prime rib, and one extraordinary dinner at New Castle, where an Aspen chef is just one critic’s approval away from a Michelin star. (IMHO).

The Platter at the Pig and Duck. Words fail. Worth 26 hours on the train just for that.

I wandered around taking images of ice crystals in three week old snow.

It was cold when I went out to photograph ice crystals, so I put on a wool hat, which covered my ears. When I returned I noticed that I was missing one hearing aid. With three sets of eyes we climbed the hill where I had been and looked in vain for the hearing aid. I gave up, called Costco, discovered what I had to do to replace it. The next day I took one more trip up the gravel, asphalt, and dirt road, and voila! After a recharge all was well.

Greg thought that three days was too short for our visit. I replied, “The train trip is a vacation, too.” We love long train trips.

We paid $388 for two round-trip tickets to Glenwood Springs. Coach passengers have to pay for their own food. Sleeping car passengers don’t. However, we coach passengers get to sleep on the extraordinarily comfortable coach seats which allow us to twist our bodies into positions that would excite a yoga teacher. This passenger enjoyed it more because he could twist into two seats. We had to twist into one.

Passing freight. The freight lines own the tracks and Amtrak trains pull off on sidings until they pass.

Now the train. We boarded at 8:30 am in Richmond, then disembarked at 12:30 in Glenwood Springs. I spent several hours with Henry, pictured on the right, talking about the Amish. Henry, his wife Lydia (pictured left) and his son Eli, wouldn’t let me take their photograph. “It’s not something we do,” Henry said. We talked a lot. I told him about the Sierra Nevada mountain range, the Donner party, California, and what my life was about. He told me about his, too. Henry is 28. He and Lydia speak English, but their son Eli doesn’t. They speak Pennsylvania Dutch with him, just as they do with other Amish. Henry and his friends were returning from working at a medical mission in Tijuana. I smiled, thinking what a great movie it would make, “The Amish in Tijuana,” Like other Amish. Henry’s education stopped at eighth grade. He believes in God, Jesus, the Bible, the creation story, and takes it all literally. He has no phone, no internet, no car, doesn’t drive, and, if I’m right, wouldn’t mind having one or all of them. On the second day I hoped he might relent and allow me to do a family portrait. He does have a mailing address. I suspected that his faith was stronger than my persuasion. It was a slam dunk. I lost.

I talked to Howard, a retired Waldorf teacher who writes childrens’ books. “What’s the deal with immunizations?” I asked him, noting that Waldorf students have an immunization rate about half of the general public. “We believe that the body creates its own immunization,” he said, “and it can protect itself by itself. I’ve been vaccinated against Covid,” he said, that Waldorf familes don’t ignore all vaccinations”..

I talked to Jan. A Syracuse attorney, he was traveling across America, then flying to Hawaii where his daughter, much to his chagrin, married a native Hawaiian on Oahu. He was reading a book about indigenous people, their beliefs, all in hope of understanding. He wondered whether he should underline important passages. I suggested that that might appear to be lecturing, something that his new son-in-law might not appreciate. He agreed.

And then we were in Colfax, along with this lady. Roseville, Sacramento, Martinez, and Richmond still to go.