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ENLARGE
When I was a boy in the l930s, my friends and I wanted to be either a city fireman or train engineer when we grew up. Excitement and glory seemed to be part of those jobs. The train didn't have a siren like a fire engine, but that bullfrog whistle and the noise and steam of the engine more than made up for it.
The engines were impressive just standing still. You felt no bigger than an ant when you stood next to them on the station platform, listening to their insides make rumbling digestive noises. Their drive wheels alone were shoulder height to most men.
Once the whole collection of bolts, iron, coal and water reached top speed they were terrifying. I stood below one along a built-up rail bed once. I was a good 20 feet from the tracks, looking up at that massive thing as it bore down on me. I meant to stand my ground but my courage deserted me at the last moment. Panic sent me flying over the right-of-way fence.
Railroads were a way of life when I was young. They were the only means of mass land transport for nearly a century. Then Henry Ford produced his affordable Model T.
Good roads, the auto's convenience and the speed of the airlines put the railroads out of the people-hauling business. They were still hanging in there in the 1930s and managed a glorious last hurrah with a boost from World War II.
Most of the railroad stations in the early 20th century have gone the way of the Dodo Bird and Passenger Pigeon. They were the center of a small industry, similar in a way to today's airport hubs. The Union Pacific Station in Baker was typical. There was a passenger depot, a freight depot, a depot for a small feeder railroad known as the Sumpter Valley Railway and the neat little building for Railway Express. The latter was an early day UPS that operated hand-in-glove with the various railroad companies.
There were numerous siding tracks, livestock pens and a huge water tank on stilts for the steam engine's water supply. The crown jewel was the passenger depot. Located in the middle of the wall facing the concrete station platform was the ticket office and telegrapher's station with its great bay window viewing the tracks. One of the constants of a railroad depot was the ever-present clicking of the telegraph. Baker's station platform was partially shaded by a large overhanging hip roof where baggage handling carts were parked when not in use. The carts had four large metal rim wheels and a rack, fore and aft, to control the load. There was no fancy baggage carousel then, just shelves for storage.
It was fun watching a train approach the station. You could hear it coming. Railroad locomotives have historically been required to signal their approach by blowing a whistle or horn at each crossing. If you knew how many crossings there were before reaching the station, you could tell how far away the train was by keeping count of the whistles.
Those big black engines thundered, squeaked and spewed clouds of white steam as they gradually ground to a stop to disgorge people and freight. In about twenty minutes, the train would unload arriving freight and passengers and reload for departure. Its cars would be buttoned up and the engineer would give a couple of warning toots on the whistle. When the huge wheels, driven by an enormous connecting rod ponderously sliding back and forth began to turn, moving the train ever so slowly at first, the whole chuffing, ground-shaking monster gathered speed as it pulled away, with the click-clack of the car wheels on the steel rails as the train increased speed.
It was a fascinating performance. People were there for the sheer entertainment of watching the train and the bustling activity around it as it came and went. It was one of the innocent joys of a simpler time.
The engines were impressive just standing still. You felt no bigger than an ant when you stood next to them on the station platform, listening to their insides make rumbling digestive noises. Their drive wheels alone were shoulder height to most men.
Once the whole collection of bolts, iron, coal and water reached top speed they were terrifying. I stood below one along a built-up rail bed once. I was a good 20 feet from the tracks, looking up at that massive thing as it bore down on me. I meant to stand my ground but my courage deserted me at the last moment. Panic sent me flying over the right-of-way fence.
Railroads were a way of life when I was young. They were the only means of mass land transport for nearly a century. Then Henry Ford produced his affordable Model T.
Good roads, the auto's convenience and the speed of the airlines put the railroads out of the people-hauling business. They were still hanging in there in the 1930s and managed a glorious last hurrah with a boost from World War II.
Most of the railroad stations in the early 20th century have gone the way of the Dodo Bird and Passenger Pigeon. They were the center of a small industry, similar in a way to today's airport hubs. The Union Pacific Station in Baker was typical. There was a passenger depot, a freight depot, a depot for a small feeder railroad known as the Sumpter Valley Railway and the neat little building for Railway Express. The latter was an early day UPS that operated hand-in-glove with the various railroad companies.
There were numerous siding tracks, livestock pens and a huge water tank on stilts for the steam engine's water supply. The crown jewel was the passenger depot. Located in the middle of the wall facing the concrete station platform was the ticket office and telegrapher's station with its great bay window viewing the tracks. One of the constants of a railroad depot was the ever-present clicking of the telegraph. Baker's station platform was partially shaded by a large overhanging hip roof where baggage handling carts were parked when not in use. The carts had four large metal rim wheels and a rack, fore and aft, to control the load. There was no fancy baggage carousel then, just shelves for storage.
It was fun watching a train approach the station. You could hear it coming. Railroad locomotives have historically been required to signal their approach by blowing a whistle or horn at each crossing. If you knew how many crossings there were before reaching the station, you could tell how far away the train was by keeping count of the whistles.
Those big black engines thundered, squeaked and spewed clouds of white steam as they gradually ground to a stop to disgorge people and freight. In about twenty minutes, the train would unload arriving freight and passengers and reload for departure. Its cars would be buttoned up and the engineer would give a couple of warning toots on the whistle. When the huge wheels, driven by an enormous connecting rod ponderously sliding back and forth began to turn, moving the train ever so slowly at first, the whole chuffing, ground-shaking monster gathered speed as it pulled away, with the click-clack of the car wheels on the steel rails as the train increased speed.
It was a fascinating performance. People were there for the sheer entertainment of watching the train and the bustling activity around it as it came and went. It was one of the innocent joys of a simpler time.
