In the charming town of Cass, West Virginia, time seems to have slowed. Not stopped exactly, but moving with the sort of lethargy and contented quiet found only at historical landmarks and inside quaint little museums. I offer as an example the home of Earnest Hemingway in Key West. But with fewer felines. Or perhaps the lighthouse museums of the Chesapeake Bay area. But with fewer sea gulls (thank goodness! hate those things). Or any other little topical structure that shares stone/ivy/assorted greenery creeping up its stone steps and wooden lattice work.
The object of the day trip to Cass is very simple: you are there to take a nice little open air train ride. Simply walk into the recreated train depot, chat briefly with the costumed attendant, wait for the whistles to sound, and climb on board the open air cabins for a little coal-engine trek through the woods. And if you are a member of my family, a.k.a. very very friendly, you befriend the adorable sister-brother twin toddlers peeking through the wooden slats as the tracks rush beneath our feet. And you might also feel compelled to learn the life story of the quiet Park Ranger assigned to your caboose. Who, as it turns out, is a native of the area and very knowledgeable about logging camps (even if he knows nothing about trains).
Granny, Mom, Aunt Connie and I were very excited. Despite the fact that I was on one of those senior bus tours (Abbott Tours, thank you for my name tag), and that our trip was sure to be a fast one, I was ready! Trains! Let's get into character!
Bring licorice and coffee onto the train for sharing. Check.
Keep your ticket handy. Check....we wouldn't want to be "off boarded", now would we?
Offer seat to kind grandparents with the twin toddler set. Check.
Check your pocket watch for the time as the whistles blows.
...........ok, I forgot that accessory...
I also forgot thermal underwear. It was FREEZING. By the time we made it up the mountain, with the train backing its way up and Mom and I breaking the wind from our perch on the caboose, I was a pop sickle. And not cherry flavored. I was one of those Americana striped ones that has melted and then been refrozen, sticking to the paper in uneven, oddly colored clumps: I walked as if my knees were locked, my legs were gnarly branches, and my teeth chattered in time with the whistle blowing. Unattractive, I assure you. But I kept on talking to strangers!
All in all it was worth the cold: not only do I think that the quaint little town (it had a numbered map showing were the loggers lodged, where the post office was, etc.) was picturesque, but I befriended every Park Ranger on that train. The best of which let me, through some very persuasive wheedling, to climb over the railings with Mom's camera and capture some footage of an approaching train in the "switchback."
For those of you who aren't familiar with this term, it is a clever and simple section of track that is laid to avoid trains circling around a mountain in its attempt to ascend. We simply trekked along an extra 1000 ft of track, laid in a large Y fashion with the left fork descending and the right ascending the mountain, and reversed course. We paused in our descent to allow for an oncoming train to use the Y in wait, and allow us room to pass. It was curious. I wouldn't want to be the one who had to manually operate the "switch" on the ground. Apparently, they get left behind once a week. And, much as I enjoyed the day, West Virginia is not my future home!
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