January 28, 1976
Page 1291
YOU CAN GET THERE FROM HERE
Mr. MUSKIE. Mr. President, in the November 1975, Issue of Yankee magazine, Douglas McVicar proves that you can get to Vanceboro, Maine, by train from New York, if you do not mind traveling via Montreal. It is much more difficult to travel by rail from New York to Portland, Maine, unless you are wrapped for shipment.
The trip to Vanceboro sounds like a most enjoyable one. Amtrak, I hope, will soon be making this pleasant, fuel-efficient form of transportation available to other areas of Maine.
Mr. President, I ask unanimous consent that Mr. McVicar's article in the November 1975 issue of Yankee be printed in .the RECORD.
There being no objection, the article was ordered to be printed in the RECORD, as follows:
[From Yankee magazine, November 1975]
HOW I TOOK THE TRAIN FROM NEW YORK CITY TO VANCEBORO, MAINE, IN 1975 — JUST TO SHOW IT COULD BE DONE
(By Douglas McVicar)
Yes, it's true. On the way I passed through five of the six New England states and rode 836 miles. You could do it too, all on regular scheduled passenger trains.
"But," I hear the shrewd reader asking, "why would a level-headed fellow like me want to do a thing like that?"
Well, it's the principle of the thing. Railroading is a grand tradition. America's first major rail line hoisted its sails in 1830. Draft horses were always kept in reserve in case the train got becalmed.
Six years later the steam train made its debut in Maine. In the next few years farsighted Mainers such as General Sam Veazie and John A. Poor pushed their lines through the wilderness, and towns sprouted up behind them like trees in the wake of Johnny Appleseed. By the turn of the century there were 21 separate roads crisscrossing the state for a grand total of 1626 miles. Over five million passengers rode the rails in Maine that year. Even today you will hear dreamy recollections of journeys on such trains as the Gull, the Bar Harbor Express, the Aroostook Flyer, the Flying Yankee, the Kennebec, the Pine Tree Limited and the Potatoland Special.
But as the century ripened, an automobile became the thing to have. Eventually highways grew into interstates and anyone could see that passenger railroading was doomed. The day after Labor Day in 1960 the Canadian National (C.N.) suspended service on its Portland-to-Montreal route for the winter. On the same day the Maine Central permanently dropped all its passenger runs. A story in the New York Times about the casualties was cleverly but snidely titled "Sick Transit." The State of Maine Express, a night train between New York and Portland via Worcester, made its last run on October 30.
A railroad spokesman explained that the cut was necessitated by the demise of Maine Central service out of Portland. In 1961 Portland's imposing Union Station on St. John Street was demolished because of decreased use. On September 4, 1961, the Bangor and Aroostook, which had grudgingly been dragging a single dilapidated coach behind a mail train from Northern Maine Junction (outside Bangor) to Caribou, received permission to eliminate this train, its last passenger service, and did so instantly.
By 1962 the C.N. was operating its Portland-Montreal train on summer weekends only. In 1965 the Boston and Maine scratched the single Budd car that had been running from Boston to Portland. The remnants of the C.N.'s service finally bit the dust in May of 1968.
Then into the nationwide railroad void came Amtrak. With new energy, new uniforms, and over 500 passenger stations, Amtrak rekindled hope — at least in most parts of the country. Of the continental 48 states, only three are presently excluded from Amtrak's master scheme: South Dakota, New Hampshire, and Maine. Such neglect of northern New England left me and most train lovers treading water in a vast ocean of nostalgia.
Then one dazzling fall morning a year age I discovered Canadian Pacific No. 42 out of Montreal transecting Maine at the waistline with stops at Jackman, Greenville Junction, Brownville Junction, Mattawamkeag, Danforth, and Vanceboro. I blinked my eyes in disbelief — and vowed that someday I would ride that train.
When the moment finally came I called Amtrak. The ticket agent disavowed any knowledge of my train: "We don't have service up to Maine. You'd have to ... (long pause) ... you'd have to take a bus." There was no point in telling her that no bus passes within 30 miles of Vanceboro.
Nevertheless, when the northbound Montrealer pulled into Pennsylvania Station that evening, I was waiting to board. A few hours later we were nearing Greenfield, Massachusetts, and everyone in my car was sound asleep, so I went back to the rear platform to see what sort of country we were passing through.
The night was crisp and black, and sparks flew in our wake. On either side of the track darkened farmhouses and factories emerged from the shadows and marched past in time with the wild rhythm that our wheels were beating against the cold steel rails. After a long time I stepped back in and ran into the flagman on his way out.
"We're taking the ditch for a freight train." he said hurriedly. "Now we'll be even later."
As I drifted off to sleep we stopped on a siding and another train flashed past. But not a freight train: it was our sister ship the southbound Montrealer.
On awakening I recognized White River Junction, Vermont. But the sun was up already: we were at least an hour and a half late. Hurrah! There would be daylight as we climbed into the spectacular highlands. Forward in the dining car I had railroad French toast for breakfast, each slice mahogany brown and a full inch plump — perfect with sausages, juice and milk. Just as I polished off the last syrupy morsel we rolled into St. Albans and the flagman came looking for me. We stepped off the train and he made dramatic arm gestures to show how a monumental train shed used to span four trains at once, each as large as our Montrealer.
Back on the train I stopped by the conductor's improvised office in the coach, where he had spread out his paperwork on some empty seats. I asked him why we had waited to let the southbound Montrealer pass, and not vice versa. He replied, "Southbound trains are superior — unless the dispatcher has a friend going the other way."
We were now cruising along the ridges that flank Lake Champlain. The panorama of the sparkling water below us flickered through the trees every now and then to reward those who were keeping their eyes open. The tracks across the lake at East Alburg are on a wooden trestle laid over stone piers. The engineer held his speed to a safe 5 mph and we were across in eight minutes.
After a quick check by Canadian customs officers we sailed through the Quebec flatlands and entered Montreal.
While waiting to board C.P. No. 42 at Montreal's Windsor Station that evening, I encountered an old man distinguished by his erect posture, Stetson hat, and walking stick. Like other Canadians he was incredulous when I mentioned that only this one passenger train survived in all of Maine. He called his wife over and told her impressively,"This fellow is going to Maine. He says that No. 42 is the only passenger train in the state !"
She scrutinized me carefully, probably wondering whether my honest face made such a story any more believable. "Well, think of that,"she said.
Our train paused at a few commuter stations east of Montreal and then passed into farm and woodland country where it began to roll in earnest. Connecting Montreal with Saint John and Halifax, this line is an important eastern arm of Canada's transcontinental system.
After watching the sun set, I slipped back to the combination dining, lounge and dome car. There at the first table I found my friend the distinguished gentleman, who turned out to be A. W. Carter, a World War I ace aviator, with his wife, and their new friend Walter McGinn, a ragtime band leader. I ordered a sandwich, then sat down and remarked on the pleasantness of the car.
"Well! It certainly isn't what it used to be," declared A. W. Carter.
"Oh no," said Mrs. Carter, "they had sterling silverware and fine china."
"Yes, also beautiful tablecloths, and napkins as big as a bed sheet."
"Real Irish linen," added Walter McGinn. "In the center of each table they had a rose floating in a silver bowl."
"I especially loved the seafood — oysters by the crate, salmon and Maine lobster."
"Why the railroad even had a farm on this line where they made a special stop to load fresh butter, milk and eggs."
Jackman, a frontier outpost famous for its 118" average yearly rainfall, was our first stop in Maine. Only one passenger got on. The customs officer who also came aboard didn't count, of course, since he got off again as soon as the flagman has taken him through the train introducing each passenger as if he were an old acquaintance.
I found the lone train taker, a positive minded young fellow, sitting alertly in the dome car although there was nothing to see except a few drops of drizzle on the windows and a background of utter blackness. This was his second train trip in a week, and the second in his life. He proclaimed train riding great fun and a lot better than driving the 120 lonely miles from his house to Jackman, especially since he broke the crankshaft of his jalopy.
Somewhere in the wilderness between Jackman and Greenville Junction we roared by westbound No. 41. As the brakeman beamed the all clear signal through the gloom to the man at the rear of the other train, he explained that eastbound trains are superior to westbound. Fair's fair, I thought.
At Greenville Junction, on the southern antler of Moosehead Lake, I went out with the brakeman to watch for a flag. Would-be passengers arriving at the dark and empty Greenville Junction depot in time for the 2:48 train post a large green and white flag which alerts the train crew. A few passengers don't realize they have to flag the train, or don't know where to look for the flag, so the engineer always stops whether the flag is out or not if he sees a person near the station. We peered into the shadows around the lonely station but not a soul was to be seen.
At Brownville Junction a new crew came aboard, and so did a couple of passengers who immediately stretched out and went to sleep. In the hour and a quarter between Brownville Junction and Mattawamkeag an overcast day broke. We were passing through mile after mile of dense forest checkered with bogs, unbroken by settlements or roads. From Mattawamkeag on we would be using the route of the old European & North American Railway which was opened from Bangor to the Maritimes via Vanceboro in 1871. For the inauguration of this new link between New York and London, a jubilee was held in Bangor. Among the guests were President Grant and Canadian Governor-General Lord Lizgar. The celebration included torchlight processions, a military review, a regatta, a trail of fire engines, and 600 marching lumberjacks in their working clothes. For three days the festivities in Bangor shared the front page of America's newspapers with the Chicago fire. Finally the host of dignitaries boarded a train and rode up to Vanceboro.
I asked the conductor if he knew of any other historical incidents. He said, "No, but a lot of interesting things happen along this line. Somebody sees a moose just about every week, and I've seen bears too. Of course the old freight trains were even more fun. Sometimes they put us in a siding next to one of these ponds." He pointed out the window at a lonesome pool where raindrops were pecking at the surface and bending the reeds. "Some haven't been fished much, and we grabbed some beauties." He showed me how long they were.
The village of Danforth was once a booming lumber town. As the train slowed down we went out to look for a flag. For some years now a quiet man who visits relatives in Saint John every month or two has been the only one to get on the train in Danforth.
We halted the Vanceboro station within 15 seconds of schedule (by my watch). Elapsed time from Pennsylvania Station was 33 hours and 20 minutes. Vanceboro, with two general stores, two churches, and several houses, seemed like a metropolis full of hurly-burly rising out of the forest. I wished all the trainmen and the cook goodbye, and sadly watched No. 42 — the locomotive, the empty baggage car, the single coach, our merry dome car, and finally the sleeper — clatter out of the station, slip back into Canada, and disappear.
I went inside the station to escape the rain and met Vanceboro Operator Dan J. Shay, a colorful and witty realist who pronounces train orders with the fleet tongue of a Yankee auctioneer. When I asked him how business was he started off on a discourse about the staggering tonnage that passes by his window. "This line is so important," he announced, "that in 1914 the Germans sent a saboteur to Maine to cut it. He bombed our bridge over the St. Croix River. You can see the end of it right down the tracks there." Shay waved his pen. "He wasn't a very good saboteur — it took only one morning to patch up the bridge. But he wasn't a bad fellow either — he made sure no train was coming before he set the thing off. I don't remember personally, but my father used to tell the story. It was way below zero and the poor guy got so frostbitten he had to turn himself in. I think after the war he became a U.S. citizen."
The trip had gone pretty well, all things considered. Believe it or not, if I had been available to do the same thing 75 years ago during the heyday of railroading, it would have taken nearly eight hours longer. Modern trains run faster. Of course in 1900 I would have had the option of shooting directly up via Boston, Portland, and Bangor in just 24½ hours.
Now the shrewd reader must be wondering, "Isn't there some better way to get to Vanceboro? Perhaps by car?"
Certainly not! On the train every travel hour is available for reading, sleeping, thinking, meeting interesting characters, and getting lost in the scenery (a rail line corrupts the neighboring environment far less than a highway does).
"Yes, but," the reader will here protest, "the extra comfort, leisure and luxury of train travel aren't free. Your fare was $49 and let's face it, nowadays money ain't hay."
Using mileage figures candidly provided by the Federal Highway Administration, the cost of driving to Vanceboro by the shortest route is $84. If you use toll roads, that's extra.
More important still: an auto trip doesn't have the romance of a train ride, although the Federal Highway Administration has not dared to release figures on this. It is safe to say few would pay any attention if I reported that "I drove a car from New York City to Vanceboro, Maine, in 1975 (just to show it could be done)."
Yes, it speaks well for our society that the most friction-free, fuel saving and poetic means of transportation is still at our service in Maine.
Of course, the reader might say, "But I don't know anyone in Vanceboro. What if I want to visit my Aunt Martha in Portland?"
If the shrewd reader said that, then he'd have me.