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St. Albans

While talking with my friend Paul a few days ago, he commented that St. Albans, WV looks to be full of gloomy weather, signals, and coal trains, based on the past photos I've sent him from the area. That theme is continued this year (with the addition of Amtrak), although it will probably be the last time I'll see many of the old C&O cantilever signals. New masts, some with heads, already line the ROW. That being the case, I concentrated my photographic efforts of this visit on capturing them one last time. Their replacement may come as a blessing in disguise for my photography, though. Maybe I'll finally discover some new shots around here.

Traffic has been quite heavy. There were seven trains in the two hours I was out this morning, and the flow has remained steady throughout the rest of the day. The Coal River Sub (which joins the mainline here) has been extraordinarily busy, with the majority of traffic going west. There's still a good bit of eastbound coal, but most of it seems to be coming from mines further west of here, although a few loaded trains still come off the Coal River line heading east. The westbound drags off the Coal River Sub include the regular AEP trains to their John Amos plant, just a few miles west of St. Albans. Most of the others are system hoppers, probably heading to the Ohio River transloader at Kenova, or Canada, via Toledo, OH and the Great Lakes.


This is a shot I've been eyeing for quite some time, although I had originally envisioned a sunny, frontlit photo on a summer morning. The right combination of weather and trains didn't materialize in August, so I finally decided to try a night photo of the westbound Cardinal arriving at the Charleston station. The view is looking downriver from the University of Charleston's campus.


This nearly-perfect December sunrise occurred during a brief lull in traffic. Two trains ran just before the sky got light, and four more followed a little later.


Here's the first of those four, a westbound drag coming off the Coal River Sub.


Just west of town, the ex-C&O main begins climbing out of the Kanawha River valley for an overland shortcut to the Ohio Valley at Huntington. The grade is called Scary Hill, and sometimes required pushers in the steam era for particularly heavy westbound drags, but at 0.3%, I really don't think it's that scary.


Between St. Albans and Scary Hill, there's a long tangent, which US 35 crosses on an overpass. While chasing the previous train, I noticed the smoggy, layered hills and the tangle of wires, both of which attracted my interest. When another westbound drag showed up, I decided to try this shot.


Since Christmas fell on a Tuesday this year, Amtrak came through on the following morning. Knowing that CSX shutdown for the holiday, I was expecting this Cardinal to be right on time. It actually showed up a few minutes early. Dad joined me for this photo, before taking me out to breakfast at Shoney's.

Whenever I've been here for a holiday in the past, it's usually taken all of the following day for the post-shutdown traffic to trickle into town. Not so this year. AEP empties from the John Amos plant closely followed Amtrak, and by mid-morning traffic had more or less returned to normal.


The first train of this morning was a loaded AEP drag coming off the Coal River Sub. It's seen here climbing Scary Hill.


This going-away shot is taken from the same location, and shows the switch on the short branchline leading up to the John Amos generating station, where a rotary dumper empties an average of two unit trains every day to feed the energy needs of the Kanawha valley.


Back in St. Albans, a loaded train heads east on the main.


Immediately following the eastbound, a loaded train with a single AC6000 came off the river, crossed over to no. 1 main, and headed west.


That westbound drag met an eastbound empty train on Scary Hill, which is seen here passing the signal in front of the abandoned yard office, as it heads onto the wye and out Coal River.

Re-adjusting

At 12,000 feet, we dropped below the cloud cover. To my right, the Olympic Mountains rose nearly to eye level, green-gray and still flecked with snow, the first American land I had seen in nearly two years. I looked away, rubbed my eyes, and then dried my hands. We banked to the right over Puget Sound, and there was Seattle, skyscrapers and waterfront, close and inviting, a haven of safety and comfort for the weary traveler.

I wasn't staying in Seattle, though. I was taking a train to Portland, departing from the Tukwila station in the suburbs near Seattle/Tacoma Int'l Airport. Clearing customs was a breeze, for me at least. The Korean man next to me got a long interrogation from a smug officer who seemed a little amused at the man's limited English abilities. I wished I could pull the officer aside and tell him to slow down and use smaller words. I wonder whether U.S. customers officers have ever been interrogated in a language other than English?

I found a bus and rode out to the Tukwila station, giving advice about living in Japan to a Department of Defense family who was about to move to Tokyo for three years. I missed the stop, but realized it quickly and the driver kindly pulled over at the next traffic light. Just being able to make that request in English made my life quite a bit easier. I was feeling good. I was back in my own country. I had shared some of what I'd learned about Japan to eight very attentive ears. A service employee had done me a favor. And then I stepped off the bus.

The Tukwila Amtrak station is in the city of Renton, Washington, part of the suburban sprawl that has filled nearly every available acre between Seattle and Tacoma. It had been nearly two years since I had walked through American suburban sprawl. New hotels with ground-level restaurants, big, black parking lots and immaculate landscaping. Low-slung, single-story office buildings. Strips of bright, green grass separating road from sidewalk. It was all very new, very neat, very clean, and incredibly ugly. And this was America. I knew it, I recognized it, even remembered it and connected with it. But it held no nostalgia. With every step I recalled the mundane parts of everyday American life that bore or depress me. I could hardly wait to get on the train, into my comfort zone, and at least put that big pane of tinted glass between me and that crafted, sterile landscape.

I've felt a lot better since then, but there have also been times when I've felt just as bad or worse. I'm lucky right now to be in very favorable conditions for readjusting. I'm visiting some very good friends, seeing some beautiful places, eating the foods I've most missed, and doing some of my favorite things. When I can focus on those, I'm delighted to be back. Yet so many sensations and visualizations pound me from every angle. They're simultaneously foreign and familiar to me, and that's unsettling. Things I thought would bother me don't; the most unexpected triggers set off deep loomings.

Those loomings arise, I think, because so much of what bothers me is also so natural to me, so much a part of me. I'd like to go on, but I see I'm speaking far too much in generalities. I'm far too tired to speak in specifics right now. This is going to take some time.

Leaving Japan

This will be my last post from Japan, as I'm leaving tomorrow. There are a lot of things that have happened recently that I've wanted to tell you about: How Mo and I nearly climbed the highest mountain on the Shiretoko Peninsula. About watching the moonset over Karikachi Pass. About a crackling campfire, a ukulele, and good friends singing into the night. About a hidden gorge and a man with a garden in Tomakomai. About how Mo and I did climb the highest mountain in Muroran. Those stories will have to wait, though. I've run out of time.

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It started raining yesterday. A light rain that comes and goes from heavy gray clouds blowing low in the sky. Tonight after dinner, the drizzle subsided, so Mo and I took one last walk up the hill from our apartment to my favorite view in Muroran. It's only a five minute walk.

"When we think back on our time in Japan," I began, " we must always be very proud of ourselves for choosing to come here, for living here, and for finding things to sustain us in that time. It's okay to be frustrated with ourselves for the things we didn't do and the language we didn't learn, but we have to remember that no matter how much Japanese we learned or how attuned we became to the cultures and customs here, we would always remain outsiders. So we must always be proud for coming, and proud for the things we did manage to learn and do. Despite the frustrations and challenges, we still found ways to make this life our own. Indeed, enough that our decision to leave was incredibly difficult. We must never forget that when we look back on this time."

From the top of a small hill, you can see the train station, downtown, Mt. Sokuryo with its brightly lit TV antennae, the entire harbor, and the Swan Bridge twinkling in the distance. The ferry from Aomori had recently arrived, and trucks were still streaming out of the lower decks. It would be going back in a couple hours, and it was exhilirating to think that, had we wanted to, we could have gotten on it. Even more exhilirating was the thought from looking at the station, the thought I get everytime I pass it. That I can get a train there and, literally, ride almost anywhere in Japan.

"I'm glad I've ridden all the lines in Hokkaido," I told Mo, "but I'm also glad that I haven't ridden all the lines in Japan. It helps sustain my sense of wonder."

For several minutes, we looked in silence at the view before us. The lights, the cars moving slowly along the streets, the dark forms of the hills outlined by the lights' reflection in the clouds, the clouds themselves rolling onward through the sky.

"From all we can see before us, what's your favorite memory of it?" I asked Maureen.

She thought for a few moments, and then replied, "Two. Going to the Port Festival and seeing the fireworks in August when I first arrived, and walking up Mt. Sokuryo for the first with you in the winter."

We looked at the lights again, until she asked, "How about you?"

"I don't know if I can narrow it down to one moment, or even a few. Living here has been like working a giant jigsaw puzzle. Every discovery is like finding another piece that fits, and each one is incredibly exciting. The puzzle is far from finished, and never would be, but it's more complete than it was when we started."

As we turned to go back to our apartment, I looked back one last time, to the lights along the harbor and glow from the steel mills coming from behind the nearest hill.

"I always smile when someone comes here for the first time and remarks on how ugly Muroran is."

"Me, too," Mo agreed. "Because we know that's not true."

"We know this place a lot better than that. It's not a perfect place that you could ever describe as a paradise, but I think I like it better for that."

"Does such a place even exist?"

"I don't know," I replied. "Maybe for some people, but not for me. When I think of Muroran, I think of it with a sense of longing. I think I like it more for that. I think one of the worst sentiments in the world is the Not In My Backyard Syndrome. It lets people forget too easily the costs of convenience. Muroran doesn't let you forget that. But it still reminds of the beauty that's out there, too."

We paused again on the steps of our apartment. "The last place I lived that I felt as connected to the landscape as I do here was the year I lived in town in Dresden with Mom and my stepdad. I rode my bike and walked everywhere that year. That was half my life ago. I hope I find another place that I can feel as connected to the geography as I do here."

Mo heartily agreed. I only hope it doesn't take another half of a lifetime.

Matador Travel

Great news! My recent post about high school baseball in Japan has been picked up by Matador Travel, an online travel website. It's now a featured article in their "Sport" section, and be seen at:

http://matadortravel.com/travel-writing/japan/sport/one-in-4-000-high-school-baseball-in-japan

Matador Travel is a new, online community of people who are passionate about traveling, experiencing, and exploring the world. There are some great articles on their site, so take some time to have a look. Membership is free.

Some of my favorite articles on Matador include:

Mango Village and the House of Oz
Huayhuash: A Convergence of Change and Resilience
My Chinese Clown