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(Historical train-ride on the first Transcontinental Railroad in 1870 from Omaha to Ogden aboard the Union Pacific Railroad)     © 2009 (Jim Sularz)


I can hear the whistle blowing, 
two short bursts, it’s time to throttle up.
Conductor double checks, with tickets punched, 
hot glistening oil, on connecting rods.

Hissing steam and belching smoke rings,
inside thin ribbons of iron track.
Winding through the hills and bluffs of Omaha,
along the banks of the river Platte. 

A summer’s breeze toss yellow wild flowers,
joyful laughter and waves goodbye.
Up ahead, there’s a sea of lush green fields,
below a bright, blue-crimson sky. 

Over plains where sun bleached buffalo,
with skulls hollowed, and emptied gaze.
Comes a Baldwin eight wheeler a rolling,
a sizzling behemoth on clacking rails.

Atop distant hills, Sioux warriors rendezvous,
stoke up the locomotive’s firebox.
Crank up the heat, pour on the steam,
we’ll outrun them, without a shot!

‘Cross the Loup River, just south of Columbus,
on our way to Silver Creek and Clark.
We’re all looking forward to the Grand Island stop,
where there’s hot supper waiting, just before dark.

On our way again, towards westward’s end,
hours passing without incident.
I fall asleep, while watching hot moonlit cinders,
dancing eastward along the track . . .   

My mind is swimming in the blue waters of the Pacific,
dreaming adventures, and thrills galore.
When I awake with a start and a jerk from my dreamland,
we’re in the midst of an earth shattering storm!

Tornado winds are a whirling, and lightning bolts a hurling,
one strikes the locomotive’s right dash-pot.
The engine glows red, iron rivets shoot Heaven sent,
it’s whistling like a hundred tea-pots!

The train’s slowing down, there’s another town up ahead, 
must be North Platte, and we’re pushing through. 
Barely escape from the storm, get needed provisions onboard,
and switch out the locomotive for new. 

At dawn’s first light, where the valley narrows,
with Lodge Pole’s bluffs and antelope. 
We can all see the grade moving up, near Potter’s City,
where countless prairie dogs call it home. 

On a high noon sun, on a mid-day’s run,
at Cheyenne, we stop for grub and fuel.  
“Hookup another locomotive, men,
and start the climb to Sherman Hill!”

At the highest point on that railroad line,
I hear a whistle and a frantic call.
And a ceiling’s thud from a brakeman’s leap,
to slow that creaking train to a crawl. 

(Continued - Part 2)
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