Stops Along An American Dream - Part 2

(Historical train-ride on the first Transcontinental Railroad in 1870 from Omaha to Ogden aboard the Union Pacific Railroad) © 2009 (Jim Sularz) Wyoming winds blow like a hurricane, the flimsy bridge sways to and fro. Some hold their breath, some toss down a few, ‘till Dale Creek disappears below. With increasing speed, we’re on to Laramie, un-couple our helper engine and crew. Twenty round-house stalls, near the new town hall, up ahead, the Rocky Mountains loom! You can feel the weight, of their fear and dread, I crack a smile, then, tip my hat. “Folks, we won’t attempt to scale those Alps, the path we’ll take, is almost flat. There ain’t really much else to see ahead, but sagebrush and jackalope. It’s an open prairie, on a windswept plain, the Divide’s, just a gentle slope. But, there’s quite a few cuts and fills to see, from Lookout to Medicine Bow. Carbon’s got coal, yields two-hundred tons a day, where hawks and coyotes call. When dusk sets in, we’ll be closing in, on Elk Mountain’s orange silhouette. We’ll arrive in Rawlins, with stars burning bright, and steam in, at exactly ten. It’s a fair ways out, before that next meal stop, afterwards, we’ll feel renewed. So folks don’t you fret, just relax a bit, let’s all enjoy the view.” Rawlins, is a rough and tumble, lawless town, barely tame, still a “Hell on Wheels.” A major depot for the UP Rail, with three saloons, and lost, broken dreams. Now time to stretch, wolf down some vittles, take on water, and a load of coal. Gunshots ring out, up and down the streets of Rawlins, just before the call, “All Aboard!” I know for sure, some folks had left, to catch a saloon or two. ‘Cause when the conductor tallies his final count, we’re missing quite a few! Nearly everyone plays cards that night, mostly, I just sit there and read. A Gazetteer is open on my lap, and spells out, what’s next to see – ‘Cross bone-dry alkali beds that parch man and beast, from Creston to bubbling Rock Springs. We’re at the backbone of the greatest nation on earth, where winter’s thaw, washes west, not east. On the outer edge of Red Desert, near Table Rock, a bluff rises from desolation’s floor. And red sandstones, laden with fresh water shells, are grooved, chipped, cut and worn. Grease wood and more sagebrush, tumble-weeds a’plenty, past a desert’s rim, with heavy cuts and fills. It’s a lonesome road to the foul waters of Bitter Creek, from there, to Green River’s Citadel – (Continued - Part 3)