(Omaha to Ogden - Summer 1870)
© 2009 (Jim Sularz)
I can hear the whistle blowinâ,
two short bursts, itâs time to throttle up.
Conductor double checks, with tickets punched,
hot glisteninâ oil on connectinâ rods.
Hissinâ steam anâ belchinâ smoke rings,
inside thin ribbons of iron track.
Windinâ through the hills anâ bluffs of Omaha,
along the banks of the river Platte.
A summerâs breeze toss yellow wild flowers,
joyful laughter anâ waves goodbye.
Up ahead, thereâs a sea of lush green fields,
beloâ a bright, blue-crimson sky.
Oâer plains where sun bleached buffalo,
with skulls hollowed, anâ emptied gaze.
Comes a Baldwin eight wheeler a rollinâ,
a sizzlinâ behemoth on clackinâ rails.
Atop distant hills, Sioux warriors rendezvous,
stoke up the locomotiveâs firebox.
Crank up the heat, pour on the steam,
weâll outrun âem without a shot!
âCross the Loup River, just south of Columbus,
on our way to Silver Creek anâ Clark.
Weâre all lookinâ forward to the Grand Island stop,
where thereâs hot supper waitinâ, just beforâ dark.
On our way again, towards Westwardâs end,
hours passinâ without incident.
I fall asleep, while watchinâ hot moonlit cinders,
dancinâ Eastward along the track . . . . .
My mind is swimminâ in the blue waters of the Pacific,
dreaminâ adventures, anâ thrills galore.
When I awake with a start anâ a **** from my dreamland,
weâre in the midst of a Earth shatterinâ storm!
Tornado winds are aâ whirlinâ, anâ lightninâ bolts aâ hurlinâ,
one strikes the locomotiveâs right dash-***.
The engine glows red, iron rivets shoot Heaven sent,
itâs whistlinâ like a hundred tea-pots!
The trainâs slowinâ down, thereâs another town up ahead,
must be North Platte, anâ weâre pushinâ through.
Barely escape from the storm, get needed provisions onboard,
anâ switch out the locomotive for new.
At dawnâs first light, where the valley narrows,
with Lodge Poleâs bluffs anâ antelope.
We can all see the grade movinâ up, near Potterâs City,
where countless prairie dogs call it home.
On a high noon sun, on a mid-dayâs run,
at Cheyenne, we stop for grub anâ fuel.
âHookup another locomotive, men,
anâ start the climb to Sherman Hill!â
At the highest point on that railroad line,
I hear a whistle anâ a frantic call.
Anâ a ceilingâs thud from a brakemanâs leap,
to slow that creakinâ train to a crawl.
Wyominâ winds blow like a hurricanâ,
the flimsy bridge sways to anâ fro.
Some hold their breath, some toss down a few,
âtill Dale Creek disappears beloâ.
With increasinâ speed, weâre on to Laramie,
uncouple our helper engine anâ crew.
Twenty round-house stalls, near the new town hall,
up ahead, the Rocky Mountains loom!
You can feel the weight, of their fear anâ dread,
I crack a smile, then tip my hat.
âFolks, we wonât attempt to scale those Alps,
the path weâll take, is almost flat.
There ainât really much else to see ahead,
but sagebrush anâ jackalope.
Itâs an open prairie, on a windswept plain,
the Divideâs, just a gentle *****.
But, thereâs quite a few cuts anâ fills to see,
from Lookout to Medicine Bow.
Carbonâs got coal, yields two-hundred tons a day,
where hawks anâ coyotes call.
When dusk sets in, weâll be closinâ in,
on Elk Mountainâs orange silhouette.
Weâll arrive in Rawlins, with stars burninâ bright,
anâ steam in, at exactly ten.
Itâs a fair ways out, beforâ that next meal stop,
afterwards, weâll feel renewed.
So folks donât you fret, just relax a bit,
letâs all enjoy the view.â
Rawlins, is a rough anâ tumble, lawless town,
barely tame, still a Hell on wheels.
A major depot for the UP rail,
with three saloons, anâ lost, broken dreams.
Now time to stretch, wolf down some vittles,
take on water, anâ a load oâ coal.
Gunshots ring out, up anâ down the streets of Rawlins,
just beforâ the call, âAll aboard!â
I know for sure, some folks had left,
to catch a saloon or two.
âCause when the conductor tallies his final count,
weâre missinâ quite a few!
Nearly everyone plays cards that night,
mostly, I just sit there anâ read.
A Gazetteer is open on my lap,
anâ spells out, whatâs next to see â
âCross bone-dry alkali beds that parch man anâ beast,
from Creston to bubblinâ Rock Springs.
Weâre at the backbone of the greatest nation on Earth,
where Winterâs thaw washes West, not East.
On the outer edge of Red Desert, near Table Rock,
a bluff rises from desolationâs floor.
Anâ red sandstones, laden with fresh water shells,
are grooved, chipped, cut anâ worn.
Grease wood anâ more sagebrush, tumble-weeds aâplenty,
past a desertâs rim, with heavy cuts anâ fills.
Itâs a lonesome road to the foul waters of Bitter Creek,
from there, to Green Riverâs Citadel â
Morninâ breaks again, we chug out to Bryan anâ Carter,
at Fort Bridger, lives Chief Wash-a-kie.
Another steep grade, snow-capped mountains to see,
down beloâ, thereâs Bear Valley Lake.
Near journeyâs end, some eighty miles to go,
at Evanstonâs rail shops, anâ hotel.
Leavinâ Wahsatch behind, where thereâs the grandest divide,
with fortressed bluffs, anâ canyon walls.
A chasmâs ahead, Hanging Rockâs slightly bent,
a thrillinâ ride, rushinâ past Witchesâ Cave.
âlot more to see, from Pulpit Rock to Echo City,
to a tall anâ majestic tree.
Itâs a picnic stop, anâ a place to celebrate â
marchinâ legions, that crossed a distant trail.
Proud immigrants, Mormons anâ Civil War veterans,
itâs here, they spiked thousand miles of rail!
Weâre now barrelinâ down Weber Canyon, shootinâ past Devilâs Slide,
thereâs a paradise, just beyonâ Devilâs Gate.
Cold frothy torrents from Weber River, splash up in our faces,
anâ spill West, to the Great Salt Lake.
Itâs a long ways off, from the hills anâ bluffs of Omaha,
to a place called â âGodâs promised land.â
Anâ it took dreaminâ, scheminâ, guts anâ sinew,
to carve this road with calloused hands.
From Ogden, weâre headinâ West to Sacramento,
weâll forge ahead on CP steam.
Anâ when we get there, weâll always remember â
Stops along an American dream.
âNothing like it in the World,â
East anâ West a nation hailed.
All aboard at every stop,
along the first transcontinental rail!
This is one of my favorite poems to recite. I wrote this after I read the book "Nothing Like It In the World" by Stephen Ambrose. The title of this book is actually a quote from Seymour Silas, who was a consulting engineer for the Union Pacific railroad. Stephen's book is about building the World's first transcontinental railroad. Building the transcontinental Railroad was quite an accomplishment. At it's completion in 1869, it was that generation's "moonshot" at the time. It's hard to believe it was just another hundred years later (1969) and we actually landed men on the Moon. "Stops Along an American Dream" is written in a style common to that period. I researched the topic for nearly four months along with the Union Pacific (UP) train stops in 1870 - when most of the route's stops were established. The second part of the companion poem, yet to be written, will take place from Ogden to Sacramento on the Central Pacific railroad. That poem is still in the early formative stages. I hope you enjoy this half of the trip on the Union Pacific railroad! It was truely a labor of love and respect for all those who built the first transcontinental railroad. It's completion on May 10th, 1869 opened the Western United States to mass migration and settlement.
Jim Sularz