11 a.m. Now we’re heading into the mountains, slowly climbing and I can observe our ascent with daylight and clarity.

Our last stop was La Junta Colorado when suddenly I got an urge to discuss Amtrak’s problems with my fellow passengers.

Amtrak is slated for liquidation this month, and despite a widespread public outcry and 9/11, an advisory board has voted 6-5 to continue with the elimination of intercity passenger train travel within the United States.

I explained this situation to one of the Amish passengers, and she said she knew about it and that “Divine forces were working on the problem.”

Two passengers across the aisle also knew and applauded my efforts. My efforts were to contact my representatives, in particular, Republican Pete Domenici and ask for his support. Domenici fired back a personal letter indicating his interest, but from what I can see, he has not yet signed on to the High-Speed Rail Transportation Act.

I quoted passages from his response in a letter to the editor of the college newspaper as well as the city's local weekly journal, both of which were published, the latter as a guest editorial.

I also spoke with an African American man from California who had recently wrecked his car and is now relying exclusively on Amtrak to get around. He didn’t even know liquidation was imminent and believes it is a conspiracy on the part of the airlines. Conspiracy or not, I advised him to contact his representatives immediately, which he promised to do.

11:15 a.m. Trinidad, Colorado. We are climbing slowly, and I am comfortably situated in the observation car with a great view of the mountains through the generous windows on both sides of the train.

Trinidad is a lovely town, with streets made of brick and lots of old brick buildings. Kind of makes me wish I could get off the train and explore it. The train passes by a ballfield and a natural food sore, as well as a park and lots of lovely little houses.

11:30 a.m. We're climbing up a steep grade now: a 3.5 feet rise for every 100 feet we travel. They say black bear are plentiful here, but they are hibernating now.

There are lots of abandoned coal mines in this area. We are following the route of the Santa Fe trail, which at one time was a toll road. We pass lots of ghost towns. We are close to Philmont, the national Boy Scout adventure camp that first brought me to New Mexico when I was a 14-year-old boy.

We are approaching Orleans, an old ghost town with a ruined church with only its facade remaining. The train is winding along treacherous twists and turns. Elks, eagles, bears. Tailings from played out coal mines. The railroad’s been coming through here for the last 110 years, and with a little luck and public support, it just might last another century.

In 1865 Dick Wooten ran a 27-mile toll road along the Santa Fe Trail that crossed over the Raton Pass. "Uncle Dick" sold this right-of-way to the Atchinson Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad in 1878 with the stipulation that his relatives would always have a job with them. Eventually, the railroad punched a 2,000-foot tunnel through the pass (at 7500 feet sea level) and was declared a National Historic Landmark.

12:45 I'm on the way home. I just enjoyed chowder, fajita, and coffee in the dining car in the company of two gentlemen, one a retired businessman and one a farmer.

We spoke about the future of rail. They have no idea what is going to happen to passenger rail, and neither do I.

The farmer was a quiet guy, but once we got him talking, he talked up a storm.

“The farmer looks at his city cousin, how he gets up at 8, drives to work, comes home at 5 and he thinks: This is not such a bad life. And then he reflects on his own life. When the storm comes in, he has to go out and bring in the cattle. And he's working every day of his life. No vacations. No days off. Is it any wonder people leave the farm?"

“The government hasn’t established medical care for farmers yet, have they?" asks the businessman.

“Now you’re trying to get to me,” says the farmer. He looks out on the endless prairie as he prepares a response. I look at his crooked arthritic fingers. He’s on his way to Laughlin, Nevada with friends to gamble and have a good time.

“Everybody has their price,” the farmer says as he tells us about his neighbors who are selling out their land for residential subdivisions.

“It just a matter of how much they will accept for their land," the farmer continues. "Nobody wants to live out here. You see anybody out here? There are no cultural institutions. No medical care. They have to fly you out by helicopter when you're hurt because it's so far away from any hospitals.

“They call this fly-over country because people fly over it on their way from one place or another," says the business man. "You're right: Nobody wants to live here."

“The dairymen in Los Angeles are selling out because their new neighbors in the suburbs can’t stand the smell,” says the farmer.

As my trip comes to an end, I savor the memory of these past four weeks on the rails: The faces I have seen and the places I have visited.

Tonight I will sleep in my very own bed and tomorrow I will return to work. My health is excellent. My attitude is much improved.

1:15 p.m. Teeth brushed, shirt changed, balls powdered, and I'm feeling great!

The bathrooms have been trashed by the passengers. The smell of shit fills the air, and there's no water coming out of the faucets: Oy vey.

Well, next stop is Albuquerque, and hopefully, they will clean it up because it is a service stop.

A cute red-haired kid sings along with the latest boy band on her CD across the aisle: If she weren't so damn cute, I’d tell her to turn it down.

The end of my journey is nigh. I can hardly believe I made all of 7,000 miles in one piece. If Amtrak survives, you can bet I will do it again.

Despite all this, I still say: Amtrak is the only way to travel!

Saturday, May 18, 2002, 5:42 p.m.

Jennifer drove me to the Amtrak station in downtown Albuquerque this morning, and the conductor let her tour the train even though she didn't have a ticket.

She took a few photographs of me inside the double-decker 1970's-era Superliner before the conductor cried All Aboard and we went our separate ways: Me to an aisle seat in coach and Jennifer to her old Nissan Sentra that she named Rex. Then she drove home before the train left the station.

In all fairness, the arrival and departure of an Amtrak train is a dicey affair, unlike a plane that generally sticks to a strict schedule. So it didn't bother me when Jennifer drove away before the train pulled out. As it turns out, the train left Albuquerque station an hour late.

The weather could not have been better when we first arrived at the station, sunny and warm, but after I boarded, a dust storm kicked up, and the temperature outside dropped 11 degrees.

Shortly after the train began moving, the conductor announced on the public address system that the dining car had sprung a leak and that all passengers, including those of us in the coach car who had not paid for food, would be comped a free meal by Amtrak, prepared by the “The Colonel.”

He was referring to Kentucky Fried Chicken, of course, and the free box dinner consisted of a breast, a thigh, a leg, and all the fixings.

The chicken was cold, and the coleslaw was warm, but the mashed potatoes were perfect: creamy and covered in rich brown gravy.

We were also given free sodas, and I grabbed two warm cans of Sprite. I did not, however, take an unclaimed greasy box of chicken because my stomach said, "No way!"

The sky was growing overcast, and I supposed that meant we would get some rain. New Mexico was going through a terrible drought, and we needed some precipitation desperately.

It would take a rainfall of biblical proportions to fill those underground aquifers, so said the media. We had a light snowpack in the mountains this winter, and that was not helping matters either since New Mexico relies heavily on water from the melting snow to feed its reservoirs.

I’m writing this journal in longhand. I purchased a handsomely-bound journal from Border’s at Winrock Mall should my Alphasmart Portable Intelligent Keyboard break.

But at the very last minute, I decided not to take the Alphasmart, because I did not want to deal with an electronic "gadget." I must have fallen into a low-tech, Druid mode before I left home, something very uncharacteristic of me.

There's something that is comforting about writing in longhand, and it's much quieter than my noisy keyboard, I thought to myself. Then Wham! A child hit my elbow, causing my pen to jump across the page. This is one of the many liabilities of an aisle seat, but overall I'm a happy camper: The view was excellent, and I had easy access to the bathroom.

I'm now forty-five minutes into my journey, and we’ve been sidetracked outside of Belen, New Mexico. I haven't met my traveling companion yet whose stuff is scattered next to mine. Hopefully, he will be pleasant.

10 p.m. The train is running smooth as silk on continuous rails that were forged in heaven! None of this clickety-clack stuff: The conductor enters the car and announces that we are one hour outside Flagstaff, Arizona.

I’ve traveled this route a dozen times since I turned 18 and my family moved to Southern California from my native Chicago. I did not go on Amtrak, though: I have only been riding the rails for the last five years, but I wish I had become aware of this means of transportation long ago.

The railroad tracks of The Southwest Chief parallels I-40, old Highway 66 and a goodly portion of the legendary Santa Fe Trail. Those were the roads I traveled in my youth in all sorts of different cars: My family's beat-up ’72 Chevy Impala, a ’65 Ford Falcon I bought for $100 in high school, my very first girlfriend's Dodge Dart, Jennifer's Nissan Sentra, and my 1980 Volvo.

I recall so many beautiful, cheap motels where I participated in so many dramas, soap operas, and tragedies: I got my kicks on Route 66, but still, I wonder: where have all the years gone? How did I get so damn old?

Here I am traveling this route one more time. This time to meet up with my friend Joe M— for one day, then reacquaint myself with my eldest sister Selma, her husband Fred and their brown dog, Inu Chan.

I will spend a few days with Mom at her retirement home in Pasadena; then it's off to Vancouver B.C. by rail. Mom will fly into Canada where we will meet up and then we will board a cruise ship and sail forth to the inner passage of Alaska!

This is the fifth cruise that I have taken with my Mom. I have become a seasoned veteran of the cruising scene: an old salt of sorts. I understand how these cruises work now and feel quite fortunate that Mom has chosen me to be her traveling companion. I certainly could not afford to live such a life on the $10 an hour they pay me at the University of New Mexico.

There is some poetic justice in all this, I suppose. I have been a good son, and I certainly deserve to be spoiled. It’s no accident that life has treated me so richly in these past few years. I have paid my dues time and time again. Then again, Mom wouldn't want me as a traveling companion if she didn't like my company, no matter how deserving I may think I am.

I found it astonishing that the movie “The Count of Monte Cristo” was playing in the observation car (the “sightseer”) this evening.

For the past few months, Jennifer has been reading a chapter from “The Count of Monte Cristo” to me every night. And now, on this evening, they are showing the movie! Call it a coincidence if you like. Call it an accident. Call it what you will. I want to think of it as synchronicity because there are no accidents: There is only God winking at the unverse.

My seatmate's name is Josh. He says he is going to sleep on the floor in the sightseer car tonight, so I will be able to stretch out in his chair. Yay!

I just took one sleeping pill and am contemplating taking another. My stomach didn’t feel that great after that warm chicken, so I swallowed a probiotic and am feeling much better. I am also very stuffed up and plan to take an allergy pill. I hope all these pills don’t cause some horrible drug interaction.

There is a dog on board the train: He's a companion dog, a working dog as the vets call them, who wears a brightly-colored vest to announce his position of authority. He's a very purposeful little critter and does not distract easily.

Sunday, May 19. 8:30 a.m.

We are approaching Los Angeles. It looks like they’ve had a bit of rain, always considered a blessing in these parts. I got almost six hours of sleep last night, curled up in two coach seats.

11:10 a.m. I'm writing these words on board the Surfliner, headed to San Juan Capistrano. This heavy commuter train was built in recent history and is, by far, the finest I have seen in the Amtrak stable. It is a heavy duty Streamliner, but it is modern and state-of-the-art, not some old’ refurbished 70’s model!

I am seated on the lower level of the Surfliner, and there are bathrooms on both levels of this car. Wide centrally-located steps lead to the train's second level. These steps are not a steep nightmare scenario-afterthought like the steps you'll find on the Southwest Chief. This wide staircase is similar to something one might see in a house minus the carpet!

The Surfliner's interior is well-lighted with plenty of generous overhead storage for bags in the vestibule. The train is brightly carpeted with fully-adjustable comfortable ergonomic seats, neither too hard nor too soft, each with an electrical outlet. The upholstery and cushions are spanking brand new.

A footrest that actually works slides down makes me feel like a king.

The bathrooms are clean and spacious with a circular sliding door. The first floor of the coach section has its seats arranged in two aisles; one side has only one seat while the other side has two side-by-side seats with backs that can be flipped around so that a group of four can face each other during their journey.

The lady across the way from me has flipped the seat in front of her around and is using that cushion as a footrest, which is probably a no-no.

After spending 18 hours on the war-torn Southwest Chief, it is indeed a pleasure and privilege to be on board this fine train!

This marks the end of the THIRTY-FIRST installment of "The Last Hoorah." If you'd like to start from the beginning, then please click this page.

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