Cumbres & Toltec

The Last Crusade

As ridiculous fans of the Indiana Jones franchise, we purposely detoured out of northern New Mexico to Antonito, Colorado to catch the terminus of the Cumbres and Toltec Scenic Railroad.  Knowing we held tickets for the Durango-Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad the next day, we opted against riding the rails between Colorado and New Mexico, but we couldn’t miss the sight of this old-fashioned locomotive carrying its passengers through the southern slopes of the Rocky Mountains.  Roughly twenty years after the start of the American Civil War, the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad laid tracks in support of the mining industry, but in our day, we arrived here strictly as tourists catching a glimpse of a scene we recall from a different period in history.

The primary focus of seeing the train evoked cinematic memories from the third (and as my sons’ believe, the final) adventure of the archeologist named for the family dog.  The Cumbres-Toltec pulled a less-typical cargo of a circus train through the Southwestern United States where a young Indiana Jones sought to elude treasure hunters by hopping aboard the mountain train as it passes through a grassy flatland.  For us, seeing the locomotive would be another movie moment on our vacation adventures (see “Field of Dreams,” February 2013).

A Race Downhill

We inevitably find unique places to stop for a photo moment and somewhere between Santa Fe and Antonito, a winery, a bridge over the Rio Grande, and a nearly dwindled patch of mountain snow (see “The Progression of a Snowball Fight,” January 2012) slow our journey to the railroad’s end.  But we spy the tracks and follow them as best as the narrow roads through the mountains allow.  When we stop at an inspiring outlook, we hear the whistle blow in the distance, echoing off the peaking at our backs.  We race onward in search of the historic locomotive and its length of cars being pulled through the wilderness.  And with winding swiftness, we gain on its caboose and parallel its path for nearly a mile.  When it bends westward, we push forward attempting to get ahead of its steaming engine so we can watch its approach and feels its thunder as it meets our vantage point.

 

We zip ahead and see a marked crossing where we strategically position ourselves and prepare for its approach.  First we hear the vibration of the rails stinging from the weight and motion pulsing towards them.  Next, we hear the engine pounding, chugging, working less difficultly than it must have through the mountains, but nonetheless exerting its force to move towards us.  Then we see the mighty machine round a bend to the north and the puffs of smoke are left hanging in its wake.  Then as it approaches the crossing and the road we previously skirted, it blasts its whistle, a sound unmatched by modern technology, and a sweet reminder of the history behind this mode of transportation.  But it’s no longer a mode of transportation, nor is it even a reminder of a historic era faded into the past.  For us, it is a piece of our favorite adventurer claiming the Cross of Coronado and riding off into the sunset.  And once the engine and its full length pass us, we hop back in our car and do the same.

Combing Through My Memories

My First Adventure

Just after my third birthday, my father switched jobs and our family moved to Arizona from Colorado.  Growing up in the desert climate of the Grand Canyon state (see “One Hundred Years” from March 2012) clearly shaped my passion for warmth and my distaste for snow.  Our family traveled separately to arrive at our new home with my father and me driving from Denver to Phoenix by way of Albuquerque, while my mother flew with a four-year-old and six-week-old.  While not my first road trip, I recall select pieces of this drive, but nothing of the scenery.  I wonder if maybe I was too little to see out the window.

South from the Mile High City, across the state line into New Mexico, through Santa Fe, and down to Albuquerque we drove, making a right turn towards the mountainous areas of Flagstaff during the month of December, and then a left turn towards Arizona’s capital.  I passed through three of my now favorite states, and all without a single recollection of the mountains, the sunsets, the rocks, the rivers, or the route that brought me to my childhood home.  I sometimes think it would be worth retracing my steps and driving this route again, but without the initial recollection of the voyage, it might be just another gloriously scenic drive, but not a memory inducer.

The Moments We Remember

I recall only a few memories of my time living in Colorado – watching out the picture window waiting for my Dad to come home from work,  his painting the deck a color the paint can referred to as “peanut butter,” and singing “Sugar, Sugar,” a number one hit from 1969 by the Archies.  It always strikes me as odd, what things we remember.  A paint color (which I also remember getting on my beach ball) and a cartoon pop song (which I remember hearing while riding in a car with someone who was not my family, but I don’t know who) are two distinct memories I have as a two-year-old.  When I went back to visit the house in Denver as an adult, the current resident asked if my parents had picked out the awful rust-colored carpet.  If I had to guess, I thought I remembered the carpet being green.

But on the drive from my toddler home to my childhood home, I recall only two specific moments from the trip.  The first, when I had an upset stomach and got sick all over one of the two beds in the hotel room (sorry, Dad), so he nervously let me sleep next to him, no doubt paranoid that this little person would get sick again.  And then the following morning, Dad tried to get me ready to go by combing my hair with his narrow comb rather than a gentle little girl’s hair brush.  Ouch!  I know that I cried the entire time.  (Again, sorry Dad.)  But I wonder how well I behaved in the car, what I maybe said to my Dad while we rode, what scenery we witnessed, and how I passed my time for two solid days.  I wish I remembered those moments instead.

The Progression of a Snowball Fight