This is paradise, the calm, the quiet, interrupted only occasionally by the forlorn freight train whistles cascading up from the valley floor. I love that sound - it resonates in my historical muscle memory. All the trains in my past, Missoula when the kids were little, us all sleeping soundly in our beds only to be awakened in the wee hours by the crashing of the cars together as the lonely, quirky railmen built the long 100 car caravans in the train yard just beyond our house.
The institution of the trains, their solid and established routines - moving the goods and natural resources from place to place. Those little boys with their elaborate electric train sets, now all grown up and maneuvering those mega ton cars in real time.
I am reminded of the gentleman hippy, his long, dark, wavy hair pulled back in a ponytail, father to a beautiful young adult daughter, who perished, crushed between two cars on the hi-line years ago. A good, kind hearted soul. Surely he died too young. Another classic tale affirming only the good die young.
