What’s it like to travel on the longest daily-running train service in the US

This article was produced by National Geographic Traveler (UK)

“If you need to update Facebook, do it now,” the driver announced over the tannoy. The passengers snicker but playfully pull out their phones. As we head into the snow-capped mountains of the Sierra Nevada, we’re about to enter another mobile dead zone.

I’m sitting in the observation car on Amtrak’s California Zephyr, a train that crosses the country for 2,438 miles, making it the longest rail service in the United States. From its starting point near San Francisco to its final destination in Chicago, this expansive journey that cuts across the middle of the United States takes 51 hours and 20 minutes – more than two full days of riding the rails, assuming that arrive on time, that probably. it won’t be. In 2022, only 25% of trips made by the California Zephyr will run as planned.

In a country that feels increasingly fractured, the observation car on an Amtrak train could be the last great level plane. It’s a place where you can quickly form a sense of community with complete strangers—a cross between a neighborhood bar and an Agatha Christie novel. Nobody rides Amtrak by accident. Taking a train in the United States, especially in the less-served part of the country west of the Mississippi River, is rarely the most time- or cost-efficient method of getting from A to B. They’re all here – in this car, on this train, now – deliberately.

I made myself comfortable on the upper floor of the double-decker train. A handful of dining-style booths and beige swivel chairs cushioned in generic 1980s blue are positioned next to picture windows that run the length of the walls and curve the rounded ceiling. The landscape on the other side of the glass—a succession of pine-covered mountain passes, ribbons of blue-green rivers far below, outcrops of red rock rising from a thin blanket of snow—demands the collective attention of the observation car, and the windows quickly become fingerprint-stained as we call for photos.

Between Sacramento, California and Reno, Nevada, a pair of red-jacketed volunteer guides from the California State Railroad Museum stand and narrate our journey, which follows the same route as the transcontinental railroad of 1869—the first railroad route to connect the country from the east to the country. to the west – and crosses the Donner Pass, 2,150 meters high, named for the famous pioneer party of the 1840s, whose wagons were snowed in and had to resort to cannibalism.

The landscape is captivating, but so are the characters, and when the narrative ends, the stories of the passengers begin. “What brought you here?” I ask again and again, often opening the door to much more than I did. There is a lack of filter and instant friendliness among many Americans that makes conversation easy—most don’t mind explaining their life story to a stranger. Among the retirees, commuters and students, there is a large family of traditionally dressed Amish – women in hats and modest dresses and men with long beards and braces – playing card games on the way home in Pennsylvania Dutch Country after that mother had a medical procedure in California. Two Japanese students who are not perfectly fluent in English only add to the unusual menagerie of travelers.

The next morning, as the sun rises over Utah, I wake up in my roomette, one of Amtrak’s sleeper cabins, which have chairs that fold out into little bunks. I’m ready for another day of observing the old car, so I agree with the motley crew. A new driver boarded the night train in Salt Lake City and clearly drank his morning coffee, calling out on the tannoy as if we were on safari. “There’s a bald eagle!” he shouts, shortly followed by: “Do you see that herd of antelopes?”. All of us in the observation car start playing a group game of I spy, letting out a collective gasp when the animals are spotted.

Soon we curve along the Colorado River and plunge deep into canyons through the Rockies, slowing to a crawl as the glistening walls approach the slopes. If the windows could have been opened, I could have reached out and brushed my fingers on the snowy stones. More than once, I’ll get up to take a closer look only to duck my head when it feels like a ledge above is too close.

At dusk, we pass through Denver and into the Great Plains. I barely left my observation car seat as other passengers filtered in and out of the train over a handful of stops. The driver is always in a cheerful mood. “If anyone has a guitar, bring it to the observation car and we’ll have a party,” he announced to the entire train. One of the Amish men pulls a harmonica from his pocket and starts playing. “You know, it’s times like this that make me love this country all over again,” says the man sitting next to me—a proclamation for himself as much as for me. And I think to myself: when was the last time you heard someone say that at the airport?

As it happens, someone on board has a guitar, and I wonder if a round of Kumbaya is about to break out. Instead, the observation car is treated with some soulful strumming, especially from, as always, a layer of conversation that never goes out. It turns out you don’t need a mobile signal to make a connection.