Christmas time and trains

Setting up dad’s old train on Dec 1 is as much a tradition in many homes as is putting up a Christmas Tree. Trains still hold a fascination and thrill. But will our little boys and girls romance the train in the same way we do?

Most adults have some hands-on recollection of the train. It isn’t just about some horrible accident reported on the news or that black moving thing in the far off distance that dad and mom excitedly point out. Christmas time and trains bring back many fond memories for most.

There’s one in my memory I’ll never forget. As I look at the broken tracks and derailed train cars that sit beneath our “boy-handled” tree, I am taken back to an adventure in the Andes Mountains some years ago at Christmas time.

I decided to buy a train ticket into the past. I left Cuzco, Peru, on a third class, commoners train filled with Indians, straw and farm animals. I never traveled with the tourists if I could help it. We were headed for the mysterious ruins of Machu Picchu – an Inca village, built centuries ago and 14,000 feet above sea level.

The altitude made me sick to my stomach and my head ached. The hype of Christmas was no where to be found. Our train sped deeper nd higher into the jungle and far from civilization. The thought crossed my mind that these Indians may resent my presence. Not one smile reflected mine. I began to sense that something foreboding was about to occur.

Suddenly, the train began to teeter from side to side, then slammed to a halt. The animals, the Indians and I all became one big heap at the end of the car.

I scrambled to my feet and made my way outside the train, not knowing what I would find. Within minutes every fellow passenger seemed to evaporate into the jungle and I stood there totally alone. The train had fallen off the track in the middle of nowhere. The locals knew where they were going, but for me, there was no civilization in sight. I felt for the small piece of bread in my pocket and wondered if the sustenance would keep me alive until found.

The knowledge one reflects upon immediately is that there are no journalists to report the train accident, no helicopters hovering, no emergency assistance teams gathered together to save you. This is it. If you are going to live it will be because you struggled to make it so.

I instantly undestood why some American’s kiss the ground as they return home from the untamed worlds beyond our borders.

I walked towards the head of the train, hoping to find some fellow human beings. It was a sad sight. The front car held tourists. For them this was a day trip. The women wore sandals, sun dresses and tear stained faces. They were not equipped to handle the situation we found ourselves in.

Of the 20 or so remaining souls, none of us spoke the same language. I guess because I always went looking for adventure, I was mentally prepared for it when it came to me. When the elements are beyond my control and fear threatens to govern my actions, I whip out every song my memory can find. I began to sing Christmas carols while a man speaking German led us to shelter in one of the train cars. For hours and hours we sang Christmas carols in every language represented.

That year, Christmas came a little early for 20 frightened souls. We received the gift of continued life on this earth and the knowledge that we could survive almost anything.

For many, trains are the vehicle that touch our lives in unforgettable ways. On Sept 9, 1900, the first coal-dawn train cars came to Piute County.

In the next 49 years, mining booms and the livestock industry caused Piute to grow to several thousand people. It was a rich time for this little county. But the train is now gone and with it went the jobs and most of the people. And now, even the tracks have disappeared and have been replaced with a bicycle path.

The mining towns have become ghost towns, the deceptive hills have driven away the investors and the environmentalists attempt to keep hidden, the wealth beneath the earth.

But the little doorways into the mountain mines can still be seen from Highway 89. For a few more generations, moms and dads will point them out and talk of the train that meandered near those doors, and how once those trains brought a way of life now long forgotten.

For the souls that continue to remain in Piute County, the train under the tree is a special symbol. As we watch it encircle our Christmas trees, we give thanks for our lives and the knowledge, born somewhere in our past, that we can survive anything, even the changing of an era.

Your passport....

The first time you held a passport in your hands, you knew , if you used it, your life would never be the same. Fear of the unknown was masked behind a tingling thrill of the potential adventure that lies ahead.

These writings will be your passport to the exciting real-life adventures that lie behind the closed doors along central Utah's Highway 89, specifically in Piute County. Why Piute - one of Utah's smallest and least populous counties? Primarily because the region is not only rich in resources, but in human lives. It is a true representation of Small Town, USA, and is a surefire example of a growing trend to relocate to the country.

Piute is representative of the American Dream - a place that figures into the plans of urbanites and suburbanites who yearn to get back to the basics. In turn, it's a place where the natives pay a high price to stay.

Piute doesn't have a strong economic base. Residents find the admission price to live in the central Utah county calls for tremendous creativity in paying bills. Sharing the lives of those in Piute County sheds light on the lifestyle paradox typical of all south central Utah counties.

In 1980, while vacationing in Utah, I stood at the lookout point above Brianhead and was struck with the feeling that somewhere close I would find 'home.' Born and raised in Los Angeles, I knew I was a nomad by age 15. While others dreamed of a two-week vacation in Hawaii, I dreamed of sitting on the steps of a castle in Scotland or exploring the depths of a pyramid. Everywhere was home and nowhere held me for very long. After that short vacation in Utah, my life was forever changed.

I hired a property manager, stored my furniture, parked the Mercedes in my mom's garage, purchased a 4 wheel drive truck and fled into the wild back country of Utah.

Past adventures of hitchhinking alone through Europe, busing and walking my way through Central and South America, scuba diving in unprotected waters off the Yucatan all pale against the adventures of a "normal" life that I faced in Piute as a mother, wife and woman in Small Town, USA.

Until September, 1981, my name was Bobbe McGhie. For those of you who remember the song, I was not the original reason for Kris Kristoferson writing it, but my life directly paralleled its contents. Somewhere near Salinas, after many adventures (as the song says), I slipped away....

This is your passport to Piute and the celebration of life found in Utah's most rural regions. Find out why it beckons to such an array of people from throughout the world. Find out why the threat of poverty, always a shadow at the door, serves to make its people more creative for the privilege of living there.