By David Rutter
Among the burdens placed on our world by the pandemic, mine have been mostly inconsequential up to this day. Wear the mask; stay home and away from people for three months; wash hands obsessively; worry about everyone I know who does none of those things.
Endure.
My loss has been so inconsequential, that I hesitate to announce it. But I will.
I miss steam in the Chama yard.
I miss engineers in their cabs moving engines from the engine house to various spots on the grounds.
I miss watching the engines dump ashes, then hustle down to the water tower.
I miss smoke wafting above the engine house.
I miss when they slide up to the coal dispensary to restock their tenders.
I wish I could watch fans and passengers assemble for scheduled departures, all the while snapping photos and standing near the steam valves watching for a blast of vapor in the air.
And I wait patiently for the hour when you can see smoke from the East signal the return of engines we all love.
But I miss midnight the most.
It is the one time the little railroad seems most to be my personal domain.
The lights in the yard are out, except for those that illuminate the engine house, and steam fills the night, bouncing off light waves. You can sometimes hear the hiss of steam percolating.
Every now and then, a voice calls out. People are working or getting ready to work. I always wish I was one of them.
Why not go and be there?, I ask myself. No, I sadly reply. It is 1,257 miles from my living room, down on I-80 heading West. The 20 hour drive daunts my dreams.
So I watch and wish.
The camera lens on the coal tower watches from high up, and somewhere higher in the nighttime space overhead, the satellite waves get caught and are shuttled down to me.
My little Mac laptop catches every escaping light beam and hiss of water vapor. It is a marvel that has never stopped amazing me.
It is quiet. It is mine.
Every few minutes, a car might pass along the main road through town.
But mostly, as I sit alone and quiet in my even-more-quiet Illinois living room, I watch
.
I am a joyous sentinel. No one knows I am there. No one pays any attention to me here.
There is no explanation that would answer the curiosity of those in my life, even if they were curious, which they are not. This is seen as one of the strange quirks in my personality for which there are no good explanations.
The solitude suits me, for I am with the beautiful little, antique engines and the eternal elegance of steam. I have loved it for as long as I have had thoughts.
But these days, Chama is mute for the most part. I check in 10 times a day, including late at night from my Fortress of Solitude. Each time at night I hope to have missed some announcement and life is returning.
Alas, it remains quiet and dark.
I am a patient man and one of these days — and nights — the yard will live again. It will be a great day when my life returns one of the joys that I have come to trust.
Chama in the dark is like a long-ago lover you never forgot or stopped loving. But for now, I can do nothing but miss it so.
