In the middle of night, I listen to the rumble of the trains. The sleepy sound carries me away to nights camping on the Oregon coast. When the winds had died down and the traffic on 101 slowed, Teckla and I, snug in our sleeping bags, could hear the roar of the surf from our campsite at Washburn State Park.
Here in Gardner, the Santa Fe, California , and the Oregon trails met and parted. On patches of grass near the edges of farmer’s fields, one can still see the ruts the wagons made. Railroads replaced the trails long ago, killing some small towns and giving life to others, stitching the nation together with tracks.
The railroads testify that we are still a restless nation. Huge warehouses and miles of industrial parks have sprung up at the edge of Gardner. Near my neighborhood is Intermodal, a huge facility for the movement of containers from trucks to trains and from trains to trucks. Our restlessness is now expressed in consumption, not migration. The rail cars are stacked two high with Amazon and Walmart containers.
The trains run through town night and day. I suspect I will eventually cease to hear them, just as people who live near the ocean stop hearing the waves. But I hope not. The rattle, hum, and roar of the trains takes me home to nights sleeping beneath red cedar and spruce. The horn of the train barges through the winter nights like the foghorn at the jetty in Bandon. It calls me to a distant shore.
