At 9am on Tuesday morning, this text exchange occurred:

I had just settled down back in my seat, after having had a breakfast of banana and beef jerky in the observation car with everyone. We’d all slept MUCH better on this second train, the “Empire Builder,” that runs along the upper border of the USA between Chicago and Seattle. Not only was the overhead lighting pleasant and blue once the sun went down, but our seats were upstairs on a double-decker train car. While in Chicago, I met one of our conductors, Andy, who is hands down one of the most delightful and kind people I’ve ever met. He not only helped me to secure some great seats for our party, but he was also on the train with us for the entire journey. If someone told me that Andy had sprung fully grown from a magical fairy ring somewhere in Middle Earth, I wouldn’t question it.

Furthermore, the observation car, which was directly behind us, provided a delightful traveling community space. The observation car had windows that went up and across the ceiling, and tables to sit around and gab. The previous evening we’d been treated to a wicked lightning storm that we watched across a lake, the light flashing with such frequency as to make a sort of static electricity metronome. We’d eaten microwave hotdogs, played Farkle (a dice game), and then all nestled back into our seats for a genuine evening of sleep.

Upon hearing the siren’s call of a hurdy gurdy, I jumped to my feet and scampered back to the observation car, punching the “press here to open” button, causing the door to leap aside with such enthusiasm as to bang against its hinges.

Little Brother and A had not lied. There was a man with a hurdy gurdy. I sat down next to A, across from the man who we’d later learn was named Dave. My face already hurt from grinning with the glee of a child being told he could watch his favorite cartoon. I sat with my chin on my fists, elbows on the back of a chair, watching with wrapt attention as Dave described how he, a geologist by trade, also built instruments as a hobby.

A, who’d been there when Dave had pulled out his instruments, shared with me that the hurdy gurdy was made of White Oak, Cedar, Cherry, Maple and Walnut. He had rosin for tuning that he kept in a mini altoids tin (the same kind that we have our tiny D&D dice in). Dave is a teacher at Columbia, and was on his way to a convention with the Guild of American Luthiers to show his handmade instruments and give a presentation on them.

Suddenly he turned to me and said,

“Would you like to try it?”

I’m not really sure if I can access words in the English language that can accurately capture how stunned and overjoyed this made me. Me? Play a hurdy gurdy? Well stick a fork in me and call me dinner because my life will never get better after this. I immediately sprang to my feet with a “Yes please!” Dave placed the strap over my shoulder, arranged my hands in the correct positions, and encouraged me to turn the crank.

A low, groaning, dischordant whine reeled its way complainingly out of the instrument. I’m not sure that I’ve never produced such a horrible sound. I started cackling uncontrollably, continuing to turn the crank, noting the politely encouraging yet also deeply pained expressions of all the strangers in the observation car. This is not a comment on the instrument – it was perfectly made. This is a comment on my limited musical skill. If you’ve never heard a hurdy gurdy, I suggest you take a moment and look up what it sounds like when it’s played well. I’ll be here when you get back.

Welcome back! Pretty unique instrument, right? Now imagine what that could sound like in the hands of someone who had no idea what they were doing. What a charming nightmare! I only played it for 20 seconds or so before handing it back, but damn if it wasn’t the best thing ever. Dave then played a bit for us, and it was genuinely magical. The instrument was gorgeously made, and it was an honor to hold it.

What happened next felt like a dream. Another musician, named Jeff, with a white beard and an Indiana Jones hat, appeared with a 12-string guitar and a tin whistle. For the next 2 hours, the observation car was full of music, singing, and laughter, as we trekked across the great plains, nature surrounding us in beauty. As is the magic of musicians, A noted that Dave and Jeff didn’t even exchange names until an hour into playing together.

We spent the majority of the day in the observation car, watching the landscape turn from velvety flat farmland into the craggy peaks of Glacier National Park. We got to learn about Dave’s rad long-distance biking trips, and discovered that his favorite bike is also the same as Dumptruck’s favorite bike, a Schwinn Paramount from the 1970’s. Along the way the train stopped several times and were let out of the train to stretch our legs and air out our pits.

The landscape of the northern contiguous US is stunning. The sky stretches for infinity, and the wind sends dancing ripples across the plains, whispering the secrets of deer and mice. I spent hours just gazing out of the window of the observation car, clutching a cup of tea and listening to Jeff play his guitar, and the harmonious singing of an Amish family that was also traveling on the train.

Dave connected us with another train traveler, who was a long-ass-section-hiker named LTD (Living The Dream) who had done the Washington section of the PCT last year, and was heading out to do the Oregon section. In talking about Washington, I shared some of my worries about injury interrupting my ability to hike (spoiler alert: the plantar fasciitis flared up in my left foot 2 weeks ago and is persisting. Ruh roh). LTD said, sagely, that we can always do the trail in sections if we need to, and that’s just as legitimate. He reminded me of the truth I’ve known since the Appalachian Trail: Hike Your Own Hike. We don’t need to go fast, we’re not racing anyone, and we’re not out here to prove anything. We’re here for an adventure, and lo and behold, the adventure is already happening.

Love,

Thresher