A sunny spring morning at North Vancouver Station, and
a sense of pleasurable anticipation; after a lapse of almost forty
years, an old friend awaits at the platform's end. In their day
the backbone of the CPR passenger fleet, the "Royal Hudson" class
were named after the 1939 Royal tour when one of them had hauled
the Royal Train on its transcontinental journey; today, I was to
ride behind the sole working survivor.
From early childhood I had been fascinated by pictures
of North America and its railroads, their enormous, rugged
locomotives most of all. Thus a wartime posting to Canada came as
a gift from the Gods, and first encounters in the Eastern
Provinces with the Canadian National's huge no-nonsense specimens
were every bit as satisfying as hoped for. However, later
acquaintance with the Canadian Pacific was to show that not just
in Britain were there significant differences between competing
companies, for these two transatlantic giants were distinct from
each other in many ways. Against the CN's black motive power and
dark green passenger cars those of the CPR were a universal
maroon, while their engines, unlike most others in N. America,
were relatively uncluttered with external appurtenances. The Royal
Hudson class, with a smoothly cased boiler carrying little more
than brass bell and cleanly cowled stack were especially neat in
this respect, and worthy members of the mighty edifice that was
the CPR; their virtue enhanced by embossed crowns at the forward
ends of the valanced running plates, a privilege granted after the
aforementioned Royal Tour. True, there were larger and even more
elegant members of the steam tribe elsewhere on the continent (the
huge and magnificent GS4's of the Southern Pacific came to mind,
and yes the Royal Hudsons were a trifle potbellied), but these
others were far away and so the CP specimens became firm
favourites. They were, after all, superb engines, able to run hard
and fast over their homeland's endless distances, and the far,
wailing cry of that whistle haunts me to this day.
Nearing the platform end I became apprehensive that
this reunion, once thought to be an impossible dream, might prove
a disappointment. But there was no cause for worry; no.2860
glittered magnificently in the morning sun, its handsome maroon
and black livery a welcome contrast to wartime's remembered
drabness, the planished steel boiler casing quite dazzling. Its
whistle stood prominently on the boiler's side instead of hiding
in the stack fairing, whilst oil was obviously the fuel rather
than coal, but otherwise nothing had changed. I daydreamed the
years away, back to far-off times; maybe others of the CPR's once-
vast family were also close at hand? Two diesel units rudely
shattered any illusions on this score as they bellowed slowly past
on an adjoining track, dragging an apparently endless string of
freight cars through station limits.
I had an introduction to one of the loco crew, but the
engine was deserted; indeed, even the fire seemed to be out.
Turning reluctantly to board the train, I accosted an overalled
figure walking towards me. Fortunately he was the right one, so no
time was lost in acceding to his affable invitation to "climb
aboard" into a spacious vestibule-type cab* provided with three
comfortable seats; quite a contrast to the exiguous comfort, or
lack of it, on home engines. Large sliding windows gave an airy
aspect, while doors in the front of the cab allowed access to the
running plates. Feedwater heat, water pump and fuel oil controls
for the fireman, with power reverser and radio for the engineer,
were features unfamiliar to British eyes, whilst a multiplicity of
gauges and a mysterious black box adjacent to the throttle added
to the complication. This latter was, in fact, a device enabling
remote control of any diesel units that might be cut in between
no.2860 and its train, a procedure used on those occasional trips
when additional power might be required. The air pump thumped now
& then, but otherwise silence prevailed; steam pressure was some
way below the red-lined 275 psi mark. "Guess I'd better light up"
said my mind-reading friend, throwing a piece of burning waste
into the firebox and setting the oil feed controls. He was
answered by a reassuring "woomph" as the atomised oil ignited, so
that in no time at all pressure was rising to its appointed level.
On being told of my youthful days in Canada, he said
"waal, I guess you may as well stay here to Squamish if that's OK
with the Hogger"** , going on to explain that he and his mate Frank
were both qualified engineers (steam) and that it was Frank's turn
to drive outbound today. As if on cue a stocky and slightly
intimidating figure appeared in the doorway, dressed in a denim
jacket of highly esoteric design; after gruff but ready assent to
my presence, he then busied himself with preparations for
departure. These included an obligatory brake test, and the time-
honoured ritual of both enginemen agreeing the contents of the
train orders; thus our train, no.3 with engine no.2860, was to "go
into the hole" at Brunswick to meet train no.18 with engine
no.720. This completed, the orders were clipped to the backhead
and Lea (the fireman) stuffed cotton wool into his ears, offering
some to me also. I declined, being determined to enjoy this unique
experience to the full, but there was to be the odd occasion later
when I wondered if I had been wise.
The first occurred almost immediately. Following the
highball*** , in the form of a burst of incomprehensible jargon from
the radio, Frank tugged the whistle cord and eased the throttle
fractionally open. In response, there followed a deafening roar of
steam from open cylinder cocks as we inched slowly forward; I had
forgotten that, "over here", drain cocks vented rearward.
Mercifully they were soon closed, after which we chugged at a
snail's pace through the west yard. Even by Lion's Gate bridge the
speed was still funereal, this being maintained as the track
curved away from the waterfront and climbed gently through a
residential area of superior aspect.
We were now entering West Vancouver and, with the
engine nicely warmed up at last, the hogger yanked the throttle
way back; from my seat behind the fireman I watched our blasting
column of exhaust fling a tree's overhanging branch violently
upwards, the powerful chime whistle sounding loud for the first of
many grade crossings. Indeed as the journey progressed Frank
proved himself no mean whistle artist, rendering many spine-
tingling variations on the standard "long-long-short-long" warning
theme.
The rest of that climb through the residential suburbs
is a jumble of vivid memories: of people of all ages, from infancy
to antiquity, waving from gardens, from roadsides, from cars
waiting at crossings; of Lea maintaining rock-steady pressure and
water level by skilful manipulation of his controls; of a man on a
footbridge covering his ears as we roared beneath; but, most of
all, of a sensation of irresistible power and majesty as that
superb engine forged its way upgrade, its resonant chimes and
fierce, whiplash exhaust giving awful warning to mere hoi polloi
of Royalty's imminent approach. Indeed, the privilege of sitting
comfortably ten feet or more above rail level during this regal
progress simply provided a further sense of superiority over
ordinary mortals. But it was too good to last; unknown to me, this
was the best alignment of the entire route, and after barely two
miles of headlong progress we encountered the reverse curvature
which was to persist for most of the remaining distance. Speed was
accordingly reduced somewhat, and we continued to climb at about
30 mph with further easements from time to time for some
especially sharp curves.
From now on we travelled through scenery that was
beautiful beyond belief; woods in the fresh green of spring with
many flowering trees, azaleas and rhododendrons in full bloom, and
the bright sun highlighting other innumerable wild flowers.
Moreover, to cap it all, I was enjoying this arcadian journey not
in a mere road vehicle, but on board a famous survivor from
another, more gracious age of travel; indeed, it resembled nothing
so much as an episode from that most magical of childrens' books,
H.R. Millar's "Dreamland Express".
As the climb continued, the ground slowly fell away on
our left but rose to the right, so that the track ran on a shelf
cut from the hillside. At the same time we slowly changed heading
from west to northeast; however, due to the mass of trees and
general vegetation this was not apparent until the slope on our
left became increasingly precipitous and the mouth of Burrard
Inlet came into view. Giving marine access to Vancouver at its
east end, to the west it runs into the strait between Vancouver
Island and the mainland. The prospect became ever more superb,
with the Nanaimo ferry departing from Horseshoe Bay terminal a few
hundred feet below; while the sparkling blue waters of Howe Sound
stretched away to distant mountains behind the far shore.
Harry in the cab of the 2860
Now and then ravines were crossed on narrow, spindly
viaducts which appeared far too frail to support our massive
weight; and, since the deckings were only marginally wider than
the track itself, nervous glances downward failed to discern any
visible means of support----one looked straight into boulder-
strewn stream beds thirty or forty feet below. But eventually the
track levelled off and, drifting along our curvaceous line of rail
and then rounding one more spur, we arrived at what presumably was
Brunswick. Ahead the track divided, the switch set for the outer
loop with the inner (main) line being occupied by train no.18
headed by no fewer than five diesels. Coming abreast of the lead
unit we received a jocular greeting from its crew, to which Lea
responded with a squirt from the hosepipe. This brought wails of
distress from the opposition, but Frank seemed to approve for he
continued to chuckle over the incident as we trundled past the
freight's interminable length, until at last its caboose came into
view and with it the end of the loop. At this point a smartly
uniformed trainman appeared in the cab. I asked Lea where he had
come from: "over the tender from the baggage car" he replied, "he
will go forward and set the switch for us". Opening the door ahead
of Lea the trainman walked along the running plate and, dropping
off the front of the pilot, ran ahead to the switch stand where he
pulled the lever round to set the road. Lea called the OK as the
red disc swung to face us, Frank cracked the throttle fractionally
further open, and we coasted slowly through the switch, once more
back on single track. Continuing thus for a minute or two until a
disembodied voice from the radio informed us that the trainman had
reboarded "on the fly", we then accelerated slowly to about 25
mph; quite fast enough in view of the tortuous twenty or so miles
awaiting us.
Having passed the summit level of about four hundred
feet, our inclination henceforth was gradually downwards but with
a pronounced switchback a few miles prior to Squamish. For the
greater part of this distance we clung vertiginously to what was
now no more than a very narrow ledge cut from the cliff face,
whilst simultaneously snaking through an interminable succession
of reverse curves of quite extraordinary severity. Looking aft it
was often impossible to see anything of our twelve car train;
ahead, as curve succeeded endless curve, it seemed unbelievable
that our huge engine could negotiate them without derailment. Each
right-hander aroused apprehension of imminent disaster and,
peering along the boiler barrel into empty space, I was uneasily
aware of the menacing waters of Howe Sound lapping far below.
Again & again we headed inexorably towards the abyss, then slowly-
---Lord how slowly----the boiler's vast length would swing round
to follow the unseen rails towards the next inevitable left-
hander; and, should one reflect on the merits of single-line
control by means of train order and radio, it was as well to have
faith in the system.
After a period of this corkscrew-like progress, the
line swung inland for no apparent reason onto a tangent that
inclined visibly upwards. During the earlier part of the journey
there had been discussion between the enginemen as to when to "use
the sand", which had me totally baffled. Now however, all became
clear as Frank pulled the throttle right back through its full 90
degree arc and Lea commenced scooping sand through an aperture in
the backhead, obtaining this commodity from a small bunker at the
rear of the cab. The reason for his cotton wool was now made
dramatically obvious, a furiously boiling column of steam and
smoke rocketing skyward with a decibel count that awoke the
echoes. With every scoopful the vast cloud of exhaust blackened
angrily, indicating the sand's effectiveness in clearing the tubes
of soot, and a huge billowing mass of darkened vapour trailed back
over the train. Overcome with awe, and uncertainty that all this
was really happening, for the second time that day I had to pinch
myself hard.
Our speed was slowly increasing despite the grade, but
Frank did not let up and the stack's ferocious, staccato cannonade
became almost unendurable. Approaching a gentle curve to the
right, I became aware of Lea mouthing silently beside me. His
silence was of course relative, the shattering din making speech
impossible, but as a close-fitting tunnel mouth loomed up I
divined his intent and joined him and Frank in the centre of the
cab. Near-darkness was instantaneous; thick coils of smoke swirled
in through the open windows, brushed by, and exited via the doors
and roof vent, while from the firebox inspection hole a blinding
pencil of incandescent light glared back from the inferno within.
And so, as if in some Dr. Who time & space adventure, the three of
us stood together on that swaying platform, the brass-cased
backhead gauges winking through the stygian gloom and the only
hint of forward progress being the muffled exhaust, now reduced to
a harsh chatter. Indeed I began to suspect that our magical
machine might continue for ever on its journey through these
fuming nether regions, the eventual destination perhaps Dante's
Inferno; the smiling world of sun, sea and forest now seemed
utterly remote.
But reality was not far away, and soon there was a
sensation of "nosing over" accompanied by rapidly growing light.
Frank moved swiftly to close the throttle as we burst out of the
tunnel, causing a mini-blowback from the inspection hole, while
Lea adjusted his oil & water feeds to suit. Thus, in complete
contrast to the Satanic conditions prevailing moments before, we
drifted downgrade in near silence broken only by a faintly
knocking big end. The waters of Howe Sound twinkled merrily on our
left, marked here and there by the sails of small boats; was it
only seconds before that we had undergone trial by brimstone?
The slow descent continued almost to the water's edge,
where the Sound had lost its bluish tint, looking rather grey and
turning to a brackish brown at the shore line. Here and there
occasional logs floated aimlessly, no doubt broken away from the
large rafts of lumber towed down from upcountry; indeed, a sawmill
was distantly visible on the far shore. The curvature eased and
grade crossings were once more a hazard, so that the whistle was
in frequent use; further inland, snow-covered peaks warned that
inhospitable terrain lay not far behind the narrow coastal tract.
A few minutes later, bell tolling mournfully, we crossed the main
highway into Squamish station and came to a laboured stand, the
engine pulling under light steam against the brakes. Odd to
British eyes, this is a standard transatlantic practice which
helps avoid the snatch endemic to the Janney coupler.
The turbogenerator whined softly, accompanied by
much thumping from the air pump; ahead, the track curved
tantalisingly out of sight towards the distant mountains. Frank
set the power reverser in preparation for the next move, while Lea
rather pointlessly hosed down the footplate. I inspected myself
surreptitiously; no smudge of soot, no trace of any dirt whatever,
so I asked him what he was about. "Old habits die hard" he
laughed, but surprisingly allowed that he found working on no.2860
far, far cleaner than on diesels. "Those ******* things drip oil
everywhere, you are filthy at the end of a day's work" he said,
"but on this beauty I could wear my best suit". So much for the
abuse heaped on "dirty, old-fashioned steam", however, it must be
allowed that my condition might have been less pristine had the
Hudson been coal fired.
After some more gobbledegook from the radio, Frank
tugged the throttle gently and we backed slowly over the highway
again into a siding adjacent to the town park; time for
refreshment for man and machine. So down to ground level for a
farewell photo, during which one of the pops lifted deafeningly,
steam roaring to waste. This earned Lea some good-natured chaff
from his mate, for with the finesse of control afforded by oil
firing such an event should never occur; probably it was my fault
for interfering with their routine.
Leave-taking completed I watched them chug slowly
away, the nostalgic clang of the bell fading into the distance.
There was a distinct sensation of being on cloud 9; had the last
two incredible hours really happened? During the ensuing picnic
lunch I reflected on my good fortune, all the more wonderful for
being so totally unexpected; there had been brief footplate trips
in the past, but this had been something else entirely, an
experience to cherish for the rest of my life.
The return journey was inevitably something of an
anticlimax, even though I rode most of the way in the open-sided
observation car near the head of the train. The grades were longer
but less steep than on the outward run, so that for the locomotive
it was more a case of steady pulling rather than brief spurts of
furious energy; besides, the enginemen had changed places and it
was possible that Lea did not favour hard driving (vide his cotton
wool). The weather had turned cloudy with occasional showers,
necessitating retreat to the adjacent Pullman from time to time.
At Brunswick the switch was lined for the main, and as we snaked
round the bends it began to appear that there was to be no meet
this time. But I was wrong, for on rounding the final curve there
stood another steamer just inside the loop; on its own, to be
sure, and considerably smaller than our main-line giant, yet
undoubtedly in steam and very much alive. So flabbergasted that I
quite forgot to point my camera, I failed even to register very
much about it other than its obvious CPR provenance. Had it not
been for the reaction of other passengers and the cheery exchange
of greetings between engine crews (no nonsense with the hose this
time!), I would have thought it a hallucination; was not the
species steam supposed to be virtually defunct, yet here were two
of the breed in excellent health?
On arrival back at North Vancouver there was no time
to make enquiries, and for some years this second engine remained
a mystery. However, close study of the US railway press eventually
elicited the fact that it was a CPR Consolidation (2-8-0), kept in
reserve against no.2860's non-availability. No doubt I had seen it
on a test run, so I count myself doubly fortunate----a fitting end
to a most memorable outing.
As time passes, I often recall that day with
gratitude: to Providence for allowing it, to our friend Celia who
gave me the introduction, and to Frank and Lea for permitting me
to share their private world. And, should I ever be assailed by
doubts as to whether it might, after all, have been only a dream,
then in addition to my few photographs I can peruse the train
orders which Frank presented to me at the conclusion of the most
memorable and rewarding journey of my life.
*A completely enclosed cab with solid rear wall; more suited to the cold Canadian climate
than the conventional open-backed type.
**Railroadese for engineer (driver); from "Hog", a term used (probably by overworked fireman)
to describe engineers greedy for power.
***Another piece of prehistoric slang still in common use, the equivalent of our "Right Away".
Now and then ravines were crossed on narrow, spindly
viaducts which appeared far too frail to support our massive
weight; and, since the deckings were only marginally wider than
the track itself, nervous glances downward failed to discern any
visible means of support----one looked straight into boulder-
strewn stream beds thirty or forty feet below. But eventually the
track levelled off and, drifting along our curvaceous line of rail
and then rounding one more spur, we arrived at what presumably was
Brunswick. Ahead the track divided, the switch set for the outer
loop with the inner (main) line being occupied by train no.18
headed by no fewer than five diesels. Coming abreast of the lead
unit we received a jocular greeting from its crew, to which Lea
responded with a squirt from the hosepipe. This brought wails of
distress from the opposition, but Frank seemed to approve for he
continued to chuckle over the incident as we trundled past the
freight's interminable length, until at last its caboose came into
view and with it the end of the loop. At this point a smartly
uniformed trainman appeared in the cab. I asked Lea where he had
come from: "over the tender from the baggage car" he replied, "he
will go forward and set the switch for us". Opening the door ahead
of Lea the trainman walked along the running plate and, dropping
off the front of the pilot, ran ahead to the switch stand where he
pulled the lever round to set the road. Lea called the OK as the
red disc swung to face us, Frank cracked the throttle fractionally
further open, and we coasted slowly through the switch, once more
back on single track. Continuing thus for a minute or two until a
disembodied voice from the radio informed us that the trainman had
reboarded "on the fly", we then accelerated slowly to about 25
mph; quite fast enough in view of the tortuous twenty or so miles
awaiting us.
Having passed the summit level of about four hundred
feet, our inclination henceforth was gradually downwards but with
a pronounced switchback a few miles prior to Squamish. For the
greater part of this distance we clung vertiginously to what was
now no more than a very narrow ledge cut from the cliff face,
whilst simultaneously snaking through an interminable succession
of reverse curves of quite extraordinary severity. Looking aft it
was often impossible to see anything of our twelve car train;
ahead, as curve succeeded endless curve, it seemed unbelievable
that our huge engine could negotiate them without derailment. Each
right-hander aroused apprehension of imminent disaster and,
peering along the boiler barrel into empty space, I was uneasily
aware of the menacing waters of Howe Sound lapping far below.
Again & again we headed inexorably towards the abyss, then slowly-
---Lord how slowly----the boiler's vast length would swing round
to follow the unseen rails towards the next inevitable left-
hander; and, should one reflect on the merits of single-line
control by means of train order and radio, it was as well to have
faith in the system.
After a period of this corkscrew-like progress, the
line swung inland for no apparent reason onto a tangent that
inclined visibly upwards. During the earlier part of the journey
there had been discussion between the enginemen as to when to "use
the sand", which had me totally baffled. Now however, all became
clear as Frank pulled the throttle right back through its full 90
degree arc and Lea commenced scooping sand through an aperture in
the backhead, obtaining this commodity from a small bunker at the
rear of the cab. The reason for his cotton wool was now made
dramatically obvious, a furiously boiling column of steam and
smoke rocketing skyward with a decibel count that awoke the
echoes. With every scoopful the vast cloud of exhaust blackened
angrily, indicating the sand's effectiveness in clearing the tubes
of soot, and a huge billowing mass of darkened vapour trailed back
over the train. Overcome with awe, and uncertainty that all this
was really happening, for the second time that day I had to pinch
myself hard.
Our speed was slowly increasing despite the grade, but
Frank did not let up and the stack's ferocious, staccato cannonade
became almost unendurable. Approaching a gentle curve to the
right, I became aware of Lea mouthing silently beside me. His
silence was of course relative, the shattering din making speech
impossible, but as a close-fitting tunnel mouth loomed up I
divined his intent and joined him and Frank in the centre of the
cab. Near-darkness was instantaneous; thick coils of smoke swirled
in through the open windows, brushed by, and exited via the doors
and roof vent, while from the firebox inspection hole a blinding
pencil of incandescent light glared back from the inferno within.
And so, as if in some Dr. Who time & space adventure, the three of
us stood together on that swaying platform, the brass-cased
backhead gauges winking through the stygian gloom and the only
hint of forward progress being the muffled exhaust, now reduced to
a harsh chatter. Indeed I began to suspect that our magical
machine might continue for ever on its journey through these
fuming nether regions, the eventual destination perhaps Dante's
Inferno; the smiling world of sun, sea and forest now seemed
utterly remote.
But reality was not far away, and soon there was a
sensation of "nosing over" accompanied by rapidly growing light.
Frank moved swiftly to close the throttle as we burst out of the
tunnel, causing a mini-blowback from the inspection hole, while
Lea adjusted his oil & water feeds to suit. Thus, in complete
contrast to the Satanic conditions prevailing moments before, we
drifted downgrade in near silence broken only by a faintly
knocking big end. The waters of Howe Sound twinkled merrily on our
left, marked here and there by the sails of small boats; was it
only seconds before that we had undergone trial by brimstone?
The slow descent continued almost to the water's edge,
where the Sound had lost its bluish tint, looking rather grey and
turning to a brackish brown at the shore line. Here and there
occasional logs floated aimlessly, no doubt broken away from the
large rafts of lumber towed down from upcountry; indeed, a sawmill
was distantly visible on the far shore. The curvature eased and
grade crossings were once more a hazard, so that the whistle was
in frequent use; further inland, snow-covered peaks warned that
inhospitable terrain lay not far behind the narrow coastal tract.
A few minutes later, bell tolling mournfully, we crossed the main
highway into Squamish station and came to a laboured stand, the
engine pulling under light steam against the brakes. Odd to
British eyes, this is a standard transatlantic practice which
helps avoid the snatch endemic to the Janney coupler.
The turbogenerator whined softly, accompanied by
much thumping from the air pump; ahead, the track curved
tantalisingly out of sight towards the distant mountains. Frank
set the power reverser in preparation for the next move, while Lea
rather pointlessly hosed down the footplate. I inspected myself
surreptitiously; no smudge of soot, no trace of any dirt whatever,
so I asked him what he was about. "Old habits die hard" he
laughed, but surprisingly allowed that he found working on no.2860
far, far cleaner than on diesels. "Those ******* things drip oil
everywhere, you are filthy at the end of a day's work" he said,
"but on this beauty I could wear my best suit". So much for the
abuse heaped on "dirty, old-fashioned steam", however, it must be
allowed that my condition might have been less pristine had the
Hudson been coal fired.
After some more gobbledegook from the radio, Frank
tugged the throttle gently and we backed slowly over the highway
again into a siding adjacent to the town park; time for
refreshment for man and machine. So down to ground level for a
farewell photo, during which one of the pops lifted deafeningly,
steam roaring to waste. This earned Lea some good-natured chaff
from his mate, for with the finesse of control afforded by oil
firing such an event should never occur; probably it was my fault
for interfering with their routine.
Leave-taking completed I watched them chug slowly
away, the nostalgic clang of the bell fading into the distance.
There was a distinct sensation of being on cloud 9; had the last
two incredible hours really happened? During the ensuing picnic
lunch I reflected on my good fortune, all the more wonderful for
being so totally unexpected; there had been brief footplate trips
in the past, but this had been something else entirely, an
experience to cherish for the rest of my life.
The return journey was inevitably something of an
anticlimax, even though I rode most of the way in the open-sided
observation car near the head of the train. The grades were longer
but less steep than on the outward run, so that for the locomotive
it was more a case of steady pulling rather than brief spurts of
furious energy; besides, the enginemen had changed places and it
was possible that Lea did not favour hard driving (vide his cotton
wool). The weather had turned cloudy with occasional showers,
necessitating retreat to the adjacent Pullman from time to time.
At Brunswick the switch was lined for the main, and as we snaked
round the bends it began to appear that there was to be no meet
this time. But I was wrong, for on rounding the final curve there
stood another steamer just inside the loop; on its own, to be
sure, and considerably smaller than our main-line giant, yet
undoubtedly in steam and very much alive. So flabbergasted that I
quite forgot to point my camera, I failed even to register very
much about it other than its obvious CPR provenance. Had it not
been for the reaction of other passengers and the cheery exchange
of greetings between engine crews (no nonsense with the hose this
time!), I would have thought it a hallucination; was not the
species steam supposed to be virtually defunct, yet here were two
of the breed in excellent health?
On arrival back at North Vancouver there was no time
to make enquiries, and for some years this second engine remained
a mystery. However, close study of the US railway press eventually
elicited the fact that it was a CPR Consolidation (2-8-0), kept in
reserve against no.2860's non-availability. No doubt I had seen it
on a test run, so I count myself doubly fortunate----a fitting end
to a most memorable outing.
As time passes, I often recall that day with
gratitude: to Providence for allowing it, to our friend Celia who
gave me the introduction, and to Frank and Lea for permitting me
to share their private world. And, should I ever be assailed by
doubts as to whether it might, after all, have been only a dream,
then in addition to my few photographs I can peruse the train
orders which Frank presented to me at the conclusion of the most
memorable and rewarding journey of my life.
*A completely enclosed cab with solid rear wall; more suited to the cold Canadian climate
than the conventional open-backed type.
