[ WP ] Make me fall in love with a train .

You'd barely be able to see it unless you knew it was there. Her oxidized iron shell, overtaken by ferns and undergrowth, camouflaged into the forest floor. Nearly a hundred freeze and thaw cycles have set her iron wheels into the soil, and a birch sapling has grown through a gouge in her boiler tank. 
 
 It's always worth it to sit a spell and watch the breeze play shadows over the hulk. Being July in a Maine forest, mosquito and gnats compose a constant background thrumming, punctuated by songbirds or a knocking woodpecker. Peace and quiet reign over this section of the trail, a pretty wonderful place to slowly return to Earth. 
 
 All the paint has long since chipped away, but this is the # 2 locomotive for the Franklin & Megantic railway. She's the old # 2, and she died long before my grandfather was even born. An 0-4-4 Forney type, # 2 was built just two decades after the civil war ended. The quality of her construction is evident in the fact that, well, she's still here. Sure, her tank plating is paper-thin swiss cheese and her cabin long ago fell apart, but she's been lying in the woods for over a hundred years now. 
 
 I always fantasized about what it was like in rail's heyday, up in this remote section of Maine. See, this old Forney was built for the narrow gauge - that's a two foot spacing between rails - which ran from a lumberyard at Bigelow down to Farmington. About forty five miles by the narrow gauge, meeting up with the standard gauge Maine Central on the way to Portland and beyond. 
 
 I can just imagine myself at the helm. These trees overhead now, must have been magic to be driving these trains under them. Towing a load of lumber cars, or some of the passenger cars and pushing deep into the hinterlands. A drive that takes forty five minutes now would have taken half a day, and that was right as rain. 
 
 The northern section of rail bed, which this walking trail now follows, tracks the course of the shallow Carrabassett River. Ca n't you just imagine it? It's 1900, and I'm making an express run up from Farmington to the lumberyards with a load of empty cars. Jason the fireman has been building up steam as I inspect the wheels, drives, valves and throttles. Letting that whistle cry and echo over the mist-shrouded fields as dawn approaches, pulling out of the yard and picking up speed. 
 
 The dawn breaks hot and muggy, intensified by the coal fire being tended feet away. Tapping the steam gauges intermittently, pressure is holding well. Over the bellowing smoke, roar of the fire and rhythmic clicking of the rails beneath I can hear the singing cicadas. Insects swarm over the Sandy River, early sun striking the water and blindingly reflecting into my eyes. It's mile marker ten as the Sandy starts to pull away from the rail. Another thirty minutes we'll be in Strong, needing to make the switch north. Time to pull back the throttles a bit. 
 
 This is always my favorite part of the drive. The grade is hardly noticeable in the southern half, but it's past noon and we're almost to Kingfield. We're steadily marching uphill, the fireman sweating profusely as he keeps the coals roaring. This section is taking us north east before turning due north. We burst out from the treeline, belching smoke and firing steam as we keep driving through Kingfield's wheat fields and pastures. They grow it so close to the rail, I could lean over and grab a handful of buckwheat if I wanted to. 
 
 Not that I would. One of the best views in all of Maine is right around the bend. There's a forty five degree bend to the left coming up, and I ca n't wait to get around it. Holding on tight as hit the curve, letting one prolonged blast say goodbye to Kingfield for me, those beautiful giants loom dead ahead. The Bigelows, long and rocky, define the northern edge of the valley. Crocker Mountain, Sugarloaf, and Burnt, those three lumpy brutes close off the southern border of Carrabassett Valley. 
 
 We drive in from the south and east, tracing the path of Carrabassett river. I lose sight of those mountains as we hurdle back into the forest, glimpses of the the river invitingly cool compared to the roasting temperatures behind the boiler. It's another fourteen miles to the lumberyard. There will be people there, a bed and a hot meal in the conductor's house. For now, there's none of that and that is okay by me. There's only my train, the rails ahead of me, the tree and sky above me. I could fall asleep right now tapping of the rails. The best mountain air cools my brow as I stick my body out the cabin. 
 
 I'm in my favorite place in the world and on board the train that I love. Today, I'm the luckiest man alive.
