Shay Cab Ride

Train Chaser pal Ben Wells and I looked at each other, and shrugged. "All she can say is No." I was raised to ask in such a way as to communicate one's awareness that such a request is a gift of grace and not presumed. Basically, you are in their way. There are few rights in this love affair; mostly kindnesses. Turns out, she said Yes.

From atop Cheat Mountain, near the end of our scenic stop at Bald Knob, the fire(woman) welcomed us into the cab of Shay #11 -- our workhorse for the day -- and indicated that, Yes, she would be glad to have us ride with them back down to Cass. For a split second I thought about how nice it would have been to ride UP with them, to feel the hard-working climb from a Lima footboard. But beggars can't be choosers, and the descent did not disappoint. Ben and I found our spots for the run, standing snug up against the back wall of the cab, behind the engineer. We may as well had box seats at the Met. I enjoyed watching the Boss of the Left Side do her good thing, alternating between shovel-fulls of Appalachian coal and long pulls on the injector lever. She was gracious enough to answer all our questions in between her routines. The Boss of the Right Seat was a quiet fellow, all business. Eyes like a hawk on the roadbed; hand moving sightlessly back and forth between light touches of the throttle and paced reductions of the independent brake. He maybe said two words between departure and arrival, from one world back down to the next. Good for him: The job is to move a hundred happy tourists eleven steep miles downgrade without incident or accident. He is not paid to babysit two more Giddy Steam Lovers. His focussed silence helped me appreciate the gift of riding where Lima never intended anyone to ride. The jumpseat in a Shay is the generosity of the crew; extended to most who ask, I'm told.

It was a great trip. The heat. The drift. The smell. The noise. The wail. The hardwoods. The control of chaos with only steam and air. I'll trade tickets to La bohèm for a 3 Truck Lima matinée any day: No. Eleven and her supporting cast, singing her downstream aria through curls of smoke up through the trees. Bravo.