As a young shaver, I spent many hours on our living room floor, listening to an LP record that my dad brought home of a Durango & Silverton train as it chugged up grades and through narrow passes while admiring the black and white photos in the fold-out album cover. The high point of my early years was a trip we took in the Rambler, up to Steamtown, in Vermont. Words fail me, trying to describe the awe of standing on a platform next to the steam engine. They just don't look anywhere near that big, in photos; not even from the parking lot. From a 9 year old boy's perspective, standing maybe 6 or 8 feet away, it was just enormous - completely overwhelming. I couldn't take the whole thing in, visually. I had to look up and down, left and right, then try to assemble an overall view from all of the pieces. Steam quietly hissed out of countless places as passengers boarded the coaches. Then the beast started noisily belching smoke, straight up and spouting jets of steam onto the platform as it slowly pulled away. I was smitten.
