I Forgot to Pack Snowshoes
Call me eager, or a strategist, but either way my Amtrak tickets were in hand weeks in advance for a trip to Reno in February. I anticipated crowded conditions President’s Day weekend, but leaving on a Thursday would put me ahead of those passengers extending the 3-day holiday weekend to include Friday. Returning on Sunday should also get me home the day before they all returned. I had it all figured out!
My fellow travelers would predictably be a mixture of tourists who intended to squeeze in one last weekend of skiing and those who had their sights (and wallets) set on gambling in Nevada. The purpose of my trip was an extremely special, once-in-a-lifetime event; my son was legalizing the adoption of his two step-children. The courthouse had informed them that family could attend the proceedings and I was going to be sitting there like a puffed up mother hen with her wings wrapped around her chicks, clucking proudly.
I try to travel light, really I do. I have the best intentions every time I begin packing. Gifts for all four grandchildren are an absolute necessity. (I’d probably opt to wear the same clothes the entire weekend before I’d dare show up empty-handed.) This time there was also a package for my son and daughter-in-law to celebrate the event, plus an extra outfit and shoes to wear to the courthouse. Bulky winter clothing always takes up more space; I can hardly be personally blamed for that kind of hindrance to my noble goals. Once the suitcase and side pockets were bulging with as much stress on the zippers as I dared to inflict, the overflow poured into a shoulder bag large enough to hold my purse, an insulated lunch bag, water bottle, camera, book, iPod, notebook, hand warmers, gloves, scarf, tiny first aid kit, a small pillow to put behind my neck ... well, you get the picture.
I suspect there is something psychological about traveling over Donner Summit that kicks me into survivor mode. I read the history of that ill-fated party of settlers at an impressionable, tender age (without my parents’ permission). If it were feasible to include a pack mule loaded with provisions as a traveling companion, I’d seriously consider it.
Arrangements had been made for someone to pick me up at the house and drop me off at the depot, and another friend would meet me at Amtrak when I returned on Sunday evening. Everything was lined up and I was good to go. Well ... there was that unexpected change in the weather since I’d purchased my tickets almost a month ago; a storm over the Pacific was on the way and expected to deliver lots (meaning feet, not inches) of snow at unusually low elevations. But wouldn’t that be pretty? Weather forecasters predicted the storm to blow in directly behind me, quite literally following my itinerary.
The quickest and most affordable schedule to get from Point A to Point B isn’t exactly simple or direct. I boarded the train in Modesto for a 30-minute ride north to Stockton. That isn’t even enough time to get settled and comfortable. I decided to use those precious minutes visiting the dining car to purchase a sandwich to add to my lunch bag. I’ve gone over the summit in snowstorms before, but this time I had this unshakable, nagging feeling that a little extra food in my stash would be prudent. Yes, even though I already had sufficient snacks tucked in the pockets of my shoulder bag to hold off any threat of starvation for longer than I care to admit.
Back in my seat, I checked the time and began watching for Stockton landmarks. It’s wise to gather belongings and be ready to disembark immediately, because the depot stops are quite brief. Suitcases often get wedged below layers of other baggage in the luggage rack and can take a few minutes to dislodge. Once passengers get off the train, there is a wall of new, over-packed replacements shoving their way through the doors.
I’m always the one positioning myself in the lower level of the train ten minutes early. Gripping the extended handle of my suitcase-on-wheels in one hand and balancing the shoulder bag on the opposite side of my body for balance, I have my nose pressed to the window in anticipation of the split-second the doors open. I wait impatiently, muscles tensed against the force of the brakes as the train begins to slow, looking much like a determined racehorse ready to break away from the gates at the Kentucky Derby.
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