better than sitting in backyard as the sun goes down, watching little trains go rattling by in the gathering dusk. Got my Timmy’s thermal mug in the one paw, and a bacon sammij in the other, and our faithish ig sat beside me on the patio seat, watching contentedly as a couple of BNSF Dash 9s go chugging and whistling by with a short train of around ten cars, the FRED winking at us as it passes - the horn sounding as it crosses the other bridges down the line aways.
As it gets darker, the White Pass mike, now back in service thanks to the help from a few friends here on LSC, chunters by with the last train of the evening, headlights blazing, coach lights yellowing in the gloom, and disappears with a final rattle over the little bridge that gives our line its name, the observation car drumhead brightly shining in the near blackness.
All is quiet now, and we can hear a distant owl hooting in the tress over the fields, the trains silent, the ligths gone out.
With a sigh we pick ourselves up, figuratively shaking ourselves back into reality, and walk the few short steps into our hutch.
‘Same tomorra?’ I get asked… - ‘you betcha!’ I reply.
Night, folks.
tac & ig
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