“That’s my girlfriend yelling from milepost 14!”
The old man spoke like he was welcoming an old friend — totally deadpan, not making the rookie mistake of looking around to see if anyone got the joke. It took me a second to understand he meant the incoming train.
I’d been waiting for a while at White River Junction Station’s makeshift platform to board the Amtrak train that runs once a day to New Haven, Conn. I was visiting my older brother and chose the Amtrak because it was the fastest way there without a car. What I didn’t realise was that it’s also one of the best ways to see the Upper Valley’s beauty. So I’ll tell you now: Take the train somewhere, anywhere, while you are here at Dartmouth. You owe it to yourself.
When I told friends and family I was coming to Dartmouth, everyone told me how beautiful the Upper Valley is, alongside plenty of warnings about winter, workload and drinking too much. But as a first-year without a car, I haven’t really gotten to see it. Hanover and its surroundings still feel unfamiliar to me. When I was little, I spent some time at my aunt and uncle’s farmhouse in Bradford, Vt., and strangely enough, the Dartmouth Skiway was the first place I ever skied. But those are the hazy memories of a little girl who noticed only the most Narnia-like corners of the farm and her uncle’s massive, swishing machete.
Riding the Vermonter showed me a different side of the Upper Valley — places no car could reach, places you might never find even if you tried.
About 10 minutes before my train was scheduled to depart, I left a nearby coffee shop called Cappadocia Cafe — get the Kubasi Lamb Pide — and headed across the street towards the adorable historic train station. The building was under construction, so I followed bright orange signs around the building to a desolate concrete pad. There was a picnic table or two, but otherwise just standing room with the tracks ahead.
As I approached the makeshift platform, a joyful old man grinned at me and asked if I was waiting for the train. When I said yes, he emphatically clicked a handheld tally counter. The people waiting at the platform were an eclectic mix. At first, I thought everyone was there to board the train. I was wrong. Out of the 25 or so people there, at least 10 were local trainspotters, there for the sheer joy of watching the Amtrak roll in, grimy and glorious. They were mostly old men, save for a few kids. The tally-counter greeted them all by name, tossing out cheerful remarks about the train’s expected arrival. These trainspotters knew one another, bonded over whistles and passing coaches. It seemed like a secret club, some mysterious thing I was a brief part of, one out of many clicks on the tally counter.
The train was late — Amtrak is notoriously tardy. So we waited on the platform, a quiet symphony of tapping feet, sighs and the rustle of phones being pulled from pockets to check the time for a second, third, fourth time. Eventually, a whistle sounded over the mountains — long and low, echoing hauntingly. We all turned toward it in one fluid motion. That’s when the old man with the tally counter grinned and announced that his girlfriend — the train — was screaming from mile marker 14. What a skill, to know the mile marker by sound alone. What a strange, endearing relationship to have with a 130-ton metal tube.
Moments later, the train appeared on the horizon. The trainspotters hustled into position while we riders hoisted our bags. Cameras clicked away. Someone shouted the make and model of the train. Then, the old man’s girl arrived in all her yelling glory: Amtrak’s Vermonter train, which runs all the way from St. Albans, Vt. to Washington, D.C.
I boarded the train via a step stool and settled into my coach seat — I hadn’t splurged for business class. I had a row all to myself and sat in a window seat facing backwards, my preferred orientation for aesthetic reasons: better people-watching, and I love watching scenery slide away instead of rush at me. I had come prepared with my laptop, two books, headphones and a journal because the ride is nearly five hours long. But I barely touched any of my things because I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the window.
The passing scenes were beautiful. At first, a blur of sugar maples, pines and elms sped by, layered like brushstrokes. Then, the trees thinned, and I started catching glimpses of the wide, glittering Connecticut River, which the train’s route hugs for long stretches and occasionally crosses over. The sun was low and hazy, the sky dotted with cotton clouds. We passed picturesque farms, rolling fields, banks of wildflowers, slow streams and clusters of tiny towns. The Upper Valley unfolded for hours — quiet, golden and breathtaking.
The time of year — I took the train on Oct. 4 — added to the magic.. Because of this year’s drought, the foliage turned late, so most of what I saw was still vibrant with that late summer golden-green hue. A local apple farmer told me the leaves have been “terrible” this year, so I can’t imagine how gorgeous it looks in a good year. Now, weeks later, Dartmouth’s campus glows orange, but the trees are thinning fast. Still, I don’t think any season could dull the Vermonter’s beauty — not even the dreaded “stick season” Noah Kahan warned me about. I’ll be taking it again in late November, so I’ll find out soon enough.
The train is a fantastic, romantic way to see corners of the Upper Valley you’d otherwise never reach. If you ever have a reason to go to any of the Vermonter’s many stops, take the opportunity. Sure, it’s slower than a car, but it’s meditative, breathtaking and the perfect place to stare moodily out a window, ponder the meaning of life or trainspot with old men introducing you to their girlfriends.
