New Orleans, of course, is famous for its history and revelry. “Laissez les bon temps rouler,” the official motto goes—let the good times roll. And I’m certain they’re rolling, all over town, on this Friday night.
From the pounding beats of Bourbon Street, across the French Quarter, all the way to that muddy Mississippi winding its big, lazy bends through the heart of the Crescent City.
But I won’t see any of it—not on this visit, at least. In town for just one night, I had come for a single purpose: to catch the train the next day. Climbing aboard the double-decker rolling stock, the stainless steel Superliner glinting in the morning light, I got comfortable, ready to clickety-clack my way all across the southern reaches of the United States.
America’s Rails
America’s oldest continuously operating named train, the Sunset Limited, traverses almost 2,000 miles of track, all the way to Los Angeles from New Orleans. Settling into your seat, all you need to do is sit back and relax. Over the course of two days (and two nights), the sights come to you. The trip took me from the Gulf of Mexico to the Pacific, through Cajun Country and the Deep South to Big Bend Country in Texas and the sun-baked desert of the endless Southwest.
The route dates back to 1894, when Southern Pacific steam locomotives roared across the countryside, coal in the firebox, trailing all-sleeper Pullman cars. The route was part of the Pacific Railroad Acts of 1862, initiated by Congress to open the West through a transcontinental railroad, a feat accomplished through bond issues and land grants. For a while, these trains ran all the way to Florida and the Atlantic, although today, passenger service doesn’t extend east of New Orleans.
Operated by Amtrak since its formation in 1971, this isn’t a tourist train. It still forms a vital transit link for the communities along the way, from tiny towns to major centers such as Houston, San Antonio, and Tucson, Arizona.
For those accustomed to the grand temples of European train stations, the Union Passenger Terminal in New Orleans will seem a rather simple affair. But as I arrived, I noted an understated style, clean lines, and mid-century modern design, and big murals depicting the history of Louisiana.
Just three departures were listed on the board: the City of New Orleans, which runs to Chicago, and was made famous in the folk song of the same name (recorded by everyone from Arlo Guthrie to Johnny Cash and Willy Nelson); the Crescent, which goes all the way to New York City; and my train—the Sunset Limited.
Let the Good Times Roll
After I boarded from one of the station’s four platforms, the train left right on time, chugging out of the city and into the heart of Cajun country. There’s a distinct and rare pleasure in riding a train on which there’s no Wi-Fi and only spotty cell reception—the joy of being obligated to just chug along, the world rolling by outside your window.I decided to split my time among three places: the domed observation lounge, the dining car, and my comfortable little “roomette,” with big seats that fold down into a bed. We rumbled through low swampland and past small shotgun shacks and big homes with spreading Southern front porches. At one point, we crossed Big Muddy.
Stops were mostly brief, just long enough to disembark and embark passengers. Conversations in the observation lounge came easy, everyone just content to chit-chat while keeping one eye on the scenery. In addition to people just trying to get to their destinations, I bumped into a few train enthusiasts (or “railfans”), including two guys who make this trip annually from their small town in West Texas. They board, ride to New Orleans, and then without seeing a single attraction, ride right back.
On the second day, the scenery changed dramatically. The Deep South was behind us. From now on, it would be all big skies. Places like San Antonio and Del Rio had passed in the night.
At El Paso, we got a slightly longer break, and I walked along the platform to snap a photo of the city’s skyline nearby. The track then traced the course of the Rio Grande, and a section of border wall. Just across—a few feet away—a whole other country whipped by, the Mexican homes and shops climbing rugged ridge lines.
As the journey progressed, I fell into a sort of trance, the bewitching deserts and subtle movement of the train casting a spell. I emerged from my roomette for tasty meals served by friendly crew in the dining car, then returned to relax and enjoy the view.
In the remote southern reaches of New Mexico and Arizona, station stops were few and far between. The sun set over buttes and sagebrush. Before bedding down for a second night, I popped off on the platform at Tucson, snapping a photo of the statue of Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday.
Too soon, I received a rude awakening at Union Station in Los Angeles. It was still before dawn. We had arrived on time—always a good thing. But it was perhaps a little bittersweet, the journey now complete. I was tempted, just a little, to hop back on board, like those Texas railfans, and ride all the back to the Big Easy.
