This was originally written as post of appreciation.
For America’s lands, these places we share. Of the expanse of our identity, enmeshed with work and blood, sun and land and water. Of observation, and recognition of the good in spite of the struggles. Perhaps it still can be, in a way. I believe many are now at the point of uncomfortable admissions. About a different recognition, of violence, of the facade crumbling a little too pronouncedly. A realization others who have already made similar conclusions are likely relieved to say, “Finally!” while others lament, “What took you so long?”
Perhaps for myself, it might even be characterized by fear–that this is a moment no longer hanging in the balance of choosing the right direction, but of accelerating on a track that not only has a destination we want nothing to do with, but within a carriage that is busting apart screw by screw, looks of suspicion between passengers on opposite side of the aisle. Certainly not that of kinship.
In some wise words, Serj Tankian relates that “we can’t afford to be neutral on a moving train” (worthy of a close listen, by the way).
2025 was bookended by days spent upon Amtrak’s superliner train cars from Chicago to Seattle, the first and final days spent in observation of the land of this country, as well as the many who claim it as home.
Through the static frame of the sealed window, the image unfurls. Stark, desolate, cold, windswept. Juxtaposed against the soft bed shared cross-legged, looking outward, or the card game characterized by playful jabs and furrowed brows in the observation car.
Light glimmers off the frozen expanse, glaring at golden hour, the tundra aglow past the silhouette of deer on the horizon.
Life passes by outside, while we remain enmeshed within our own.
If you know me, you know that I hold a soft spot for trains. “Forced relaxation,” a new acquaintance, Irene, tells me over a shared breakfast1. A point with which I agree, though disheartened at the dissonance held within such a statement, one that seems to characterize our cultural approach to slowing down.
How can we afford to?
We leave the Windy City, drenched in rain in late December, a trend where liquid permeates when snow may otherwise simply blanket. A mad rush brings us circuitously through and with crowds, maneuvering a meeting point of comings and goings, travelers buzzing around others just taking refuge where it is warm and dry for a bit. A wave of relief lands as we sink into our seats, the preceding days of family quarrels and laughter, pressures and uncertainties, and arguments with eventual resolutions left behind at our eastward terminus. At last, we are allowed to just sit, to simply exist.
During this journey, getting to do so for over 50 hours.
As we trundle along through Minnesota past sunset, cat naps soon follow the relief of settling in. Laughter emanates from Pauly and Matthew’s adjacent roomette, the sounds of friends reunited for this impromptu shared journey after a hard year. We book our dinner slot with a slightly terse attendant, as introductory announcements continue through the airwaves, important, and barely intelligible. Ignoring them for what feel to be real and grounded conversations unfolding, we elect to figure the rest out on the fly.
The train comes to a stop. Cold Minneapolis air on the lungs, the blustery winds bringing gloved hands to faces, farewells of loved ones slowly ambling onto the car. I can’t help but to overhear these slices of life, the tender heaviness of goodbyes marked by wisecracks and well wishes.
“Keep taking pictures,” are the departing words for the feeble man and presumably his daughter, likely still 30 years my senior, as they pass through the threshold. I turn, having had my own camera pointed down the track, from whence we came. “You too,” they tell me with a small grin. Then they turn to leave, their home a still one for the night.
And little did these folks know the power of the pictures, of images, within the same city from which they bid adieu to their elderly family member. Of continued mass wake-up calls, of collective head-pulling from the amber waves, of murder. What way forward from here, with these bullet holes searing, images following suit? Is it different from the endless sequence of other wake-up calls, showing that the facade only exists for those willfully deluded enough to believe in it? Do I still believe myself?
Nestling into home life at my end of the tracks in Bellingham, WA, I ponder my own images from my bike rides across this country. I have traveled through communities of every size, as red or blue as they come, likely entrenched to their end in belief. Entombed, while living. And overwhelmingly, I met kindness, generosity, care, and openness. This is the America I want to believe in, for it is the one I know. And I also believe that these are the very things I must depend upon giving, for without, the destination of this rail car is all but guaranteed.
The metal beast, onward we drive her. Through snow and through wind, slicing the land in two, by holding the line ever longer. For the animal within only knows they must go, so long given fuel and onus. Icicles of breath from your vessels, a deep shine on your bones. Some of the land of 1000 miles mixed with blood from far longer past, the blend a union of old with new. Onward, ever onward.
Minot, ND 12/29/25
See the rest of the gallery, here.
- On Amtrak journeys, you are randomly seated with passengers for all meals. ↩︎
Two-Wheelin' Revealin' 
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