Nice and slow: Montréal to New York by train

Thursday morning saw me re-tracing a familiar route that I have taken several times in the last year or so. I was back in Montréal’s Gare Centrale (central train station) for the daily Amtrak train to New York City.

In the USA and Canada, taking the train is not the obvious choice. Distances are so great that flying is almost always faster, and rail lines are so poorly developed and busy with freight traffic that even the Greyhound bus can usually get there quicker. From Montréal to New York, the bus is indeed quicker by at least a couple of hours, but it can’t match the train in terms of price: US$59 adult / US$50.15 concessions for a one way trip.

The train follows a trajectory that is very roughly similar to the bus, heading south to the Québec – New York border and then down through the Adirondack mountains towards Albany and the Hudson River into New York City. The train, however, hugs the shore of Lake Champlain for a significant part of the trip, twisting and turning along a single track that was forged through the rocky shore between the lake and the forrested mountain region of the Adirondacks. When you combine this exceptionally scenic route with the competitive price, it’s no wonder that there is always a long queue in the airy hall of the Gare Centrale to board Amtrak train 68.

After recognising and saying hello to a previously helpful and memorably friendly VIA Rail agent, we are treated to the priority treatment and whisked down a separate staircase to the platform when the train begins to board. As usual for this busy time of year, train 68 is formed of four passenger coaches with an open plan café car in the middle of the train. Comparisons with the Greyhound continue to be favourable once you’re on board: the seats are vast and very comfortable (comparable with short haul airline business class at the very least) and the train is very spacious.

Travelling with Amtrak does require a certain skill though: that of letting go. The journey to New York City is scheduled to take just under ten hours, covering just 381 miles. The border crossing accounts for much of the delay, but so does incredibly sub-standard track. The journey from Montréal to the border takes ninety minutes – almost three times what a similar journey would take by car along the autoroute. And once you reach the border, the timetable becomes even more loose as the process of checking every passenger’s paperwork is labouriously handled by customs agents. Thirty-five minutes is allowed for this, and on our trip it takes twice as long. You can blame the awkward foreigners who require visa waivers for that (my apologies to everyone else on train 68 that day). Passengers who are joining the service (which is subsidised by the state of New York for providing service through the communities of the northern part of the state) further down the line know to check the service status service on amtrak.com or by calling 1-800-USA-RAIL. Since the train crew radio their position to a control centre after leaving most stations the information provided by this service is notably accurate and dependable.

Although today we’re not going all the way to New York City (we have a connection to make before then towards Chicago) I wasn’t too bothered by our delay. As the train pulls away from Plattsburg – the second station stop in the United States – the line pulls alongside the calm expanse of Lake Champlain, with the snowy mountaintops of Vermont visible across the lake in the distance. It’s very comfortable to kick off my shoes, recline the seat, and drift off as our shining silver train does the hard work, and carries us through this beautiful region of upstate New York.

Montréal this way

If it hadn’t been for my very late arrival at Montréal’s Pierre Elliot Trudeau Airport on Thursday night (see The Longest Night) I would have hoped to tell you about my sneaky cut price route from the airport to the city centre. Unfortunately I arrived too late to take advantage of the airport’s ’secret’ public transport option, but I’ll explain it anyway.

From Montréal’s only active passenger airport to the city centre, the car-less passenger has several options:

• Limousine (unnecessarily expensive and brash for such a modest city)
• Taxi ($35 to anywhere in the downtown core – see the map on the window of your cab for details, more to anywhere outside this zone)
• Aerobus (overpriced at $13 one way / $22.75 return for a ride in a refurbished city bus to the central bus station and Berri-UQAM métro)
• …or a disjointed connection by city bus and métro for the princely sum of $2.50

If you can manage your luggage and you can spare a bit more time, I strongly recommend the latter.

You can plan your connection from the airport to any métro station or bus in the city using the Tous Azimuts travel planner of the website of the STM, Montréal’s transit system. Otherwise:

• From outside arrivals, catch bus 204 (Cardinal) towards Dorval – there are two bus stops for east and west bound services, so make sure you get the east bound one for Dorval (in French it’s Vous êtes pour Dorval?). Buses leave every thirty minutes.
• Unless you have a pass or a pre-paid ticket, a single fare is $2.50. You need exact change, and the driver will give you a transfer ticket.
• It’s a short ride of a few minutes to Dorval station. Follow the other passengers with suitcases and bags (trust me, there are always people doing this route).
• From Dorval, take bus 211 or 221 towards the Lionel-Groulx métro. Again, check with the driver that you’re going in the right direction (again, that would be Vous êtes pour la centre-ville?) Show your transfer ticket but keep it.
• The bus runs non-stop to the métro station at Lionel-Groulx. Your transfer ticket goes in the lower slot of the ticket gate.

The orange and green métro lines cross at Lionel-Groulx. If you want to take another connecting bus from any métro station to your final destination, be sure to print a transfer ticket from the machines just inside the ticket gate at Lionel-Groulx. A métro transfer ticket is not valid on buses departing from that station, so you have to get it here, not at your destination métro station.

The longest night

Perhaps you know the pattern of internal emotions that you go through when waiting for a heavily delayed flight.

I was nice and early at London Heathrow terminal three yesterday morning, with more than three hours in hand for flight AC865, the daily 15h00 departure for Montréal. The previous week, hoardes of flightless masses grounded at Heathrow by dense fog had filled our television screens and newspaper cover stories. This time, however, the air was clear.

‘Landside’, Heathrow is almost always overwhelmed with queues as passengers wait to clear security. Once ‘airside’ of security, Heathrow is overwhelmed with duty free shopping. Terminal three is no different, with a large centralised holding lounge where passengers wait for their gates to be called. Every free meter of wall space has been punched through to create a retail or catering unit. Dozens of shops, including such high class units as Harrods and Chanel, all compete to distract you as you while away the now obligatory two hour wait. Windows do not provide rentable space, so the British Airport Authority does not encourage their use.

Abandon all hope, ye who enter. Sunlight became a distant memory, even more so as it became obvious that my flight was going to be delayed.

AC865 was some way down the list of departures when I arrived, and some way off from being assigned a gate. As preceding flights opened, boarded, closed and departed, AC865 gradually shunted up the departure screens. But then as the last sixty minutes began to tick away, it remained firmly unopen, and subsequent flights began to open, board, close and depart. AC865 remained stubbornly at the top of the screens, glued to the monitor with the same moronic largely useless:

Please Wait.

Two hours after the scheduled departure time, there was still no news of what was up, and only snippets of information were being circulated amongst passengers who had begun to recognise each other as the unlucky few who had still not left for Montréal. Eventually the waiting lounge grapevine reported that we had passed the magical three hour delay, and therefore food and drinks were being laid on for us (up to a value of £10, mind) at two concessions in the lounge. The sun had already set, and unusually for a westbound trans-Atlantic flight, this was going to be a flight in complete darkness.

At eight o’clock (five hours late) a gate is announced and a weary crowd of recognisable faces tramps to the gate. Once processed and shuttled to a remote stand (number 593) we find out what was holding us up. Two computers that controlled one of the engines of the Airbus A330 had developed irrecoverable faults, and had to be replaced. Had this happened at almost any other airport, spares would have had to have been flown in. As it was, ours were luckily found in the warehouse of another airline at Heathow.

Just after nine o’clock in the evening (fifteen hours after I woke up to begin to journey to Heathrow) we rolled onto Heathrow’s runway 27R and shot off towards Canada. On the in-flight ‘air show’, a small icon representing our plane began to edge across a map of the Atlantic, one pixel every few minutes. The map was elegantly coloured in the blues and greens of a childhood atlas, but outside everything was shrouded in night.

We flew for almost seven hours and lost five more as we crossed the time zones heading west. The first lights of New Brunswick and then Québec caught my eye through the window, before we began our descent over a wintry Montréal. The city’s orange phosphorous lights were particularly bright that night, as they reflected off the fresh snowfall (the first of the season, notably late this year) and into the sky.

There did not appear to be any other flights arriving when we did: the vast customs hall was empty of passengers when I strode through, and only one baggage belt was operating. I stepped out of arrivals and into a taxi just after 23h30 (04h30 London time). We flew along the autoroute into the city, and I considered this seemingly endless night.

I woke the next morning at 06h00, which I counted as a lie in considering that my body clock was still on English time. The sun rose a little after 07h30, closing a traveller’s night that had followed me for a full nineteen hours. It’s a wonder that travel doesn’t make me jaundiced.

A day out in Canada’s frozen north

This is an extract from my month long USA and Canada train trip travelogue, published live online as a blog at jamesbrownontherails.blogspot.com. Click on the highlighted links to see photographs from the trip. For details of the thrice-weekly ‘Hudson Bay’ train from Winnipeg to Churchill, Manitoba, contact VIA Rail Canada. Also previously published on the Lonely Planet Thorn Tree.

I’m the only person disembarking train 693 from the sleeper car. Further up, the thrice weekly arrival of the two locomotive, five coach train (one baggage car, two coaches, a restaurant car and a sleeper coach) is being met with great activity, as supplies and luggage are unloaded from the train. I hang around for a while, waiting for the station master to return from unloading the train so that I can leave my bags here for the day. It is bitterly cold. I check the printed weather forecast that is pinned inside the station, and today’s high is not predicted to be above -8C. This is in fact, unseasonally cold for Churchill, and just last week a period of warm sunshine and spring like temperatures was apparently broken by a sudden snow and ice storm. Regardless, I am hopelessly unprepared for this drop in temperature, and just waiting outside on the platform, my extremities are getting cold. I joke with one of the other passengers that this is quite a change from California the week before last. If I’d known I would have packed gloves and a hat. He replies that if he’d known he would have packed his thermal underwear. I fantacise about my soft silky long johns, far far away from here, stuffed in a drawer back in Montréal.

I manage to leave my bags with the station manager (no charge) and am told to be back before 20.00 to collect them. The return train to Winnipeg will be leaving tonight at 20.30. I have no intention of missing it. Just outside the large, beautifully restored station is a big sign, welcoming visitors to Churchill. It says that apart from being the ‘Polar Bear Capital of the World’, Churchill is a’ Bird Watchers Paradise’ (late May through September), ‘Belguga Whale Capital of the World’ (late June to late August) and home to the Aurora Borealis (late November through late March). So it’s no wonder that the train was empty – I’ve conveniently arrived at the one time of the year when there isn’t much going on in Churchill for the tourist.

I scamper up Kelsey Boulevard, the closest thing Churchill can claim to have to a busy shopping street. It’s a broad tarmac road, with wide unpaved strips either side. Low-lying one and two-storey buildings are dotted out along the street in both directions. I head straight for the ‘Northern’ supermarket and general store. I am fully prepared to pay a fortune for some gloves and hats, knowing full well how expensive things can become up here because of their long journey to get here. Much to my amusement, however, because it’s now the end of winter, there’s a clearance sale on all outerwear. I pick up a 75% discount on a pair of gloves and a toque (hat). Total price: C$3.13. I am now prepared.

I leave the Northern stores wrapped up snugly and prepared for a day out in Churchill. The Northern is Churchill’s biggest store, and it really is a ‘general’ store. It has a small supermarket with a surprisingly large selection of fresh fruit and vegetables, a small electrical department, a video rental store, a clothes department and just about every small thing you could need around the household.

I walk back towards the station and then turn left alongside a partly snowed over park, towards the Town Centre Complex. This large, low building hugs the crest of a low hill on the north-eastern side of town, stretching along the edge of the community for several blocks. It’s not particularly pretty, but then its large amorphous shape serves a purpose. As well as housing the town’s school, hospital, theatre, library and council rooms, the large complex forms a large barrier between the town and the shore of the Hudson Bay. As soon as I walk round the side of the building to visit the beach, I realise why that’s a good idea. As far as I can see, the bay is still frozen over. All my hopes of seeing the ocean at the end of my forty hour train ride evaporate.

And because the sea is still frozen, the wind that is coming off the bay is perishing. The moment I turn the corner and walk towards the beach, the temperature drops about another ten degrees with the wind-chill. Even with my extra layers, the icy wind cuts through me, and it feels about –15C. And remember, this is May. In January this icy wind-chill factor can push the perceived temperature down to nearly –60C.

I trudge down the track towards the sandy beach. The last time I saw sand, I was in California just over a week ago, when it was a rather agreeable 15C. I can’t believe that just a few weeks ago I considered that chilly. On the edge of the beach stands a stone Inuit sculpture. These beautiful abstract structures don’t require much explanation. In this inhospitable environment, these simple stone structures tell you that other people have been here before; that you are not alone. They are a friendly greeting, made from the materials found lying to hand, but arranged in a way that could only be made by another human being. The precise meanings of different sculptures revealed messages about hazards, territories or even good fishing grounds. Although Churchill’s population is now predominantly white and Anglo-Canadian, this sculpture is a beautiful reminder of this territory’s traditions and origins.

I feel like I should sit and consider this barren seascape for a bit longer; maybe stop and sketch for a while. But as they say back home, it’s brass monkeys out here and I’m cold. I scoot back towards the town, but take a right and walk a little way out of town towards Churchill’s most notable landmark. Out on the edge of town stand the enormous grain elevators of the Port of Churchill. It’s because of the port that Churchill has a railway line. Churchill handles tens of thousands of tonnes of grain and other freight every year, even though it is closed in by ice for almost half of the year. In a magazine article published in Montréal before I left on my trip, Omni-Trax (the new owners of the Port of Churchill) were openly optimistic about the opportunities for increasing the volume of freight that passes through the port. Over the next few decades, it is expected that the effect of global warming will be to allow sea passage to and from Churchill for longer every year. The period that the port is iced in has already been seen to be slowly reducing. Some of the Churchill residents I spoke to were pessimistic, however, and pointed out that despite the effect global warming on the polar ice, it’s still impossible to work outside in the winter when it gets below –40C, and the winters don’t appear to be getting any warmer up here..

Churchill is the only sea port in the Canadian prairies, and grain shipped through here can reach Europe two and a half days earlier than if shipped through eastern ports such as Montréal or Boston. Importing and exporting produce and products through Churchill avoids thousands of kilometres of railway and, because of the curvature of the Earth, allows for a quicker sea crossing to Europe.

But at this exact moment, the port stands silent. The winter ice is beginning to break up and melt, but it will be some time before shipping commences for the summer season of 2006.

I walk back into town, cutting down through some of the residential streets at this end of town. The architecture here tells you everything you need to know about the climate. In some cases, the windows are deeply set in thickly insulated walls. On some buildings, there are no windows or openings at all on the side facing the bay.

I return to Kelsey Boulevard and stop into a large shop selling souvenirs. I’ve spent much of the last winter experiencing much colder temperatures in Montréal, but to return to this climate again suddenly without any time to acclimatise is making me balance my time walking around town with my time inside. The shop is quiet, but I can imagine that in a busier time of year it’s hopping with tourists. All sorts of Canadiana is available to purchase, although it’s hard to find anything that you can honestly say is from Churchill. More or less everything is imported via the same long surface route that I came. Even the plastic polar bears are made in China.

I walk the length of Kelsey Boulevard, and decide that there’s no point holding out on a nice warm meal any longer. By the time I reach Gypsy’s Diner, I don’t need to be persuaded by the recommendation in my Lonely Planet guidebook. It’s already sold itself to me. It’s a basic diner and bakery with a solid menu. I choose today’s lunchtime special, a beef and pork stir fry, which reminds me to warn any vegetarians thinking of moving to Churchill not to underestimate the difficulties you’re likely to encounter here. I sit and write postcards over my coffee, listening in to the gossip from a group of retired ladies on the next table.

I spend the rest of the day exploring what’s left of the small town. The population of Churchill once numbered 7,000. It’s now less than 800, following the closure in 1979 of the large US Military base. American service men and women were dispatched to Churchill for cold weather training, since Churchill’s climate bore more than a passing semblance to much of that of the then Soviet Union.

The Eskimo Museum opens at 13.00, and I go in for a look round. Incredibly the museum is free, although it does depend on donations to help maintain the beautiful collection housed in the modest building next to the town’s Catholic church. The museum’s single large room is lined with glass display cabinets, and these are filled with hundreds of Inuit artefacts and sculptures. In fact the collection of ivory and soapstone figurines and carvings is easily the highlight of my trip. There are also a couple of stuffed arctic animals which sit in large cases, lamely caught in poses designed by a distant taxidermist.

The museum is also worth visiting for the large collection of books that are on sale. They cover the natural environment of Churchill and also the history of this town and the region. I bump into one of the other passengers who had travelled up from Winnipeg with me, and he was pleased to have finally found a copy of the book that chronicles the history of the construction of the Hudson Bay Railway.
After seeing the museum, I visit the library, which is inside the Town Centre Complex. You can use the internet here for free for up to thirty minutes. The lady at the counter raised her eyebrows and shrugged, saying that the computers were mainly for tourists who wanted to be able to check their e-mails every day while staying in Churchill. Apparently some people don’t take to the wilderness too well (myself included, it seems).

The rest of the day passes slowly but leisurely. Churchill seems to shut down outside the major tourist seasons, so I was able to spend a pleasant afternoon just walking and stopping off for a coffee from time to time in one of the town’s cafés. There are a handful of attractions outside town, such as the wreckage of a freight plane that crashed near Churchill Airport in the seventies. I’m told it was brought down because of a heavy load of Pepsi, but I suspect it might have had more to do with something more mundane. Seeing these requires transport, but I decide not to spend C$20 on a taxi tour.

I explore the town some more, stopping off in the post office for stamps (and to ensure my postcards get a suitably interesting postmark) and going back to the Northern store to get some supplies for the return trip. I go back to the library when it opens again at 19.00 for a second burst of blogging, having realised how far behind I am in my online travelogue. On my way out, I notice some boxes by the door. A large quantity of old books, some from Churchill Library, are being offered for free to anyone who can offer them a better home. So I rifle through, and pick out the Booker Prize winning paperback The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood, and an old hardback biography of the inventor of radar (something my father would doubtless approve of…). Having been turned off by the imported souvenirs I’d seen today, this would be an excellent souvenir of my trip. Inside the front cover, this decommissioned library book still carries it’s loan record and the insert library card. It was given to the For Churchill Library in 1953, and has spent the last fifty years being read by generations of Churchillers with a passing interest in radar. It adds quite a weight to my luggage, but I’m happy to leave with a special souvenir.

Just before returning to the station, I turn round the corner of the Town Complex once more and walk down to the beach. The sun is falling behind the pretty solid grey cloud cover, and the temperature is beginning to drop again. I crunch through the untouched banks of snow and down onto the sand. I stand alone, staring out across the frozen bay once more. Another cinematic reference pops into my mind – this time The Winter Guest, filmed on an unnamed Scottish island during a particularly cold winter, during which the straight between the island and the mainland freezes over. Despite being quite unbelievable for Scotland’s mild climate, it’s still an enchanting image, and throughout the film people do as I do, and come out to stare across the immensely solid yet dangerously fragile surface. I’ve never seen anything quite like this before, and the immensity of this frozen sea is almost overwhelming. Having lived in Montréal for almost eight months now, I have realised how much I miss being near to the sea. I miss the smells, the sounds, and the sense of enormity that borders seaside landscapes.

But here, there is no sound, other than the wind whistling off the ice and across my numbing cheeks. Every quality I associate with the sea has been obscured. Part of me agrees with a young female character in The Winter Guest, who runs out onto the ice, teasing her more cautious friend that he shouldn’t be afraid: he might never get the chance again to walk on the sea.

But fears of plummeting through a cracked ice flow overcome my subconscious urges. I turn my back to the sea, and walk back to the station.

Shortly after we arrived this morning, our train reversed out of Churchill station, and was turned in a triangular turning circuit just outside town. It subsequently backed into the station, and was left there with engines running all day. From time to time I would round a corner and hear the not too distant hum of the gently throbbing locomotives. It might seem like a waste of diesel, but it’s safer than shutting down the engines and then discovering that they can’t be re-started. This especially important in the depths of winter, when a train failure could be extremely difficult to fix, and a replacement locomotive could take days to reach us. Despite their normally short consist, trains 693 and 692 to and from Churchill operate with two locomotives not for pulling power, but for safety. If one were to break down, there would not be much chance for another to reach a stranded train for some time. And in the depths of winter, if a train with a single locomotive was to break down, the heating in the passenger cars would soon drop far below freezing. It would cease to be a matter of convenience, and soon become a matter of life or death.

I’m early at the station (old habits die hard) but there is already a hub-bub on the station platform as luggage is loaded into the baggage car. The tourist office inside the old station building has a single VIA Rail ticket desk, and it’s from here that a locally employed agent sells tickets and provides information to passengers. I notice that on the desk is a pile of the new Amtrak system timetable. Perhaps a few other long distance journeys have commenced here?

Most of the tickets being sold, however, are for Thompson. There is a small group of young teenagers here this evening, all with violin cases and luggage for a couple of days away. I learn through overheard conversations that they are actually fiddles, not violins, and that they are presumably going to play in a concert or competition.

Of the handful of passengers who travelled north with me, two are returning to Winnipeg this evening as well. The two gentlemen, who I’d already met on the first night, had taken advantage of a VIA Rail special offer, which allows one passenger over the age of sixty to take a companion of any age for free. Both being over sixty, they paid one fare and split it between the two. Having lived in Winnipeg for much of their lives, they had decided (much like me) to take a trip to Churchill just for the sake of it. They had had a similarly interesting day, but had also retreated indoors in the afternoon to warm up.

Our train begins boarding at about 20.15, preparing for a 20.30 departure. There is a healthy load of coach passengers, most going to Thompson and connecting to bus services from there. I board the sleeper car shortly afterwards.

When I arrived this morning, my sleeper attendant had mentioned that she would be making up one more berth for another passenger. So when I re-board the train and head to the familiar couchette end of the carriage, I meet a new travelling companion. Vera has lived in Churchill since 1979, and she runs a three room bed and breakfast on Hearne Street. She has two sons in the town, and ever since she arrived here almost thirty years ago following a period in the Wrens, has called Churchill her home. One son works on a pilot boat that guides ships into the harbour. The other is an engineer in the Town Complex, and helps with the maintenance of the water supply. Tap water is sourced from the Churchill River, at a point about two miles inland from the town. Part of his job is to maintain the water heaters that heat the water three times between the river and the two. Without these (and the element heaters that many houses have in the pipes where the water enters the house) the pipes would freeze solid throughout the winter. Along with heavy duty engine block heaters that require cars to be plugged in overnight to prevent them from freezing up, it’s just another practicality in the life of the town.

It’s rewarding to finally talk to a Churchill resident for a short while. She says she is yet to be convinced that the port will ever be open for much longer, but says that despite the bitter winters she enjoys living here. Everyone knows everyone, and it’s a tight community. I ask about the inevitable flip side of remote life in Canada: are there drug or alcohol problems in Churchill? Her answer is yes – there will always be a few heavy drinkers, but the drug problem is harder to solve. A town meeting later this week will be bringing together the officers of the RCMP and local residents. Until specific information can be brought against members of the community suspected of supplying drugs (such as fatally addictive crystal meths) not much can be done.

We leave a few minutes early, and together we watch the settlement slip away. In ten or fifteen minutes, we cross the level crossing that had announced our arrival to me this morning, and we’re on our way back across the wilderness once more. Ten hours in Churchill might seem a short justification for eighty hours of travelling, but at this time of the year I didn’t miss much in town. Besides, for me the journey has been as much the destination as the town itself.

Shortly after leaving Churchill, our attendant returns to make up the third pair of bunks. A passenger in coach class has decided to pay the night fare for a couchette through to Thompson, so we’ll be losing the spare pair of seats for the night. It’s fine with us – Vera goes forward to read in the coach car, and I decide to turn in early to read. For this half of the Churchill run, I’ve paid a bit more and booked a lower berth. Getting in and out of it is easier, and I get this time I get window. If there’s one complaint it’s that the lower bunk is just slightly too low: it’s not possible to lie in bed and look out of the window at anything other than the sky or the tops of the trees beside the track. But that’s hardly a major complaint. I curl up under the sheets, button the curtain closed and dive into The Blind Assassin. Beside me, my picture window fills with an ever deepening blue, as the sun sets and night falls. I’m back in my natural habitat, it seems, warm and cozy, gently falling asleep to the sound of the train rattling over the tracks. It’s Tuesday evening: I will arrive in Toronto in three days time.