There’s a feeling in my bones of rattling along a train track toward a large city. Chicago, maybe. Or perhaps in the opposite direction toward San Francisco. The sway of the train car compartment, the streaks of countryside blurring by, the announcement of the whistle as we pass by little towns, these vivid imaginings stick in my brain.

I have never taken a train trip. Short ones, sure, for a few hours between cities on the east coast a handful of times, but not a true, dedicated train trip. The pulse to do so has lingered for some time in my veins.

For as long as I can remember, I have heard the sound of the train whistle as it passed through Denver. There are many train tracks in and around this city. It’s not an out-of-place occurrence to be stopped at a railroad crossing by flashing lights and safety bars, idly counting the cars lumbering by. On quiet nights when my windows are open, I can hear the train’s sharp remark from my apartment. Frequently these trains at late hours are transporting coal and other non-living material from here to there, but I still can’t help but imagine what one might think as she slipped by such a slumbering city.

A more intimate view of the world than flying 30,000 feet in the air. A more thoughtful way of transportation. An experience I need to make happen right quick.