I
grew up fascinated by trains. Through my adolescent years, the appreciation
grew, and after high school, I accomplished one of my life’s goals — I was
working for the railroad.
The
company, Conrail, was the result of the federal government’s takeover of all
six major railroads in the Northeast as they collapsed and filed bankruptcy.
Congress bailed them out, took control of the assets and created the
Consolidated Rail Corp. in 1976. It was a new company, rich in history but
losing $1 million per day until the 1980s, when it finally turned a profit and
repaid the federal government every taxpayer penny used in the bailout. In the
late 1990s, however, Conrail was purchased by two Southern railroads, and I
decided a Conrail Historical Society Inc. should exist to preserve the
company’s legacy. So much of what we do in life is taken for granted — where we
hunt, the people we hunt with, the fall forest and its splendor, the giant oak
that has stood tall for an eternity.
Simply,
it’s all the experiences we enjoy. We unknowingly speed through life waiting
for the next opening day when suddenly, we begin to notice the color in our beard,
the gray in our hair or even less hair that can turn gray. Words and pictures
educate us. They teach us about history and remind us of things near and dear
to our hearts. I learned a long time ago — and fortunately at a young age —
that you can never have too many pictures or write too few words. I carry a
camera every time I go in the woods. My brother jokes that I tote more
audio-visual gear than actual hunting equipment, but he’s right. Cameras,
tripods, video cameras, spare batteries, extra lenses, external microphone —
they let me capture more than just the experience.
What
I’ve preserved from past decades is irreplaceable and priceless. I also keep a
hunting journal. In it, I write not just the weather and what I saw each day,
but all of the details surrounding my life and the world around me at that
time. I do it because years later, when I open those books, I don’t just want
simple words to read. I wish for a story to be told — life illustrated as if it
were that day. I challenge you to take pictures, keep a journal and write down
your thoughts. Capture something. Anything. As detailed or scatter-brained as
it might be, do something you can pass along — or leave behind — for someone
who might enjoy the serenity and ever-beautiful landscape you currently enjoy
or is entrusted to you. Far too often, I’ve stood in a shopping center parking
lot realizing the property was once a sprawling rail yard decades earlier,
where mile-long trains were built and broken down, large shop complexes maintained
thousands of freight cars or locomotives, and buildings were constantly abuzz
with men laughing, carrying on and sharing stories of life on the railroad.
Faded memories and images I never experienced in person, gone; victim to time
and our constant fascination with progress. “What’s next?” we ask, when you
should truly ask yourself, “What once was?”
Fortunately,
a wise few saw to it that their life at the time was captured on paper and
film. Through their efforts, not all was lost, and as time marches on, so too
does a bit of history. I keep a journal because every day I take to the woods,
I experience a lifetime of lessons and memories worthy of putting pen to paper.
I’m no Ernest Hemingway, that is sure. I’m simply a passionate individual who
loves all that is the great outdoors: the rustle of leaves as a turkey
scratches for food; the smell of fall, fresh dirt and late-season food plots;
the whitetail grooming her young and teaching them the ways of survival. I
write because I want something to have at deer camp when I’m too frail to climb
into my stand; something to take me back to a time far too clear in my mind to
be so long ago. Most important, though, I write so my children, their children
and their children’s children have something tangible to take with them to the
woods, recalling a time when those leaves still smelled the same. The only
difference is about 150 years.
