insanely loud

what you never thought about grade crossings or the awe of assault

Montpelier is the Vermont state capital seated near the eastern Canadian border with the US. It sits nestled between two rivers, steep and forested hills, and trains from both the granite industry and an Amtrak line. I've lived here for over 2 decades now post-former lives in NYC, Roma-Italia, Boston, and in the shining rural backwaters of Massachusetts, Maine, and New Hampshire.

(I’ve officially lived longest in Vermont. That realization hits me like that moment you figure out why Life Savers are called Life Savers.)

This year, one of the trains, I believe a granite train, blows its horn insanely loudly multiple times a day. I record voice and music material and recently, I can neither predict it nor think when it happens. If I’m outside, it’s injurious. Inside, it interrupts everything for as long as 10 minutes at a time. It wakes those still slumbering and stops conversation in its tracks.

Mind you, I do not live near the train track. I don’t think it would matter. Loud is loud. Where you are just changes whether you give up this minute or the next. It’s been 20 minutes since I decided to write this, and I hear the granite train again, blasting its way out of town.

Why now?

Turns out there’s new enforcement of safety regulations in the transportation industry and that’s been especially noticeable at grade crossings. Apparently, the granite trains traversing steep grades here in North Central Vermont are known for their operational challenges in which extra horn use might be necessary for worker safety or during complex maneuvers. Couple that with multiple road crossings, new housing, and industry abutting the area of eminent domain, it makes sense that there’s a precautionary reaction to the friction.

Quiet zones have also been suspended for the sake of safety, and there’s been an uptick in demand in post-pandemic manufacturing, infrastructure investment, and logistical supply chain demand. So granite trains are running more frequently and with more cars added to each train.

When I let my monkey brain run with this, I think of the mind-blowing weight of a granite car. The little-engine-that-could is going slow and steady, trying not to bust a gusset in its generator while going up these hills or burn out is brakes on the way down. The momentum is intense. They can’t even pretend to stop for any cow, kid, senator, leaf-peeping tourist, or peacefully protesting ex-pat naked hippie sitting railside.

What to do? Blow the horn. Blow louder and longer.

Meanwhile, monkey brain thinks about the crumbling infrastructure around here, the systems bandaided rather than amputated, the benefit and bottom-line gain that “prosthetic” roads and bridges would provide. One block away from me, there’s a WWII temporary bridge that was the only way to the hospital last year when we went under floodwaters of 20 foot river swells. So everyone praises it while being scared to cross it. It’s a source of traffic jams due to the frequency of people hemming and hawing at the entrance to the bridge.

The trains do NOT go over this bridge. But what bridges DO they go over?

There’s infinite connection in having my plan or routine waylaid by this.

It’s awe. I’ve paused for awe my whole life.

This isn’t the kind of awe that comes from a whispering forest or a hovering hummingbird, rather, it’s closer to when the hummingbird caressed my ear. It’s like the drummer at a metal concert who’s playing with inhuman speed in a berserker frenzy. It’s a WTF?!? moment I can’t ignore.

I sometimes find silence just as loud. Maybe louder.

So things like this train have to shout even louder for me to pause and appreciate their tsunami force. It’s annoying. It’s awe-inspiring. And I am grateful.

☼

Leave a comment. It gets lonely shouting into the void. I’d love to hear your response.