7-22-2024 4:53am

"I AM: Proud" --A Little Bird Arrives in Anxious Moments for Nathaniel Guest

Lesley Misko Editor

by Nathaniel Guest

Ten-Forty-Six AM on June 26 was the defining moment of my 2023.

Early in the morning of that day, half a dozen or so of us gathered at the Colebrookdale Railroad's junction with Norfolk Southern in Pottstown. Day-glow vests worn by modern railroaders are not standard attire within the time capsule that is the Colebrookdale, but we wore them that day in preparation for a rendezvous with the modern world—a special train whose arrival represents a date with destiny for our uncommon little enterprise.

Two weeks earlier and hundreds of miles away, one of the last great unrestored steam passenger locomotives was preparing for an unlikely odyssey. In late May, it had been nudged from the rusty confines of three decade's slumber and carefully perched onto a mammoth steel flatcar. It embarked on its journey with thousands of hours of planning and preparation behind it and the hopes and dreams of many little boys and girls—and one very sentimental 47-year-old—ahead of it.

Railfan footage that began to appear on the internet shortly thereafter showed the rakish, dazzling silhouette of the great engine astride its flatcar, racing northward through towns and freight yards and crossings lined with onlookers. The form of the ponderous and powerful diesels leading the train seemed rudely out of place contrasted with the elegant visage of the steam engine chasing behind them, so timeless its lines that it hardly seemed the anachronism that it was. As it curved away from the camera, the sun glinted off its cab, slowly spelling out each digit of a name that looms large in the annals of my childhood imagination: 5-2-8-8.

Our yellow-vested team plodded across the old ballast to the switch that connected the Colebrookdale’s tracks to Norfolk Southern. The interchange was a non-descript place, a nowhere kind of spot that took its identity from being in between other places. The idea for starting the Colebrookdale Railroad was born only a few yards from the interchange, albeit four decades before.

I had the good fortune to spend much of my childhood with my grandfather. He was kind, and understanding, and my time with him on weekends was a refuge from the torment of the bullies at school who claimed life Monday to Friday. Most importantly, he loved trains! On Saturdays, we’d go to Strasburg to ride the trains there. On Sundays, we would leave church and head to Pottstown to watch trains.

From the interchange that day, I could see the place where he would park his car, and the newsstand where we would get ice cream, and the place where we would place pennies on the track. It was from there he once pointed to the Colebrookdale’s tracks and said, “That would make a good tourist railroad someday.”

Neither he, nor the widest-eyed wonderer among our founders 40 years later, could have imagined the arrival of a locomotive such as 5288. A "Pacific" type locomotive built in 1919 to haul express passenger trains, the engine had been donated from the Tennessee Valley Railroad Museum to the Colebrookdale through the kind work Alan Maples, Tim Andrews, G. Mark Ray, and the team at FMW Solutions.

The dendritic arbor of the curious creature nonprofitus directoris has evolved to dedicate equal and simultaneous effort to both manifesting and diffusing anxiety. For me, that day, looking nervously at the tired, sloppily-curved interchange track we share with Norfolk Southern, soon to bear the full weight of a locomotive it was never designed to support, anxiety overshadowed all the joyful anticipation that had built up over the previous days.

Added to the weight of the engine was the great weight of expectation of a burgeoning crowd gathered to watch its arrival. I had hoped there would be few spectators just in case the whole process went south. I had put out a directive that we were to keep the delivery date under wraps, which, naturally meant that by the time the engine arrived, the whole universe—the whole camera-clad, texting, Instagramming, TikToking, Facebook-posting universe, knew.

Metal clanged against metal as the derail device that separates the Colebrookdale from the outside world was wrestled off the track. Slowly, carefully, Andy Sellers gently eased the Colebrookdale’s engine ahead in preparation to meet the Norfolk Southern train delivering 5288.

We had done all the right things. We had a crew out to upgrade the tracks. We had engineers out to inspect all the bridges. We even had extra staff on hand to address any problems we could think of. Still, all of this preparedness didn’t stop visions of the engine quietly keeling over or falling through the High Street bridge from sending me into the bushes to pee with alarming frequency during the entirely of our wait—nearly three hours by that time.

I walked to our engine to report that we got a call saying the Norfolk Southern train bringing 5288 might be even further delayed; the NS crew was worried about whether or not 5288 would clear a bridge in Reading. "If you are worried about it in Reading, just wait till you get here," I thought. A friendly voice from the cab interrupted my mental corner-cowering. “The big day is here, buddy!” said Andy Sellers. Andy had taught me to run steam engines 30 years ago. As I look back now, what a joy it was that he should be there for that moment.

Returning from another trip to the bushes, I realized I was getting a little lightheaded…maybe from dehydration! Tromping back to the interchange, my mind wandered again to my grandfather. I thought of all the many trips to Strasburg he took me on, me sitting on the center armrest between the two front seats (yes, people did that back then!). I pondered all those sojourns together that brought so much joy to a nervous, nerdy little boy who grew up to start his own little railroad, all those trips that led to this moment. I wondered what if he had been able to be one of the day-glow-clad men with me there at the interchange. Somewhere there was a universe where pancreatic cancer had not taken him away, and he was right there with us, waiting for 5288.

Every organization headed by a dreamer needs to have another leader who is a grounded realist to actually get things done. For us, his name is Josh Alderfer. A fire chief and parent to my niece and nephew, his mettle has been tested and I don’t think there is much we can throw at him to flap him. That won’t stop us from trying, though, and June 26 was certainly shaping up to be a test. I kept wondering to myself if he was thinking “This is another fine mess you have gotten us in!”

“Well, hopefully NS will bring it sometime today, Josh,” I quipped to him breathily to try to break some of the tension. I tapped my foot anxiously and looked west toward Reading in the direction the train should be coming from…just as I had been doing for nearly four hours. Still nothing.

Then the most curious thing happened. A floating gray mass flew into my view, blocking it. Instinctively, I recoiled and nervously swatted it away, but it floated back. I stumbled backwards, getting a better view. It was a beautiful tiny little bird. Was this a sign I needed to seek some professional help?

“Josh, do you see this?” His reply in the affirmative gave me some hope my cheese had not yet slipped off my cracker. The little bird seemed to look me right in the face, and with a chirp it flew over to Josh, who stood only a few feet from me. It flew eye-to-eye with Josh, flapping its wings furiously seemingly trying to maintain its gaze with him just as it had tried to do with me. Josh, unlike me, had the presence of mind to be still, and the bird, not needing to dodge swatting hands, began what seemed to be a conversation. Slowly, deliberately, it flew to his shoulder, where it landed. There, sitting comfortably on Josh’s bright yellow vest, the bird began to talk.

A silence fell over all of the people gathered at the interchange, mesmerized by the communion with our little friend. Having regained a little of my senses, I reached for my camera and began to take photos. Time stood still for the several minutes this lasted.

Captivated by the bird’s narration, the crew missed a faint light appearing on the distant horizon. It can be seen in one of the photos I took, though. Rounding the bend, the golden glow of a locomotive light emerged with slowly growing insistency.

One of the crew noticed, and announced it. With a tweak of its head and a final chirp, the bird flew off down the tracks toward the silently approaching train, disappearing into the tree canopy as the big modern diesels of the Norfolk Southern train rumbled by. Through the parting clouds of their exhaust, the silhouette of 5288 emerged. I looked at my watch: 10:46 AM. She was home.

For as clearly engrained as the events of that morning are upon my memory, the events of the several hours that followed thereafter are a blur. I remember dividing my attention between the hand-off of the engine between Norfolk Southern and the Colebrookdale, and the trees looking for the little bird. I remember the crowd gathered at the Pottstown Station, and the audible cheers I could make out when they first caught sight of her.

I am grateful for many things in my life. This memory will always be one of them.