I never had the opportunity to meet my father-in-law. Fred left this earth years before I had ever dreamed that there was a person out there in the world like Matt. I know a few things of him now; stories shared reverently by his sons, the soft sadness and fierce joy in my mother-in-law's eyes when she speaks of him, the occasional Jack Daniels-- neat, no other way-- my husband on rare occasion lifts in toast, the photos that I've seen. In one of those photos, he stands proud and poised by his wife, both of them dressed sharply, slacks and turtlenecks and trench coats, on a beach somewhere, wind whipped, smart, proud. It's an iconic photo, a portrait of partnership, endurance, and straight-up class. The other photo is of his final day, his body ravaged and gaunt from lung cancer, my heroically stoic mother-in-law equally taken with a quiet grief as she holds the hand of her partner slipping away, and Fred's 3 sons-- one with his brand-new baby, my stepson-- holding the space in love and absolute equanimity. For all that I'll never know of Fred, with full certainty I can say that this man was a giant. The other thing I've been told in the family narrative is that Fred was a died-in-the-wool railroad buff. He loved trains, knew routes and timetables by heart, could name any make and model of engine, and revered the graceful old stations as holy as any chapel.

I thought of Fred this morning as I waited at Union Station in Portland for my train. At first, I was a little ashamed. Fred would never have dreamed about catching a train in an old flannel shirt, jeans and boots, hair all haphazard, slightly ragged suitcase covered in a fine sheen of cat hair.  I imagine Fred in that similar trench coat from the coast picture, and definitely a fedora. I can almost smell the warm worn leather of his briefcase.  As I waited in line to board, I texted my husband: "Every time I board a train, I miss your dad for you."

The route to Seattle from Portland is lovely in so many ways, but the real magic is those first few minutes, leaving downtown. The gritty twisted steel, broken concrete, industrial jungle that the train lurches and crawls through, the pervasive emerald moss so thick it appears to have a pulsating heart beneath the dense cover; this is the landscape of the voyager. I relish that moss, in stark contrast to the oxidized beams and girders. Through those heavy industrialized first few minutes, the train is like a toddler, swaying, unsteady, tentatively waking and exploring. As we approach the Columbia, the tracks steady a bit, the creaking and lurching become a slow, steady roll. The mist is heavy and thick this morning, so thick you almost expect to taste it in your teeth through the window, so it's a bit of a shock when the sun breaks through my window as we gain the trestle.

Then... we are timeless, immortal, and existing in a moment that just feels like freedom. The low rumble of the diesel is like the bass line to a symphony, the blast of the train whistle a trumpet call to the rolling Columbia below. The river answers in shimmering silence, a landscape in the early morning of taupe and grey, dotted by the occasional makeshift camp on it's shores beneath the trestle. A wisp of smoke rises from a campfire, a heron glides prehistoric beneath the steel span. Bliss comes in the soft, insistent minuet of the train bell clanging in rhythm with every heavy girder flying by my window. There is such a methodical rightness to everything, a balance of nature and steel, and I feel my tired body slowly lulled into dreamy, musical sleep, all rumble and roll punctuated by the occasional staccato of the whistle. Momentum, equilibrium, a beautiful rightness to the world. This is for you, Fred.