Rock-tober 22, 2016

There are railroad tracks that span the coastal counties of South Mississippi running parallel to and just north of Highway 90. Mostly, they're an innocuous part of the landscape, a common enough sight that you soon forgot they're there. From time to time, they're a nuisance when the trains that plied them brought all north - south traffic to a halt. On rare occasions, they were dangerous. I know people who almost died because they tangled with a locomotive at the crossings.

The tracks were set on a berm that raised them above the surrounding area. Taking a crossing at speed in a '70 Mustang gave you a little bit of air time Dukes of Hazzard style, or so I've heard. When the periodic wayward hurricane came knocking, this berm became an unintentional levee, defying the storm surge, "This far and no further will you come." Indeed, destruction wrought by Katrina tended to be more apocalyptic on the tracks' south side.

For most of my growing up years on the coast, I lived within earshot of the tracks. Some nights I'd sleep with my window open, and I'd hear the diesel engine's horn off in the distance. What followed were several minutes of freight cars clacking along. It was a soothing sound that lulled me to sleep and something I found I've missed in recent years. When we lived in Columbia, Maryland, we were in the flight path of BWI airport. The racket of passing jetliners was not nearly as relaxing.

I was told, "Don't walk on the tracks, it's dangerous." So of course I walked on the tracks. I figured it was easier to dodge an intermittent train than the busy car traffic on the nearby road. If a train did happen to roll through, my undiagnosed OCD would kick in, and I always found myself counting the freightcars. As the last car clattered past, I'd watch it recede into the distance. Where it was going was always a big mystery and likely fueled my budding wanderlust. It's not diminished with time; I still have a thing for unknown horizons.

The puzzle of the railroad's destination was eventually solved. In its collection, the Library of Congress has a "Railroad Commissioner's Map of Mississippi." Dating from 1888, it traces the route of the rail line from New Orleans, through coastal Mississippi, and on to Mobile, Alabama. So now I knew. If I'd thought about it seriously, the terminal points would have been logical. Of course you'd want to connect major port cities. But that new found knowledge felt odd, like discovering the real story behind Santa Claus. It was like returning to your childhood home or elementary school after an extended time away. Things seem smaller than how you remembered them. That mysterious, distant shore just got a little closer.

Maybe this is what fueled explorers and adventurers back in the day. That horizon isn't a fixed destination; it's a moving target. Realizing this shifts the goal from the destination to the journey itself. For some reason, I find great comfort in that.