Northern Convergence: A Different Kind of Convergence More Than a Century Ago in Craigellachie

There was a time in this fair land when the railroad did not run
When the wild majestic mountains stood alone against the sun
Long before the white man and long before the wheel
When the green dark forest was too silent to be real

Canadian Railroad Trilogy - Gordon Lightfoot

As we crossed the mountains of British Columbia on our geological journey through western Canada, I was becoming aware that whenever we stopped I seem to hear trains in the distance. It makes sense; in mountainous country, highways tend to follow railways, which were sometimes constructed along ancient trails, which followed the gentlest passes. Railways had a somewhat special role in the settlement and development of North America. Completion of the railway across the United States, culminating in the ceremony of the golden spike at Promontory Summit, Utah in 1869 transformed travel across the country. It turned overnight from an arduous dangerous journey of months by horse, oxen, and foot, to a comfortable ride of several days.

The construction of the transcontinental railroad was a huge accomplishment, crossing the prairies, the Rocky Mountains, and Great Basin, and the Sierra Nevada. It was one of the more significant events in U.S. history. But on our journey through Canada, I began to wonder if there hadn't been an even more impressive event north of the border.

We pulled into Craigellachie at the border of the Shuswap Highlands and Monashee Mountains. We were visiting the small park commemorating the driving of the last spike of the Canadian Pacific Railroad in 1885. Having just come through hundreds of kilometers of rugged mountainous terrain, we could understand why the "last spike" was so far to the west. The explorations and route planning of the architects of the railway must have been challenging to say the least.  For one, there was the winter. Many of the high passes presented special challenges from avalanches, or spring flooding in the river canyons. Farther to the east, the railroad had to pass through kilometer after kilometer of muskeg, the soft spongy swamplands of near-Arctic landscapes.

A monument to the last spike was erected at the centennial in 1985. We noticed that there is no lack of activity on the rail line, as at least five trains barreled through during our short visit (including the one above; the picture doesn't give the sense of motion, but it was moving fast).

I couldn't help but notice in the commemorative painting of the driving of the last spike that the person driving the spike was a dignitary who I suspect had rarely lifted a hammer in his life. It's not that I bear any animosity towards him (his name was Douglas Smith, a main financial backer of the railway), and in fact he was quite a philanthropist. But why is it that the dignitaries always get to shovel the first bit of dirt on a major project, and then let thousands of hard-working and hard-living workers (the "navvies") struggle for years to complete the project? Then, when the job is done, they come back and pretend to do a hard thing like driving the last stake? I guess it would be too much trouble to remember the names of the navvies, especially the ones who gave their lives in the service of the railways.

The centennial monument had something interesting on the flanks: representative rock samples from each of the Canadian Provinces. Above is a piece of anorthosite from Newfoundland. Anorthosite, a plutonic rock containing a large proportion of plagioclase feldspar and a few dark minerals, is known mostly from very ancient rocks, generally a billion years or older. It was also found on the Moon, making up the lunar highlands.

The Saint George granite out of New Brunswick is another plutonic rock that apparently is an excellent construction stone that has been quarried for years. It is Devonian in age, about 380 million years old.

The granitic gneiss from Wollaston Lake in Saskatchewan is an ancient rock, around two billion years old. The region has produced uranium.

British Columbia provided a chunk of jade from Mount Ogden. The jade is representative of rocks that formed in a convergent plate setting under great compressive stresses. Jade is of course valuable as a semi-precious gemstone. The outcrops are associated with exposures of serpentinite, a rock we are familiar with back home in California.

The visitor center offered up a chance to pound stakes into a railway, though I had more fun using their equipment as a rock hammer...

One of my favorite songwriters of all time, Gordon Lightfoot, wrote a song commemorating the centennial of the building of the railway, the Canadian Railroad Trilogy (the first stanza is quoted above). I like how he honored the navvies, those who did the actual work (the song was the first place I ever came across the word). Here is a YouTube of his performance of the song in Reno in 2000. Enjoy!

We are the navvies who work upon the railway
Swingin' our hammers in the bright blazin' sun
Livin' on stew and drinkin' bad whiskey
Bendin' our old backs 'til the long days are done

Road Songs...there but for the grace of God...

Silver Fox over at Looking for Detachment has occasionally posted some favorite road songs and something about the idea struck a chord with me (no extra charge for puns). So much of work in the field involves music, whether to keep one company on a long road, or to dispel the darkness beyond camp. It sometimes seems like a primeval urge to chase away the darkness with firelight and chanting (though, since I'm not likely to be eaten by a sabertooth, I embrace the darkness and the starry cosmos too).

I often carry a guitar in the field, and offer my students a sample of songs for the road. I have to admit, they are polite, but don't often know the songs I sing. From somewhere deep in the wells of my past, I've amassed a repertoire of folk songs that are invariably sad, songs about hitting bottom, songs of lost loves, songs of betrayal, and songs of missing home. Townes Van Zandt, for instance, or Gordon Lightfoot.

Even though I'm a long ways from the field, the beauty and healing power of music was driven home for me recently. Sometimes one can't sleep, fretting about one thing or another in a way that keeps one tossing and turning all night. In the light of day, I fired up the computer, and Peter, Paul and Mary popped up with my favorite Gordon Lightfoot song, Early Morning Rain:

In the early morning rain, with a dollar in my hand
With an aching in my heart and my pockets full of sand
I'm a long way from home, and I miss my loved one so
In the early morning rain with no place to go

Stupid irritating problems lose their significance when we hear the storyteller tell of hitting absolute bottom...

Out on runway number nine, big 707 set to go
But I'm stuck here on the ground where the cold winds blow
Well the liquor tasted good and the women were all fast
There she goes my friend, she's rolling now at last

Here the mighty engines roar, see the silver bird on high
She's away and westward bound, high above the clouds she'll fly
Where the early rain don't fall and the sun always shines
She'll be flying o'er my home in about three hours time

Silver Fox says that airplane songs are not part of the road song genre, but this poor guy is not on the airplane...

This old airport's got me down, it's no earthly use to me
Cause I'm stuck here on the ground, cold and drunk as I might be
You can't jump a jet plane like you can a freight train
So I'd best be on my way in the early morning rain

And no resolution, either. I have Gordon Lightfoot's version, and I love it, but the soaring harmonies of Peter, Paul and Mary take the song to a whole different place. Old folk songs touch on deep emotions that we spend a lot of time and effort to avoid feeling.

My other favorite road song also breaks Silver Fox's rule. There is no road, and instead there is no connection at all, just a wide sea. The Water is Wide is hundreds of years old (the old title is Waly, Waly, gin Love be bonny), and many have sung the song, including James Taylor in one nice version. For beauty of voice, I don't think I've heard a nicer version than Niamh Parson's. I listen to it constantly (I wish the video was of her playing the song, though):



The water is wide, I can-not cross o'er.
And neither have I the wings to fly.
Build me a boat that can carry two,
And both shall row, my true love and I.

A ship there is and she sails the seas.
She's laden deep, as deep can be;
But not so deep as the love I'm in
And I know not if I sink or swim.

I leaned my back up against a young oak
Thinking he were a trusty tree
but first he bended and then he broke
Thus did my love prove false to me.

O love is handsome and love is kind
and loves a jewel while it is new
but when its old love it growth cold
And fades away like the morning dew.

I suppose it's not fair to leave the poor homesick students sobbing with misery, but it's also wonderful, in a way, to understand the pain of the singer, and realize that maybe things aren't really all that bad. And if things are that bad, it's good to have company...