And nothing but sky.
We hopped the 28 toward the Hi-Line on Wednesday afternoon, after sipping rye whisky from the red velvet stools of the piano bar at Union Station. The sky was dark by the time we hit Bingen, and we saw no more of the land rushing by until suddenly, the next morning, we were greeted by alternating stanzas of flaming larches and somber pine. Crystal bought us coffee from the lounge car attendant with the booming baritone voice, and we savored the sweetness of the slowRead More