Flagstaff Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe, I mean Amtrak, Depot

A railroad depot might not be your first thought when considering towns along old Route 66. It's not a first thought modern travelers generally have. But once roads replaced wagon trails and the west began to attract new pioneers and curious sojourners, it was the trains that brought them. 'Course for many people in this country when auto travel became the norm, and later, flying, travel by train became less desirable. Lots of the early train stations and western depots were modernized or torn down. Luckily, though, some were preserved because they were repurposed and put to other uses. Some were just left but by some miracle not to rot. Many of these restored depots are now town and tourist treasures. They are repositories for local history and railroad artifacts, places for artists and craftspeople to display and sell their works, outlets for tourist schlock, and even railroad stations.

Flagstaff's old Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe—there's no "the" in the name of the railroad company but the old song fills my brain whenever I say the phrase, so I added the word for pure pleasure. Anyway—AT&F depot that stands next to Route 66 in Flagstaff is the third train depot. The first—a wooden structure burnt. That's a fate you hear mentioned along any historical route. Old depots: burnt. Old state capitols: burnt. Old hospitals: burnt. This structure houses an Amtrak station, a visitor center, a place where Native American artists can come to sell their jewelry and other art, gift shops for local museums, and the Lowell Observatory—Flagstaff is an International Dark Sky City.

Flagstaff's old depot is still an Amtrak station

I was lucky enough to be wandering around outside in the depot when a long train roared through. That's not a rare occurrence, though. Long freight trains pass through the town frequently—a sign warns motorists and pedestrians that trains do not sound their horns. But still it was a sight and I was glad to be on the platform at the time. Sort of reminiscent of my own old—although, not exactly pioneer—days, sitting on a big Samsonite suitcase surrounded by eager travelers including soldiers and sailors newly home from the war. Big dark wooden carts labeled "Railway Express" piled high with baggage in the background, and the oily smell of the station. Soon the seven-year old me would be put on the train along with little sister and hear Mother's admonishment to the conductor to "Be sure they get off in Newark." Then just to be doubly sure, she'd turn to any kindly looking one of those soldiers or sailors and say "Will you watch them and be sure they get off when they are supposed to?" But I digress.