A Nebraska Sunrise on the California Zephyr

 From Provo to Chicago

Chess, conversation, harmonica music, smooth jazz, hidden disability, and America seen at rail level

By DeAndre, Duke of Hanumanteshwar

Some journeys stay with us because of where we went. Others remain because of the people we happened to meet, the conversations we did not expect to have, and the ordinary moments that became extraordinary simply because we were paying attention.

My journey aboard Amtrak’s eastbound California Zephyr #6 from Provo, Utah, to Chicago, Illinois, became all of those things.

I boarded in Provo in the darkness of the early morning. At that hour there is very little ceremony to departure. The city is still sleeping. Travelers speak quietly. Bags are gathered. Conductors give instructions. Then the doors close, the train begins moving, and somewhere beyond the glass the place you have just left starts disappearing into the night.

Leaving Provo carried its own emotions. My time there had been filled with unexpected friendships, dinners, conversations, community, music, and hospitality. Now another chapter of my journey across America was beginning, carrying me east through Utah and Colorado, across Nebraska and Iowa, over the Mississippi River, through Illinois, and ultimately into Chicago.

The California Zephyr has long held a special place in American rail travel. The route links the San Francisco Bay Area with Chicago and crosses some of the most celebrated rail scenery in the United States. Mountains, river valleys, plains, agricultural communities, industrial towns, and major cities all become part of the same journey. I was not traveling the Zephyr’s complete western-to-eastern route on this particular segment. I joined Train #6 in Provo. Still, there were hundreds of miles ahead of me, and the experience quickly reminded me that a timetable can tell you where a train stops, but it cannot tell you what happens between those stops.

That is where the real story begins.

The Sightseer Lounge Becomes a Community

The Sightseer Lounge quickly became one of my favorite places aboard the train. Its large windows bring the landscape close enough that the country seems to surround you. Mountains, clouds, fields, towns, and rivers become part of the room.

But the observation car offers another kind of view as well.

It gives you a view of people.

During two days in the lounge, I had the opportunity to spend time with an Amish family and, in particular, a young Amish couple who had only recently married in May. They were newlyweds beginning their life together while I was continuing my own long journey across America.

I enjoyed watching members of the family play chess. There was something wonderfully grounding about the scene. Outside, hundreds of miles of America were moving past our windows. Inside, two people could sit quietly across from one another, considering a move, advancing a piece, and becoming completely absorbed in a game that has been played for centuries.

Eventually, conversation opened another door.

I asked the newlywed couple about the language spoken within Amish communities. They explained that Pennsylvania Dutch continues to be used within many Amish families and settlements and that, although differences in pronunciation and local usage exist, speakers from different Amish communities can often understand one another.

I found that fascinating.

The term Pennsylvania Dutch can be confusing because the language is German-based rather than Dutch in the modern sense. Yet sitting across from people who actually live within that linguistic tradition made the subject far more meaningful than simply reading about it.

They were not discussing language as an academic subject.

They were talking about the language of home, family, community, identity, and continuity.

And because we happened to be traveling together, if only temporarily, I had the privilege of listening.

That is one of the gifts of long-distance train travel. You have time to ask a question. You have time to hear the answer. You have time to discover that the person sitting across from you carries an entire world you knew almost nothing about an hour earlier.

Chess, Conversation, and a Harmonica

The observation car gradually developed its own rhythm.

People came and went. Some sat quietly watching the scenery. Others talked with strangers. There were snacks, card games, books, laptops, laughter, and those long silences that feel completely natural when everyone is watching the same landscape pass outside.

Then, one evening, harmonica music became part of the atmosphere.

There is something almost perfectly American about hearing a harmonica aboard a long-distance train.

Railroads and music have been intertwined in the American imagination for generations. Trains have appeared in blues, folk, country, gospel, and popular music because they have always represented something larger than transportation. They can represent leaving, returning, opportunity, separation, freedom, distance, and home.

So when harmonica music began filling the Sightseer Lounge, it felt almost as though the train had discovered its own soundtrack.

People were talking. Chess pieces moved across a board. Others watched the country through the windows. Underneath everything was the constant motion of steel wheels carrying all of us east.

For a while, the Sightseer Lounge did not feel like a train car.

It felt like a gathering place moving across America.

Morning Arrives in Nebraska

Then came morning.

Nebraska gave me one of the images I suspect I will remember longest from this journey.

Sunrise.

The night slowly surrendered the horizon. Light spread across the plains, revealing land that seemed to continue indefinitely beneath a broad sky.

I have seen many sunrises in many places, but there is something different about waking to one aboard a moving train.

You are not standing still watching morning arrive.

You are moving through it.

Nebraska appeared little by little in the early light. There was no dramatic skyline or mountain range demanding attention. Its beauty came through openness, distance, stillness, and sky.

It was one of those moments when travel gives you something without asking anything in return except that you notice.

And I did.

America at Rail Level

As the morning continued, Nebraska gradually gave way to Iowa.

Small communities appeared beside the tracks. Platforms came into view. Someone boarded. Someone else stepped off. Families waited. Bags rolled across concrete. Then the station disappeared behind us and fields returned.

That rhythm became one of the great lessons of the journey.

Traveling by air is efficient, but it compresses geography. You leave one place and arrive somewhere completely different without truly experiencing the distance between them.

A long-distance train restores that missing sense of passage.

America remains human-sized.

You see houses.

You see farm equipment.

You see church steeples.

You see warehouses.

You see backyards.

You see people waiting at railroad crossings.

You begin noticing the places between destinations, and those places start to matter.

Crossing the Mississippi

Then came one of the great geographical thresholds of the trip.

The Mississippi River.

Crossing it by train felt different from simply seeing its name on a map. The river carries centuries of American history, commerce, migration, literature, music, labor, and memory.

Yet my experience of it was wonderfully simple.

Water.

Bridge.

Sky.

A moving train.

For a few minutes, I watched one state become another.

Iowa behind us.

Illinois ahead.

There was something symbolic about the crossing. We had entered the final state of my California Zephyr journey, but Chicago was still hours away.

There was still much to see.

Wind Turbines Over Illinois

Western Illinois opened into another kind of landscape.

Fields stretched beneath a bright sky filled with soft clouds. Farmland seemed to continue toward the horizon.

Then I began seeing wind turbines.

Tall white structures rose above the fields, their blades turning steadily in the distance.

The contrast fascinated me.

The agricultural landscape spoke of generations of farming. The turbines suggested energy, technology, and a changing future.

Neither seemed to cancel out the other.

They simply shared the same horizon.

From the window, it became one of those compositions that rail travel creates effortlessly: crops in the foreground, wind energy in the distance, clouds overhead, and faint reflections from the observation car across the glass.

America old and new in the same frame.

A Small Town Can Hold a Large Story

Later, another Illinois community appeared beside the tracks.

Mendota.

At first, I knew almost nothing about what I was photographing.

I saw a small white chapel, a red barn, an old-fashioned windmill, railroad equipment, and a modest downtown.

Then the train carried us onward.

Only later did I learn that the area preserves important pieces of the community’s agricultural and railroad history. What had looked like a few picturesque structures from a passing train represented generations of farming, settlement, rail travel, faith, and local memory.

That discovery changed the meaning of the photographs.

From a train window, I had seen what appeared to be another quiet American town.

But there was much more behind what I saw.

The California Zephyr did not stop long enough for me to explore every place that caught my attention.

Sometimes it simply gave me a glimpse.

And sometimes a glimpse is enough to make us curious.

When the Lounge Became a Jazz Car

As the afternoon progressed, something happened inside the train that reminded me how much people determine the atmosphere of a place.

There had been a staff change.

Almost immediately, the Sightseer Lounge felt different.

Soft, smooth jazz began playing.

An announcement was made that cold beverages were being served from the upper-level bar area.

Staff members began moving through the lounge with an easy hospitality.

“Would you like a menu?”

“Can I get you a drink?”

The physical space had not changed.

The same windows.

The same tables.

The same seats.

The same train.

But the energy had changed completely.

The previous day had felt intimate and almost homespun. There had been chess, long conversations, harmonica music, and people gradually becoming familiar with one another.

Now the lounge felt almost like a traveling jazz club.

Sunlight poured through the curved windows. Smooth jazz floated through the space. People settled more deeply into their seats. Conversation flowed. Cold beverages were being served.

And Illinois continued moving past us outside.

I loved the contrast.

A journey changes with geography, daylight, passengers, and even the staff who come aboard. Sometimes the atmosphere changes simply because someone decides that the final afternoon should have a little music and hospitality.

Traveling With What Others Cannot See

There was another part of this journey that could not be understood simply by looking at the photographs.

I was making it while living with a hidden disability, HLA-B27 spondyloarthritis.

In photographs from the Sightseer Lounge, I am smiling beneath the curved windows wearing my hat and sunglasses. My Hidden Disability identification is visible in some of those images.

Someone looking at those photographs might simply see a traveler enjoying himself.

And I was.

But photographs do not always show the calculations happening inside a body.

Pain.

Stiffness.

Fatigue.

Mobility.

Energy.

How far is the next walk?

Where can I sit?

How much physical energy do I have left for the next part of the journey?

That is one of the realities of hidden disability.

A person can be smiling and managing pain at the same time.

A person can travel independently and still need assistance.

A person can look completely comfortable while carefully deciding how much energy remains.

Those realities are not contradictions.

They are simply part of living and traveling with a condition that other people cannot always see.

That is why accessibility is about much more than whether someone can physically board a train.

It is about dignity.

It is about seating, assistance, time, understanding, and rest.

It is about recognizing that not every disability announces itself visually.

Long-distance rail travel gave me something valuable in that regard. I could regulate my pace more naturally. I could remain seated when I needed to. When my body allowed it, I could go to the Sightseer Lounge and become part of the life happening there.

For me, that mattered.

I was not simply being transported across America.

I was participating in the journey.

The Landscape Begins Turning Into Chicago

By the time we reached the western Chicago metropolitan area, the landscape began changing rapidly.

Fields became fewer.

Buildings became larger.

Roads became busier.

Communities moved closer together.

Then came Aurora.

From the elevated train window, downtown appeared beneath me with historic buildings, streets, parking structures, and public art. One enormous pair of painted wings immediately caught my attention.

It was another reminder of how communities reveal themselves differently from a train. There is no carefully curated arrival. You see backs of buildings, rooftops, murals, parking lots, church towers, side streets, and whatever happens to face the railway.

From Aurora onward, Chicago began gathering around us.

The spaces between communities disappeared.

The rhythm outside the window became increasingly urban.

Landmarks Beside the Tracks

The final suburban stretch produced one small landmark after another.

In Western Springs, a historic brick water tower rose above the trees.

Then came Cicero, where another historic tower appeared in the distance, connected to the industrial legacy of Western Electric’s enormous Hawthorne Works.

Again, the railroad was showing me another America.

Not simply scenery.

Industry.

Labor.

Infrastructure.

Neighborhoods.

History.

The natural landscapes that had defined so much of the journey were giving way to places shaped by generations of workers, manufacturers, families, migrants, and communities built around railroads and industry.

Chicago Before the Postcard

The closer we moved toward downtown, the more layered the landscape became.

I saw warehouses.

Loading docks.

Old brick factories.

Graffiti.

Vacant industrial land.

Residential buildings.

Playgrounds.

Backyards.

Churches.

Railroad crossings.

These were not necessarily the images selected for tourism campaigns.

But they were part of Chicago.

And arriving by train allowed me to see them before I ever saw the famous skyline.

That mattered.

A city is not only its monuments.

A city is where people live.

Where people work.

Where children play.

Where industries rise and disappear.

Where buildings are abandoned, restored, repurposed, or left waiting for whatever comes next.

Where generations leave marks long after anyone remembers who made them.

This was Chicago before the postcard.

Then, almost suddenly, something appeared beyond the rooftops.

The skyline.

And Then There Was Willis Tower

At first, downtown appeared through the haze.

Buildings gathered in the distance.

Then one shape became unmistakable.

Willis Tower.

Its dark vertical form and twin antennas rose above the surrounding city.

Chicago was no longer a destination printed on a timetable.

It was there.

Visible.

Real.

And what made that moment so meaningful was everything that had come before it.

I had not been dropped directly into downtown.

I had watched Chicago assemble itself.

Farmland.

Suburbs.

Historic towns.

Industrial corridors.

Backyards.

Warehouses.

Graffiti-covered freight cars.

Apartment buildings.

Highways.

Then the skyline.

That is one of the great gifts of arriving somewhere by rail.

A city does not suddenly appear.

You enter its story gradually.

Entering Chicago’s Railroad World

Then came another unmistakable sign that we were inside Chicago.

Metra trains.

Silver double-decker commuter cars appeared beside us. Locomotives sat across multiple tracks. Bridges crossed overhead. Rail yards expanded in every direction.

Our California Zephyr had spent so much of its journey crossing enormous stretches of America. Now it was entering a transportation network whose daily purpose was entirely different, carrying people between Chicago and the surrounding communities.

Tracks multiplied.

Willis Tower appeared and disappeared as the train curved through the city.

For a moment it felt like entering a gathering place for railroads.

The California Zephyr had brought me across states.

Now Chicago’s own trains surrounded us.

The Last Light Before Union Station

For a few final minutes, the afternoon remained visible outside.

Commercial buildings appeared immediately beside the tracks. Apartment balconies faced the railway. Highways crossed above us.

Then the light changed.

The bright sky disappeared behind concrete and steel.

After so many hours of windows filled with mountains, plains, rivers, farms, wind turbines, towns, and cities, suddenly there were darkened platforms, overhead lights, columns, rails, and other trains.

It struck me that this journey had begun in darkness in Provo.

Then came the Nebraska sunrise.

A full day followed.

And now the California Zephyr was carrying me back into darkness.

Not because night had arrived.

Because Chicago Union Station had.

Stepping Off Train #6

And then the train stopped.

There was no more landscape moving past the window.

No more station ahead.

No more miles remaining on this part of the journey.

The doors opened.

I stepped onto the platform at Chicago Union Station.

Beside me stood the long silver train that had become my temporary home between Provo and Chicago.

For more than a day, California Zephyr #6 had carried me through darkness and daylight, mountains and plains, conversations and silence, a Nebraska sunrise and Illinois farmland, the Mississippi River and Chicago’s industrial neighborhoods.

Now it was still.

That stillness felt strange after so much movement.

People gathered their belongings and began walking away.

The temporary community aboard the train dissolved almost immediately.

The newlywed Amish couple would continue their own life together.

The chess games were over.

The harmonica was silent.

The smooth jazz had ended.

The observation-car windows that had framed so much of America were now simply windows in a train standing at the platform.

I looked back at it.

Then I continued into Union Station.

Made It

Inside the station, another part of traveling with a hidden disability became visible.

Arrival does not necessarily mean that the physical journey is finished.

There is still luggage.

Navigation.

Connections.

Waiting.

And sometimes the need to simply sit for a while and allow the body to catch up with everything the mind has just experienced.

I noticed accessible seating clearly marked with the familiar wheelchair symbol.

Nearby, Amtrak had designated a Quiet Area, asking travelers to keep conversations low and use headphones for personal entertainment.

After more than a day filled with motion, conversation, scenery, music, and stimulation, there was something almost perfect about seeing those two ideas together.

Accessibility and quiet.

My wrist carried a simple band marked Union Station.

I sat down.

And finally, after everything between Provo and Chicago, I could say it.

I made it.

For a moment, I did not need to think about the next destination.

I thought about the newlywed Amish couple married only since May.

Pennsylvania Dutch.

Chess.

The harmonica.

The staff who transformed the Sightseer Lounge into a smooth-jazz afternoon.

The Nebraska sunrise.

The Mississippi River.

Wind turbines rising above Illinois farmland.

A white chapel beside the tracks.

Historic towns.

Old factories.

Graffiti.

The first glimpse of Chicago.

Willis Tower rising above freight cars and railroad tracks.

And finally, the quiet of Union Station.

The California Zephyr had given me something far more valuable than transportation.

It gave me time to see America at rail level.

Not only the spectacular America.

The ordinary America too.

The America of mountains and rivers, but also farm fields, loading docks, church steeples, warehouses, apartment balconies, playgrounds, railroad crossings, and people whose lives intersect with ours for only a few hours before the journey carries everyone onward.

Travel often encourages us to focus on where we are going.

This journey reminded me to pay attention to what exists in between.

Because sometimes the spaces between departure and arrival contain the real story.

I boarded Train #6 in the darkness of Provo.

I stepped off in Chicago.

And somewhere between those two moments, America unfolded outside my window, one conversation, one sunrise, one town, and one mile at a time.