Nestled way back in the lush mountains of West Virginia is a place time has almost forgotten. There are no big chain supermarkets or restaurants, no massive apartment complexes, no traffic jams, and not even any cell phone service. What there is however, is nothing short of magic. In the air is the faint odor of coal smoke and oil, and if you listen, you may just hear the lonesome cry of a steam locomotive’s whistle!
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Fairfax, Virginia is a suburb of Washington, D.C. that is west of the city, and it is the county seat of Fairfax County. The town was established in 1805 and named after Thomas Fairfax. It played a role in the American Civil War as it was the site of the first land battle of the war (after the first shot fired at Fort Sumter) known as the Battle of Fairfax Courthouse. A second battle took place here years later days before the battle of Gettysburg. Although the Confederates won the battle, it impeded their progress in their march to Gettysburg. Although Virginia was a Confederate state, Fairfax was a Union stronghold. Blenheim, a brick farmhouse, was used as a hospital. The Gunnell House was also the site of a night raid by John Mosby (known as the ‘Gray Ghost’) who invaded the home at night and kidnapped a Union officer while he was in bed and rode him out of town on a horse. With all this history, only the Gunnell House remains in its original location. Blenheim was relocated less than a mile from its location, and the battlefield was overrun with development.
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We don’t talk much about cameras and gear here on The Trackside Photographer. There are several reasons for this, not the least of which is that the internet is awash with reviews and opinions on any type of photographic equipment one can imagine. And the needs of railroad photographers are not highly specialized: we have published work made with everything from large format view cameras to smart phones.
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After returning non-stop to Bangor by air from the Center for Railroad Photography & Art’s highly successful annual conference, Conversations 2019, at Lake Forest College, I made an unanticipated decision to revisit Northern Maine Junction, located two miles west of the the airport. To me it was a sacred place.
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Just before I step out into the unlit hotel hallway, I grab a few packs of Marlboros and stuff them into my bag. My room door is stuck and needs a good, forceful yank to close the latch. I fear every guest has been awoken by the racket, so with soft steps, I walk down the stairs and continue past the police officer sleeping on the lobby sofa, helmet on the short table next to her. As I open the lobby door I am greeted by frigid February air saturated with the sweet, but the harsh smell of burning coal, a smell I had grown to love.
Illuminated by the glow of the trunk light of his Volkswagen, our guide Jun waits for me and my friend and fellow photographer, Todd. Jun will be taking us from our Sandaoling hotel to the last dragons just a few miles away.
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Driving south through Mississippi on Interstate 55. It’s a cool, rainy morning, the kind of spring day you sometimes get in the South before the summer heat and humidity settles in. I pass the signs for Crystal Springs, Hazelhurst, Wesson, Brookhaven, Bogue Chitto, Summit—towns that lie to the east along the tracks. The tracks, and the Interstate, lead me to McComb. In town, I stop for a morning cup of coffee, and make my way to the former Illinois Central depot.
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