The train tracks run through the valley forever in both directions. It disappears into the Forrest on one end, and curves into the great notch on the following end. Once it was a great hub for grand city folk coming for the hotel in the age of Transcendentalism. Now it serves as a rally point for hikers and a constant stream of tourist.
My favorite time to come here near dusk, when the crowds have melted away and a sleepy dusk fall over the station. There is a quiet smoothness, and without the hustle and bustle one is able to appreciate their place in the mountains Crawford Station Standing as it has for decades, guarding the Train tracks.
Everyday watching trains come up from Conway. Continuing the tradition with some changes.
The trains come rolling through the valley their lonely whistles echoing off of the Notch walls. Even while one is high in the mountains they can hear the even sound of the whistle long and lonely.
The train makes it was way into the head of the notch, and comes to a slow deliberate stop. Tourist pour of of the station, onto the hot pavement. We have to weave in between them, our legs worn out from our hike up Mount Tom.
They walk aimlessly cameras in hand, milling around the same Crawford Station from last night. Its red and yellow paint glossy in the sun. Getting closer my eyes are always drawn to the paint. Flawless from faraway the paint close up it is uneven, many layers painted on top of one another. The building is old, yet has made its way into New Hampshire lore, and in that way it has almost ensured its protection.
This is a place where memories and modern day collide. Where tourists walk amount physical representations of the past. Where the trains of old continue to make their slow deliberate way through the Notch. Where the Crawford Station stand forever beside the railroad tracks in the mountains.