We took a 53-hour Amtrak train from Chicago to California. It was a great way to see the country, but I'd never do it again. [Business Insider]
We took a 53-hour Amtrak train from Chicago to California. It was a great way to see the country, but I’d never do it again.
The idea came to me over a lukewarm cup of office coffee. I was scrolling through Google Flights, watching the price of a non-stop from Chicago to Los Angeles hover around $280. It was fast. It was efficient. It was, frankly, boring. My colleague, a train enthusiast who owns a poster of the Orient Express, leaned over and said, “Why not take the California Zephyr?”
Two weeks later, I was standing on Platform 4 at Chicago Union Station, a duffel bag slung over my shoulder, staring at a towering double-decker train that looked like a silver bullet from the 1950s. The California Zephyr. Fifty-three hours. 2,438 miles. One bathroom down the hall. I had convinced myself this was going to be a romantic, cinematic journey across the American heartland. I was half right.
The romance of the rails
Let’s get the good stuff out of the way first, because there is a lot of it. For the first twelve hours, the Zephyr delivers a masterclass in American geography. You leave Chicago’s gritty industrial backside and within an hour, you’re crossing the Mississippi River at Galesburg, Illinois. The coach seats, which I had dreaded, were surprisingly spacious—think a first-class airline seat with double the legroom and a footrest that actually works.
The real magic starts in Colorado. You wake up (if you were lucky enough to sleep) to the sight of the Rocky Mountains rising out of the plains like a geological wall. The train snakes through the Moffat Tunnel, a 6.2-mile bore through the continental divide. When you emerge on the other side, the world is different. The air is thinner. The snow is deeper. The views from the Sightseer Lounge car—a glass-domed observation car with swiveling chairs—are absolutely hypnotic. We passed through Glenwood Canyon, a narrow gorge where the Colorado River churns beside the tracks. People on the train—strangers—were pointing at windows, taking photos, high-fiving. It was communal. It was beautiful.
The dining car is an experience in itself. Amtrak forces you to sit with strangers, which sounds like a punishment but turned out to be the highlight. I had dinner with a retired couple from Iowa who were on their way to visit their grandson in Sacramento, and a solo traveler from Australia who had never seen snow. We ate flat-iron steak and drank cheap red wine while the sun set over the Utah desert. For four hours, we were a tiny, rolling community.
The brutal reality of 53 hours
Now, the part the brochures don’t show. The romance wears off somewhere around the Nevada border. It wears off because you haven’t had a proper shower in 36 hours. The coach bathroom, which was clean at departure, starts to develop a distinct aroma of damp socks and regret. The toilet flushes with a terrifying vacuum sound that makes you jump every time.
Sleeping in a coach seat is a lie. You tilt back. You try to get comfortable. You wake up at 3 a.m. with a kink in your neck and a strange person snoring three feet away. The Zephyr also has a notorious problem: it stops. A lot. Freight trains have priority on the tracks, so you can sit for 45 minutes in the middle of nowhere, staring at a signal light, wondering if you’ll ever see California. One delay in Nebraska added two hours. Another in the Sierra Nevada mountains added another 90 minutes. By the time we rolled into Emeryville station (just outside San Francisco), we were four hours late. It was 11 p.m. I was delirious.
And the food? The dining car is fun once. By the third meal, you are paying $12 for a microwaved burger that tastes like cardboard. The snack car runs out of coffee at 2 p.m. on day two. You start rationing your trail mix like you’re a pioneer crossing the Donner Pass.
Would I do it again?
No. And I say that with all the affection in the world. The California Zephyr is not a mode of transportation. It is a pilgrimage. It is a test of endurance. I saw things I will never forget—a herd of antelope in the Utah desert, the Sierra Nevada peaks lit by a full moon, the neon glow of the “Welcome to California” sign at the state line. I met people I would never have spoken to on a plane. I read a whole book. I wrote in a journal. I felt the rhythm of the rails in my bones.
But I also felt every single one of those 53 hours. The novelty wears thin. The body aches. The internet (which is spotty at best) disappears for hours at a time. If you are looking for a quick, comfortable way to get from Chicago to California, take the plane. If you are looking for an experience, take the train. Once. And then never again.
Ahmed Abed – News journalist