Looking out the window at Hurricane Gulch 296 feet straight down.
Christy G. Smith on the right chatting with friends.
Boarding ticket for Hurricane Gulch, a winter flagstop train.
The flapstop Alaska Railroad trail during a brief stop in Talkeetna in November 2025 on the way to Hurricane Gulch.
One day last summer Christy and I went out to dinner with some friends. During a lull in the conversation, they extended an enigmatic invitation: "Want to go on an all-day train ride with us?" I had to think about that one for a moment.
"Um, what train? Going where?"
"We leave from Anchorage and go up north past Talkeetna to Hurricane Gulch, then turn around and come back to Anchorage. It takes about 12 hours."
I was still pretty much in the dark. "Why would I want to go on a 12-hour train trip that just ends up back where it started?"
"It's relaxing. They don't sell food in the winter on this train so you pack a fabulous picnic and we eat and talk, maybe read a good book and take a nap or two. There's spectacular scenery. Another big plus is that your cell phone won't work most of the time."
My cell phone won't work and that's a "plus?" Usually, I get a little crazy when my cell phone won't work. But apparently the train-trip gestalt is a mini-break from daily routine, fretting and annoyances. OK. As long as we don't have to stand in a circle, hold hands and chant, I was in. Christy agreed to go too.
A couple months later on a cold overcast day in early November we walked into the stately historic train station in downtown Anchorage at 7:30 a.m. We found our friends, picked up the tickets and took a seat in the lobby. The lobby began to fill with Alaska Native families. Kids napped or played quietly. Parents talked softly if at all. Some looked exhausted. Others stared blankly into space.
After a short while a railroad agent approached our group and advised us in hushed tones that this was a special trip because it included a number of families who were evacuees from the recent flooding in western Alaska. The Red Cross would be serving free meals during the day and we were invited to partake as well.
"All aboard!" We found our assigned seats in the mostly empty car and settled in. After a few clunking sounds and jerky motions the Hurricane Turn, "The last flagstop train in the U.S.," started to roll. It swayed gently and gained speed as it passed out of Anchorage.
Clickity-clack. Clickity-clack. It was mesmerizing. Trees, fields, homes and buildings, forest. They were all shades of black, white and gray as they rolled past our window on an uncompromising overcast day. The hours unfolded as we slid past Palmer and Wasilla, heading north toward Talkeetna.
At one point the train car speaker blared out, "Three bears! The engineer has sighted three bears on the right side of the train. Look now so you don't miss it." So we all dashed over to the right side of the train to see the three bears. No cavorting bears anywhere. Just a building near the tracks with a big sign, "Three Bears Grocery Store." Grrr. Engineer humor.
Every now and then we slowed to a crawl and stopped. Cars gently bumped, then were silent. A few people climbed onto the train or departed from it. They had signaled to the crew to stop the Hurricane Turn and they did. Flagstops. There is just no other way to get to remote cabins, and hunting and fishing areas in these parts.
Then came the announcement that we were stopping at Talkeetna. We were advised we could get off the train for about 10 minutes and stretch our legs if we wanted. New people boarded and some fellow passengers completed their journey at Talkeetna. "All aboard!" The crew helped us onto the rickety, sometimes improvised steps leading back into our train cars. Next stop: Hurricane Gulch.
Clickity-clack. Clickity-clack. Time floated by. Very mellow. There was the occasional meal call or other announcement. Most of the kids were quiet, but periodically the train car speaker warned about the hazards of the spaces between cars and advised parents to keep young children from wandering into them.
At one point Shannon Cartwright, a well-known Alaskan author who lives in a remote cabin, boarded the train at a flagstop with books to sell and a fluffy white dog. As the train gained speed she spread her wares out on a table. The train car speaker enthused that everyone was invited to stroll over to her car for a look and a chat.
Then, after an hour or two, the train rolled to a dead stop 296 feet in the air over Hurricane Gulch. The bridge is 100 years old and so skinny you can't see it out the window but you can see a whole lot of space between you and the bottom of the gulch. Yikes. The speaker advised in a less than comforting voice that if you had a fear of heights we would only be on the bridge for half an hour, maybe 45 minutes, as the crew switched to the other diesel engine at the rear of the train for the trip back.
On the way back kids played quietly or slept. Parents seemed a bit more relaxed. I didn't miss my phone.
Clickity-clack. Clickity-clack.
Lawrence D. Weiss is a UAA professor of public health, emeritus, creator of the UAA Master of Public health program, and author of several books and numerous articles.
