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Narrow Gauge For Us The Story of Toronto & Nipissing Railway by Charles Cooper
Narrow Gauge For Us The Story of Toronto & Nipissing Railway By Charles Cooper Dust Jacket 160 Pages
Introduction
It is really rather difficult to imagine why anyone would have wanted to build a railway to Coboconk. But then, unlike in Europe, our early railroads were not built to transport people. A pioneer country needed lumber and grain to survive. This meant laying rails to wherever the timber was and as for the grain, much of the land was still unsettled and a railway line was a guaranteed attraction to encourage new farms.
To the capitalists and politicians of the day, the railway had no social significance. It was purely an instrument of economic development. Each was a risk venture designed to make money first and foremost, and more often than not, indirectly. The wholesaling of raw materials, the contracts for construction and the consequent real estate dealings were the real benefits. Most railways themselves did not actually make money as enterprises, or if they did, it was not for long and the employees and the ordinary users of the railway became pawns in a complicated and long drawn-out game of political chess.
In a country which could conceive of the Grand Trunk or the Great Western Railway, the Toronto and Nipissing might indeed have appeared as a jerkwater line, but that is a narrow view that does not take into account the reality of Ontario or that of transportation before the advent of the railway. With few roads and with those that existed either in a state of quagmire or dustbowl, depending on the season, movement on land was just as difficult, dirty and as dangerous, no matter whether the journey was to Goderich or to Uxbridge or wherever. It is just that depending on one's destination, the agony would last longer on some trips than others!
Ironically, it is the railway's local futuristic symbol, the CN Tower, which makes the point rather well. On a clear day from high upon the Observation Deck, one may view a sea of water and a sea of trees. Trees and trees and trees. Now in your mind's eye, take away all the buildings and the highways and just imagine nothing but trees, dense underbrush and torrential streams. Somewhere on the horizon to the north-east is the pioneering village of Markham and well beyond your gaze on even the clearest day is Uxbridge, let alone Coboconk. Now imagine saddling a horse and galloping off along some treacherous Indian trail that a way....
No doubt about it, for the ordinary citizen, the coming of the railway was a blessing of a lifetime. Admittedly a mixed one, in the view of some, but its benefits were undeniable. Until then, each community had lived its own life, substantially isolated and self-sufficient and every member of that community was completely inter-dependent on the goodwill and skills of his neighbour. At that time, travel to the next village was an adventure and a journey to the Queen City was a memorable event, and a picnic to Jackson's Point an ecstasy.
Yes, for many years, the local iron road was for most communities the only reliable link with the outside world. Thus, the railway was a boon. The men who worked on it were neighbours and the local depot a social institution, the focal point of the local economy and the nerve centre for the news of the world over the station agent's wire. The trains were as fibres woven into the tapestry of the life of the people, they took the children to high school, the farmers' wives to town for a day's shopping and they attended upon all other comings and goings. Young people left to seek their fortunes, soldiers went off to war, others came home to return to the place of their birth and together with those who just took the train for business or an outing, they all came under the friendly gaze of the engineer. In addition, the trains were the very lifeblood of the local economy in taking raw materials and produce to market in return for the finished goods to make life more bearable: implements for the farms, supplies for the school, gadgets for the kitchen and some finery for Sunday. The trains brought and took the mail and the mournful wail of the engine signalled breakfast, noon hour and quitting time. Life so regulated itself around "the daily" that even the cows would know without being bidden that it was milking time.
There were few improved roads and highways as we know them today, and it seemed as if life would always be that way.
You know the rest of it. Today the tracks are gone, the stations razed, the engines scrapped and the memories dimmed. Silence broods over the abandoned rights of way, with only the wind to whistle over the grass along the overgrown embankments.
So, briefly now, let us turn the pages and relive a bygone age the way it was. Smell the coal oil in the waiting room, hear once again the clattering milk cans, the creak of the station door, the excited chatter of bystanders, the sonorous whistle and the ringing bell of the engine, the impatient thump of the injectors and the conductor's loud and finite: "B0000ARD!" Then feel the sudden lurch as the couplings clank and hear the coach groan as it takes the strain, press your nose against the soot-stained window and watch the place you called home grow smaller and disappear as the train rumbles across the trestle over the village creek and rounds the curve under a billow of smoke on its way to the big world out there around the hill.
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