S3, E2: A Love Letter to the West Coast by Rail

In this week’s episode of Travel Tales by Dinogo, Chris Colin and his teenage daughter encounter a Mike Tyson impersonator, take in the beauty of the golden West Coast, and embrace the joys of train travel.

Transcript

Aislyn Greene, host: I’m Aislyn Greene, and this is Travel Tales by Dinogo. Today, we’re diving into the slightly wild adventure of two travelers: Chris Colin, an author and Dinogo contributor, along with his 13-year-old daughter, Cora.

Each episode, we bring you a story from a traveler about a trip that truly touched their life. This season, we’re sending out writers, comedians, and playwrights to explore the deeper questions of life. For this journey, we put Chris and Cora aboard Amtrak’s Coast Starlight, which connects Seattle to L.A.

Chris has written numerous stories for Dinogo about his family’s adventures. However, this is the first time he’s focused on an adventure with his daughter. Their big question: What are the chances of a good train heist? Just kidding...well, kind of. Their journey had a more poetic vibe than that, but I’m sure they can tell it better than I can. All aboard!

Oklahoma: I’m Mike Tyson, the heavyweight champion of the world... Crazy, huh?... Doesn’t matter. I’m Mike Tyson. I’m the heavyweight champ.

Chris Colin: That’s Oklahoma. That’s actually the guy’s name—Oklahoma. I didn’t even know that was a choice for a name. But here we are, and just like the state, this Mike Tyson impersonator is large and seemingly unimpressed by my presence.

By now, you’ve probably figured it out, but yes, we’re on a train. Oklahoma, my daughter Cora, and I, along with a couple hundred other passengers, are heading down the West Coast for the next 35 hours. Streams, forests, and fields blur by. From his outdated swivel chair in the lounge car, Oklahoma gazes out with an almost royal disinterest. Judging by the empty bottles at his feet, he’s already on Corona number three.

Around Corona number four, he finally turns towards me. Did I know he once wrote and recorded a song called “Mandy Sue”? I didn’t know that. Well, I did, he says, and it’s available on YouTube.

That’s really cool, I respond.

You can look it up on your phone, he suggests.

That’s awesome, I reply.

Do you have YouTube, right? he inquires.

Finally, I take the hint and pull out my phone. There are only two rules on a trip like this: First, watch the sparkling lakes rush by, the wildflower patches, the muffler shops, the camping tents, the Christmas tree farms, the yard sales, the tweens bouncing on trampolines, the dads inflating pools, and all the other little details that make up a country—one that often feels more like an idea than a tangible, 3D reality.

The second rule: If a guy named Oklahoma asks you to play his song on your phone, just do it.

Okay. Thanks a lot. Really appreciate the ride.

You can’t discuss train travel without first mentioning train stations. They’re crucial to both the journey and the experience. So, hours before meeting Oklahoma or anyone else, Cora and I, with our little rolling suitcases, step into the grand, quiet expanse of Seattle’s historic King Street Station.

With its majestic polished marble, sturdy wooden benches, and vintage lamps, it’s a monument to the art of waiting—an unhurried place where you can pull out a book or simply look up at the detailed ceilings and think about your leisurely upcoming journey.

A thousand one hundred miles. Seattle, Portland, Eugene, Salinas, Santa Barbara, and a few dozen other stops. Even for those who aren’t die-hard train fans, the Coast Starlight route is legendary—offering the most scenic West Coast tour imaginable. Cora, how about you give us that classic Amtrak pitch in your sweetest, most over-the-top advertising voice?

Cora Colin: “Alright. So, along the way, we pass through towering mountain ranges, meander through peaceful valleys, and hug the stunning, ever-changing Pacific coastline. The views are incredible, each city has its own charm, and the history along the route is absolutely fascinating.”

Eddie the porter: L.A. Union Station? Yep, that’s right. Room eight, got it. And there’s two? Alright, come on in. The staircase is on your right. Once you’re at the top, take another right. Your room’s the second to last door on your right. Come right in. There’s a luggage rack to your left, but those two should fit just fine. You can play it by ear and I’ll be there as soon as I finish up here.

Chris: These stairs are tiny.

Cora: And the hallway’s even narrower.

Chris: So, we turn right like he said? Alright, we’re looking for room eight. Wow, this hallway is really tight.”

Chris: Incredible.

Chris: Oh my goodness. This is... really small.

Jenna, the neighbor: Is this your first time doing this?

Chris: No, is it yours?

Jenna: Oh, definitely. This is my second time. First time I didn’t even have AC, so this is already an upgrade!”

Chris: Glad we’ve got AC. How far are you headed?

Jenna: Oh, Oxnard. And you guys?

Chris: We’re heading to L.A.

That’s Jenna, the neighbor across from our tiny roomette, measuring just 3 and a half feet by 6 and a half feet. Soon, Eddie the porter stops by.

Eddie: When you step out, everything you need will be to your right. The diner’s two cars back, and the sightseer lounge, where all the seats face the windows with the best views, is four cars back. The dining steward, John, will come by to take reservations for lunch and dinner. Got it?

Chris: Before we left, I asked Cora what her ideal trip would look like.

Cora: Well, the best thing would be if something mysterious happened. Like, there’s this really strange passenger who smokes cigars and keeps glancing over his newspaper, that sort of thing. And then I could take notes and figure out what happened, and maybe win some money. That’d be perfect.

Chris: I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that Agatha Christie-style train mysteries aren’t exactly common. Honestly, you’d be lucky to even spot a simple diamond heist. Besides, if I did tell her, it might’ve led to some awkward questions about what I was hoping to get out of this trip.

Over the years, I’ve taken Cora and her brother on all kinds of trips to help them see the world differently. When Cora turned six, I took her to the Mojave Desert to show her vast emptiness. She was an old soul, intrigued by what lay beyond the typical, bright world of childhood. At seven, I took her brother to the Grand Canyon with a group of rugged yet kind men to show him what healthy masculinity looked like.

Now Cora’s 13. She’s a talented artist, an emerging soccer player, a sharp observer, and skeptical of most things—except animals. I really cherish her, and before high school pulls her in a million directions, I wanted us to have a special, eye-opening experience, something that felt important and a little soul-stirring.

I truly believe that a long train journey is one of those rare experiences that tugs at something deep inside. When you spot a train from Mytour, winding through the hills or echoing its mournful whistle over a distant bridge, don’t you feel something? A sense of wistful longing, a touch of romance, maybe even a bit of loneliness? But what exactly is it? What do I want from these 35 hours?

For now, though, there’s plenty to explore, so we set off. And, yes, we do get a little carried away by how amazing the rest of the train is.

Cora: Welcome to business class.

Chris: Let’s take a look. Cora, these are your classy folks. Show some respect. Oh, and the lounge car—wow. This place is gorgeous.

Cora: Can you just come in here anytime?

Chris: This is the real deal. Absolutely incredible.

Cora: They have single chairs all facing the windows.

Chris: Wow. And they swivel just a bit, oh wow. And the windows—they open and curve over, almost like little skylights. This is fantastic.

As the train rumbles southward, we settle into the sleek lounge car. Cora immediately pulls out her sketchbook and gets to work. Meanwhile, I just gaze out, mesmerized. The view is an endless parade of wonders. Snow-capped mountains in the distance. A guy napping in a minivan. An inflatable unicorn tangled in a stream. A small house with a sign out front, ‘Gerbils for Sale—$10 Each.’ I have a perfectly good book sitting on my lap, but I don’t even open it.

By now, you’re probably thinking I’ve never ventured beyond my front door. Not true! There’s something about a train ride that naturally makes you compare it to past road trips. As I sit there, I find myself reminiscing about all those epic Kerouac-style journeys I’ve taken, only to encounter endless rows of McDonald’s, Exxons, and IHOPs. Nobody likes to admit it, but unless you’re very intentional about avoiding highways, which is the typical route for a road trip, they’re often pretty miserable!

The train, though—it’s something else entirely. The tracks slice right through people’s lives, weaving past backyards, farms, small towns, and verdant valleys. You pass so close you can see into bedrooms, pizza joints, back porches, and even kale gardens. You’re also a bit higher than a car and moving just a tad slower. I know it sounds like small, technical differences—different route, altitude, speed—but they add up.

But often, it’s these seemingly insignificant details that make all the difference, that push us into moments of grace. How many couples would never have fallen in love if the vermouth in their martini had been just a touch off, or if the Paris Metro’s font had been one percent less romantic, or if the vermilion in Vermeer’s ‘The Music Lesson’ was just a plain red? And so it is that, despite living on the West Coast for 20 years, I’m seeing it all anew for the first time.

Chris: Alright, Cora. We’re rolling into Tacoma, Washington. Got any fun Tacoma facts for us?

Cora: I do! I learned about the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, which was a suspension bridge that collapsed in 1940, just a few months after it was completed.

Chris: Oh wow. Did anyone die in the collapse of the bridge?

Cora: Fortunately, no people were harmed, but there was a three-legged dog left inside a car when its owner had to flee.

Chris: Oh, that's really unfortunate.

Cora: Yeah. I don’t want to sound like I’m blaming the victims, but two people ran into the car trying to save the dog, and the dog bit both of them. They eventually had to prioritize their own safety and escape the bridge.

Chris: But the dog made it out okay and is living happily on a farm somewhere now, right?

Cora: Yep, exactly. That’s the story.

Chris: Ah, thanks for the Tacoma trivia, Cora. That was great.

Cora: Happy to share!

Chris: At 12:30, we're called to the dining car. Unless you're opting for room service, meals are a communal experience. We're joined by a cheerful cyclist named Richard. As we dig into veggie burgers, he shares stories of his childhood with an FBI dad, his college history degree, and how he unexpectedly ended up in anti-submarine training. But mostly, we discuss his years traveling on this train, meeting people in these very booths, which gives the meal a surreal, cyclical feel—as if passengers will keep gathering in the same spots, on the same tracks, forever.

Older man: I've been riding this train since high school.

Chris: Really? What year was that, approximately?

Older man: 1955.

Older woman: I’d never taken the train until I met him.

Chris: What is it about the train that you both enjoy?

Older man: We love the views, the people we meet along the way. It's relaxing—nothing like the stress of catching a flight. No long TSA lines to worry about.

Cambria: I’m heading down to see my dad near San Francisco. It’s a perfect, affordable way to travel without the hassle of driving. Plus, I get to sit back and sketch. The scenery is just beautiful.

Chris: What are you drawing?

Cambria: Oh, I can show you. Here’s something I did earlier.

Chris: Wow, that's amazing.

Cambria: I love the windows in the observation car. You get to see all sorts of scenes, like sometimes there are junkyards or lumber yards, but then you might spot something incredible. Like today, there was an eagle perched on a log right by a river. It was breathtaking. There are these little moments you wouldn’t normally witness.

Chris: Maybe it’s the steady rhythm of the tracks that makes people open up. Even Cora seems to be connecting with our neighbor Jenna.

Cora: I’m reading *Good Girl’s Guide to Murder*. I’m already on book three, and it’s incredible.

Jenna: Oh wow, that sounds intense!

Cora: It totally is. I’m hooked.

Jenna: That series is such a thrill ride.

Cora: Definitely. It’s hands down my favorite right now.

Chris: The afternoon fades into dinner, and soon a stunning sunset paints the sky somewhere in southern Oregon. Back in our room, Cora’s lost in her book while I fumble with the banjolele I brought along.

By now, we’re train veterans, the novelty long gone, replaced with a quiet affection. It feels like we’ve been rolling along for days, maybe even weeks, but time is blurry. Eventually, it’s time to sleep. We think about the people we’ve met—Oklahoma will be getting off in Oakland tomorrow. Will he ever make more music? I kiss Cora goodnight, then drift into thought, staring out into the dark.

Chris: We’re just leaving Klamath Falls. It’s 11:30. [Sighs] I’m not sure what we’re passing—some small industrial spots scattered across vast fields, occasional lights dotting the landscape, but mostly just darkness. A few homes tucked away in the trees.

It’s like being a kid again, lying in the backseat of the family car as streetlights zip by. You’re up past your bedtime, feeling the motion of the road through the car, the rhythm is hypnotic, the bumps soothing, and you slip into that cozy trance. I haven’t felt that in ages. Alright, goodnight, tape recorder.

Chris: Okay, Cora, we’re pulling into Oakland. What do you have for me?

Cora: So, the city is full of these quirky painted gnomes created by an unknown artist. They're perched on window sills, attached to utility poles—basically everywhere. But PG&E isn't fond of them and is planning to send a crew to take them down.

Chris: Wow. That’s a lot to think about. Thanks.

When trains first rolled out, they were the epitome of progress, shiny and new, promising a future of endless possibilities. Now, they symbolize a bygone age—a time of luxurious club cars, whispered conversations in private parlors, and the barbers and beauticians who once roamed the aisles.

For me, though, trains always make me think of Leslie Turner. I tell Cora about the day in 1921 when this tall, lanky young man stepped into the sweltering heat of the Dallas train yards, looked around, and climbed aboard a baggage car idling in front of him. Hidden in his shoe were his life savings—$40. This was, I explain, Cora’s great-great grandfather.

Leslie had gotten used to hopping the blinds, sneaking onto the front platform of the baggage car to hitch a free ride among the luggage. Other times, he’d ride on top of the cars, feeling the wind under the vast open sky. It was there, about a thousand miles from Dallas, when he started to feel drowsy. He stretched his legs out for balance, laced his fingers behind his head, and closed his eyes.

My great-grandfather didn’t hop on trains just because he had no money. There’s something unique about traveling by train. It’s not some grand metaphor or deep, poetic experience. It’s more like watching an endless movie unfold before your eyes, unlike any other movie you’ve ever seen in your life.

That was the case for my great-grandfather, at least, until one morning he woke up on top of a baggage car and found a Pennsylvania cop poking at him. A few days after that, he was locked up in prison.

Shortly after his arrest, he discovered that prisoners doing hard labor could request permission from the guard to go buy cigarettes from a nearby shop. So, my great-grandfather made his move. As the guard kept watch, he jogged over to the store, bought his smokes, and casually walked out—and jumped into a delivery truck, disappearing forever. It was one of those rare, self-made escapes.

I imagine this event as just another scene someone might witness from inside their own train window. That’s the essence of this movie-like experience. The plot isn’t some epic tale; it’s just history playing out as it always does: a mix of chance and choice, a cascade of events that somehow form the world we live in, or dream of. The plot is how glaciers from the Ice Age shaped landscapes, how the lumber industry redefined California, and how someone’s bouncing a baby outside a crumbling apartment complex while another person takes their 15-minute break at a KFC. The plot is the woman in the floral shirt just north of Soledad who’s been standing in her farmhouse doorway every single day for 50 years, waving at this very train.

This is what I hoped for from this trip. I didn’t need Cora and me to have profound conversations every step of the way, like in the stereotypical road trip stories. I just wanted to sit with her and watch this strange movie unfold together for a while.

We’re just north of San Luis Obispo when suddenly, everything goes pitch black. We’ve entered a long, dark tunnel carved through a rocky hillside. When we finally break free on the other side, we’re perched dramatically on the edge of a sprawling valley. The sun-drenched hills, dry and golden, tumble down toward the valley floor, where the faintest breeze ruffles the grass. In the distance, you can spot the poor souls driving along Highway 101, heading in the same direction. I’ve been one of those souls, but I’ve never really noticed this valley before. You’re too focused on the road, and even if you could see it, it wouldn’t matter much—you’re not in train mode.

We continue winding along the valley’s edge, passing another one, with a creek bed lined by live oaks and manzanitas, and cows grazing near a barbed wire fence. The landscape is nothing but gentle hills stretching out in every direction. The train plunges into yet another tunnel, enveloped in darkness, and after a few more minutes of chugging along, the tracks twist sharply, giving us a chance to glimpse the train itself. The front of the train loops into view, now in sight of the rear.

Chris: Alright, Cora, we’re approaching Simi Valley. What do you know about it?

Cora: Well, Ronald Reagan is buried here in Simi Valley. Before he became president, he worked as a lifeguard and saved 77 lives. That got me thinking about lifeguard world records. The record for the most lives saved belongs to Leroy Columbo, who saved 907 lives over the course of 40 years.

Chris: Thanks for the great Simi Valley fact, Cora.

Cora: Yep.

Chris: Here's a fun fact.

The trip takes thirty-five hours—the perfect length of time. From the lush greenery of Washington to the dry, dusty stretches of Oregon, and then waking up in California, golden and bright, with a misty, gray morning that turns into scorching heat. We roll along the rugged edge of the Pacific Ocean, a route that feels a bit dangerous. Cora and I spot two dolphins gracefully leaping from the waves, and then the night falls. Soon after, we’re packing our bags, headed toward Los Angeles.

Over the coming days, Cora and I will talk endlessly about the trip—about the quirky, lovable characters we met, the stunning views, and the adventure of it all. But, I’ll admit, I briefly wondered if this was one of those trips that would lead to some grand, life-changing epiphany. Did I fail my child as a travel guide, offering more than just the thrill of the journey?

Then, one evening, as we drive home after a late dinner, I see the streetlights blurring past. I notice the soft shadows shifting across my kids’ faces as they stare out the window, sleepily watching the night unfold. You know the feeling—the deep, almost animal-like sensation of watching the lights streak by. The cool touch of the window against your forehead, the familiar pressure of the old seatbelt across your chest, and the rhythmic ka-thunk of the road beneath the car.

A train is just that. It's the train version of this feeling, this deep, unspoken sensation that doesn’t settle in your mind, but in your very cells. For those thirty-five hours, yes, we played cards, chatted, and ate the famous Amtrak veggie burgers. But underneath it all, we were in a kind of trance. A train is a trance—a 60-ton hypnotic state. Whatever it does to you, it works beneath the surface.

So there’s your somewhat vague answer, my daughter. I’m not sure what this trip was really about, but I trust that it sunk into our bones. That’s where we’ll keep the memories of Oklahoma, of Richard, of the scent of train tracks, and the sight of moonlight sweeping over a dark field as you drift off.

And, Cora, just so you know I didn’t forget, here’s the follow-up on your great-great-grandfather. Fifty years after his escape, he came back to Pennsylvania. He was 72 now, a successful illustrator and an upstanding man who paid for his train tickets with real money. Maybe something in his bones hadn’t quite settled, because he walked up to that prison and confessed. The officials, probably more concerned with other matters, just shrugged and let him go. There’s my trivia for you, Cora.

Aislyn: Thanks for the trivia, Cora and Chris! I asked Chris what it’s like to travel with his daughter, the one to whom 'the world of adolescence beckons,' as he put it.

Chris: She’s very thoughtful, always processing a lot internally. I tend to blurt out whatever comes to mind, or talk about anything that crosses my thoughts. But she’s always thinking about ten things at once, and she might say only two of them. So, it’s interesting to travel with someone like that.

Aislyn: He also mentioned that, since he didn’t have much chance to travel as a kid, he’s now 'determined to spend every last penny on taking his kids on wild, impulsive adventures.'

If you want more of Chris’s wild and adventurous stories, you can check out his website at chriscolin.com, or follow him on Twitter and Instagram @chriscolin3000. His latest book is called 'Off: The Day the Internet Died.' We’ll provide links in our show notes. He also created many of the songs you heard throughout this episode. And a final shout-out to Oklahoma, and to his song, 'Mandy Sue.'

Hungry for more travel tales? Visit us online at Dinogo.com/podcasts, and make sure to follow us on Instagram and Twitter. We’re @Dinogomedia.

If you enjoyed this journey, we hope you’ll return in two weeks for more incredible stories. Subscribing is the easiest way to stay tuned! You can find us on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or any of your favorite podcast platforms. And don’t forget to rate and review us—it helps other travelers discover the show.

This has been Travel Tales, a production by Dinogo Media and Boom Integrated. Our podcast is produced by Aislyn Greene, Adrien Glover, and Robin Lai. Post-production support by John Marshall Media’s Jenn Grossman and Clint Rhoades. Music composed by Alan Karesha. Special thanks to Irene Wang and Angela Johnston.

I’m Aislyn Greene, your host who’s always chasing the next adventure. It feels so good to be back on the road! As we journey through this year, just remember: travel truly starts the moment we step out of our front door.

Everyone has a Travel Tale to share. What’s yours?