Foreword

by Michael Broggie

Around the world each day, over 100,000 people ride aboard a Disney steam-powered train. Due to the grit and convictions of one individual, who refused to listen to the “experts” of his day, real live steam railroading has been preserved for generations to enjoy at Disneyland and its successor themed amusement parks in Orlando, Tokyo, and Paris. (The park in Hong Kong has diesel-hydraulic engines.)

It’s becoming well known that Walt Disney dearly loved steam railroading. It started during his formative childhood in Marceline, Missouri, where the Santa Fe bisected the town;. continued with his one-eight-scale backyard pike known as the Carolwood Pacific Railroad that operated from 1950–1953; And culminated on opening day, when he arrived at Main Street Station, on the throttle of the E.P. Ripley, to officiate at the dedication of his magical kingdom.

Throughout, Walt remained committed to perpetuating the public’s interest in those chuffing monsters that prowled ribbons of steel, hauling passengers, products, and produce to all corners of a developing nation. He understood well that America’s strength was established on a backbone of rail. He regretted witnessing the demise of the great nameplates that built this infrastructure and the eventual and systematic elimination of steam as the primary source of rail power. Progress, with its attributes, caused the removal and destruction of nearly 160,000 steam engines built in this country. Less than 2,000 escaped the cutter’s torch. Most of the survivors sit static in museums and parks.

Walt didn’t have a great liking for museums. He believed storytelling with experience was the best way to inform and entertain his guests. When giving directions to his Imagineers for the layout of Disneyland, he stated simply: “I just want it to look like nothing else in the world. And it should be surrounded by a train.” He considered the Santa Fe & Disneyland Railroad to be the defining boundary between fantasy and the outside world. He crowned the entrance of his park with a Victorian train station and invited first-time guests to circumnavigate his park aboard the elevated trackage to understand its scope and content. Walt owned the railroad, having financed its construction with his own funds. The crew was on the payroll of Retlaw Enterprises, not Disneyland, Inc. And, whenever he was in the park, Walt was chief engineer, often taking over the operation of the next train pulling into Main Street Station—without the knowledge of his passengers. Dressed appropriately in the hickory-striped cap, red bandanna and overalls he kept at his apartment over the fire station, Walt enjoyed escaping for an hour or two of highballing around his beloved creation.

A stickler for detail and perfection, Walt insisted his trains be operated and maintained to the highest standards of railroad engineering. The select crew knew this and established a tradition of quality that continues to this day. Commenting on this point, Walt said, “You can dream, create, design, and build the most wonderful place in the world…but it requires people to make the dream a reality.”

In this book, Steve DeGaetano sets forth for the first time the complete behind-the-scenes story of how the Disneyland Railroad equipment is maintained and operated. He expertly weaves technical with general information, creating a fascinating narrative that is sure to educate and entertain.

Introduction

It’s 8:30 am on a warm August morning in 1971. I am five years old, but the events that are about to unfold today will still be vivid and clear in my memory, some 40 years later. I wake slowly, with a yawn and a stretch, anticipating the guilty pleasures that I plan on experiencing this fine summer day. Perhaps some hide-and-seek with my friends, or maybe Mom will fill up the inflatable swimming pool in the back yard of our suburban San Fernando Valley, California, home.

After dressing, I leave my bedroom and meander down the hallway to the kitchen. My father is still home, which is unusual, since he is usually at work by this time. The significance of this situation is not lost on me, and I begin to think that something must be up. Possibly we are going to visit my grandparents. Or maybe a trip to the beach is in store.

Having the attention span of a typical five-year old, the thought quickly passes, and I begin eating breakfast with my little sister, Debbie. Mom informs us that we are going to take a trip, but she refuses to tell us where we are going. The grip of curiosity takes hold of Debbie and me. After Mom and Dad take care of a few small chores, we are herded into the family car. I am not sure how I knew, but I felt that something fun was definitely going to happen that day.

Dad guides the car onto the freeway, and we’re off. After what seems to a small child like an eternity of driving, we begin passing under the many bridges that cross the freeway in downtown Los Angeles. I recognize that we are far from home, and I still don’t know where we’re going. Now my brain has moved into high gear. We seldom journey this far from home.

We continue driving, and the anticipation and excitement begin to build. “C’mon, Mom, where are we going?” Mom’s smile is almost as big as ours when she informs us that DISNEYLAND is where we’re going.

Disneyland. Hmmm... Neither Debbie nor I have heard of this place before, so we are very curious indeed. Eventually, Dad sights what he calls the Matterhorn (a Disneyland tradition for many a southern California family is to see who can spot the snow-covered peak first. This will be the last time Dad wins.) We roll into the parking lot—which is now Disney’s California Adventure. After bolting from the car, Debbie and I must wait for what seems an eternity until something called a “parking lot tram” comes to whisk us to the front gate. I fidget while waiting and look toward the park. We are still far away from the entrance, but a large brick building with a gray roof dominates the view. I wonder what it is.

The tram eventually arrives, and before long we’re standing near the front gate of this intriguing place. As Dad buys tickets for the family, I get a close look at the brick building. It has three sets of green doors, and several small windows set into the gray, shingled roof. There are two long sheltered platforms that extend to either side of the building. Under the platform roofs stand hundreds of people. I wonder what they are waiting for. The most distinguishing feature of the ornate building, however, is the large clock tower, set into the base of a tall, pointed roof. On top of the tower is a flagpole. It looks like no building I have ever seen in all my 5 years.

As I stand there, waiting for my father to purchase enough “A” through “E” ticket books to last us the day, I become vaguely aware of a sound in the distance, off to the right of the brick building. At first it is barely perceptible—a soft hissing—but it grows gradually louder. As the sound approaches, it seems to throb and pulse. I can actually feel the sound in my chest as it rumbles closer. The noise is coming from behind some trees and shrubs, and I am now curious to the point of agony. From behind the trees, though, a steam whistle shrieks a single blast, and I know instantly what’s on the way: a train!

Like a time machine from another era, a lost traveler from a long-ago age, it appears: a blue-and-red steam locomotive with flashing red driving wheels and so much brass trim that to me, the locomotive looked shinier than a diamond. The bell on the locomotive was clanging its rhythmic warning, as if to announce the arrival of a great and powerful king—a ruler of the rails whose mighty reign would never end. When I grew older I would sadly learn that the monarch had been deposed by a brash upstart known as a “diesel”.

Trailing behind the locomotive is a string of open passenger cars, each brightly painted and topped with colorful red-and white-striped awnings. I can feel the thumping and the pulsing of the locomotive, as far away as I am, as it passes in front of the station. I clearly see the engineer and the fireman riding in the cab of the locomotive.

Stories that my mother read to me about trains always said that it was they who were in charge of and commanded the mighty locomotive, but now I found this somewhat hard to believe. They seemed to me to be merely along for the ride, like any of the other passengers. Surely no one controls this panting, puffing monster. The fireman sees me, standing there in awe, and gives me a friendly, knowing wave. I instinctively wave back.

The train glides to a stop, but the engine seems alive and restless to move, like a sprinter at the starting blocks. Heat from the large smokestack ripples the atmosphere above it. The sweet aroma of hot oil, diesel smoke, and steam drifts down from the diamond-shaped stack. Wisps of steam spiral upward from places hidden in shadows on the locomotive, and one can hear a hollow, rhythmic pounding—as though the locomotive were breathing fast and heavy, and attempting to catch its breath before continuing its journey to faraway lands. Another engineer appears to the left on the platform, and makes his way toward the locomotive.

The three crewmen are dressed literally head to toe just like the engineers that I had seen in my many picture books about trains. They wear blue-and-white striped overalls with red bandannas around their necks and a long-sleeve blue shirt under the overalls. The engineer wears large white gauntlet gloves. The square-ish cap that is familiar to everyone shades the engineer’s eyes.

The trainmen become engaged in an animated conversation as they wait for the signal to proceed. They seem friendly and approachable in their camaraderie and smiles, and I secretly wish I could join them. The one on the platform holds his stomach in laughter, though I am too far away to hear the chuckles.

Without warning, a jet of steam erupts skyward from the engine with an ear-splitting hiss, as the locomotive’s safety valve lifts. I jump back with a start. The power of this machine seems just barely harnessed. People depart and board the train, and after a few minutes, a booming, echoing voice from somewhere on the platform announces ’BOARD!

Almost immediately, things begin to happen. The whistle blasts two times and quickly, as if to say “Stand back! I am not stopping again!” Steam escapes from the cylinders, bathing the engine in the hot mist, and—for a moment—almost hiding the locomotive. Imperceptibly, the locomotive begins to move, creeping and straining against the weight of its eight-car train. Over the constant guttural rumblings of the engine comes a single, deep muffled Chuff. Then another…and another. The drivers slip once, then bite into the rail. The chuffing continues, until the exhaust beats become a staccato rhythm as the locomotive slowly disappears behind the foliage and into the distance. The cars, full of smiling, waving people, clickety-clack across the rail joints. The last car of the train, a red caboose, drifts quietly past the station, and as quickly as it began, it is all over. Silence, save for the laughter of children and families entering the park.

Dad whisks me by the hand and I catch my breath with a start. As we walk through one of the two tunnels that pass beneath the tracks, Mom asks Debbie and me which ride we should go on first. Without hesitation, I quickly voice my choice for all to hear: “The train!”

Throughout the years, my family and I would come to Disneyland many times. We would eventually ride every ride and see every show. However, we would always begin our day at the park by riding on what was, and always will be, my favorite ride. Welcome aboard the Disneyland Railroad!