The journey begins roughly an hour south of Colorado Springs in Cañon City at a historic depot originally completed in 1914. A few miles later, a dilapidated pipeline comes into view, running along the canyon wall just above the river. Completed in 1910, this eight-mile-long, mostly wooden structure provided water to Cañon City until 1973. As the train passes under the Royal Gorge Bridge, Clawson encourages me to open the cab window, lean back, and look up. The wind whips my hair as I stare at the bridge some 1,000 feet overhead. It’s 18 feet wide, according to Clawson, but from this vantage point, it looks like a thin wire that’s been strung across a gaping expanse.

Next, the train squeezes through the gorge’s narrowest and deepest section, the towering red granite walls growing taller and more imposing as they tighten around the tracks. Then we chug over the famous “Hanging Bridge,” which was an engineering marvel when it was completed in 1879—and remains one even today. At this point, the chasm narrows to just 30 feet wide, creating a bottleneck that required a little ingenuity to get a train through. Engineer C. Shallor Smith came up with a brilliant solution: He designed a 175-foot-long bridge that’s suspended above the rushing water by A-shaped supports anchored to the canyon wall.

Soon after, Clawson spots a pair of plastic kayaks hauled out on a small beach on the other side of the waterway. “We might get mooned,” he warns, referencing how paddlers traditionally greet the train when it passes. But when we spot the kayakers standing on the bank a few minutes later, they simply smile and wave. Clawson blares the train’s horn in response.

Eventually, the train reaches its western terminus, the town of Parkdale. Clawson hits the brakes and we jump down onto the tracks. Standing in front of the train up close, I’m struck by just how imposing she is. Thinking back to Clawson’s personality comment, I imagine her as fiercely independent—a self-assured, no-nonsense type of gal who’s not easily pushed around.

We clamber back into the cab and the train heads in reverse, retracing the route toward Cañon City. I relax back into my seat, letting the engine’s vibrations and the rhythmic drone of the wheels lull me into a pleasant daze. Outside, the rocky surfaces of the gorge’s walls alternate between light and shadow while the river glints in the midday sun. High overhead, I spot a turkey vulture circling on a thermal, its wings arching in a shallow V as it glides without flapping.

Clawson follows my gaze. “You can’t make this up,” he says. “Somebody might type into AI, ‘Take this picture of me and make it look like I’m in paradise.’ [But] all I gotta do is step outside.”