Canadian Transport Sourcebook

Chapter XI

Selecting a Station

The station surnamed "Secretan" did not have a very distinguished career. It was entirely neglected by the artful land-shark and left alone in its glory, as I predicted it would be.

It happened in this way. Van Horne said to me one day in his usual impulsive manner while rolling and unrolling many yards of profile, "Where do you want a station named after you?" I modestly declined the honour at first, but I think they had run out of names, as they had been busy christening Pullman cars, so I eventually selected the most God-forsaken spot I could think of to be named after me.

It is situated upon the summit of what is known as the "Missouri Couteau" or "Dirt Hills," a ridge 600-feet high and forty miles wide, which extended across our course and obstructed the passage of the great national highway. This ridge had given me a great deal of trouble in the location, and necessitated, as my professional readers will understand, a continuous maximum grade of one per cent. for nearly twelve miles, which was strongly objected to by the Company, but eventually adopted.

It was a barren wilderness, probably a spur of the great American desert, full of little alkali ponds and lakes, and covered with "spear grass." I remember, in reporting upon the agricultural prospects of this section, I said: "A desert, but might be suitable for sheep." The next day, after the report had gone in, one of my men, a farmer by trade, told me "That there spear grass is death to sheep." So I wired down: "I take back the sheep." It was a difficult matter to find a line through there, and I eventually followed the Buffalo trails and these wise, though wild, animals led me to the lowest summit where the railway now runs.

Van Horne suggested some more attractive location for my station, and wondered why I should pick out such a place. I told him because it had given me so much trouble and I felt sure would never amount to anything, and if anybody ever got on or of a train at that station they would break their neck.

And I actually remember reading in a paper one day that a man while attempting to board a train at Secretan, slipped and had his leg cut off.

This is many years ago, but I understand that my namesake still consists of a side-track and a water tank, surrounded by scenery and several old tomato cans. Such is fame! But I suppose the honour of being mentioned in the timetable ought to be sufficient.

After many years, searching for a better line, they reduced the the grades by making very deep cuttings at an enormous expense. Before that there was hardly a locomotive engineer on the road, when he had to cut his train in half in order to get up that grade, who did not sincerely curse Secretan. And I do not think there will ever be a town there until all the other places are used up.