“There were difficulties from end to end: from high and steep mountains; from snows; from deserts where there was a scarcity of water, and from gorges and flats where there was an excess; difficulties from cold and heat; from a scarcity of timber and from obstructions of rock; difficulties in keeping a large force on a long line; from Indians; and from want of labour.”

This was the terse story related to the United States Congress by Collis P. Huntington, one of the moving spirits of what, at that time, was a tremendous undertaking—the construction of the first railway across North America whereby the Atlantic was linked with the Pacific by a bond of steel. But that concise statement concealed one of the most romantic stories in the history of railway engineering: of grim battles every hour either against the hostile forces of nature or of mankind.

It was in 1863 that the first sod was turned in the construction of the first line which was destined to bring San Francisco within 120 hours’ journey of New York, and which changed completely the whole stream of traffic flowing round one-half of the northern hemisphere. But for some years before the spade was driven into the earth to signal the commencement of this enterprise, the idea had been contemplated and discussed in a more or less academic manner. It was such a vast scheme, the commercial possibilities of success appeared so slender that the most daring financiers of that day shrank from fathering it. Capitalists concluded that they might just as well pour their money down a well as to sink it in such a project as this.

The public, however, regarded the idea from a totally different standpoint. East wanted to shake hands with the west over the mighty mountains and vast plains. To pass from New York to San Francisco, or in the reverse direction, in those days was a perilous journey. One either had to make a protracted and dangerous voyage down one side of the American continent, round Cape Horn, and pass up the opposite coast-line for some 10,000 miles; to brave the peril of traversing the fever-ridden Central American Isthmus; or to embark upon an overland journey of some 3,000 miles through country where long stretches of parched, waterless desert gave way to lofty, snow-capped mountains, with the Indians in open warfare.

When California seethed in the famous Gold Rush, and adventurers flocked to this magnetic hub from all parts of the world, the absence of a connecting link was experienced to an acute degree. The gold-fever-stricken pioneers had to gain their objective as best they could, and with the best means of locomotion they could afford. In a single year 100,000 gold-seekers trailed across the continent.

The traffic produced by the discovery of gold set Collis P. Huntington thinking. Here was a heavy volume of traffic slipping through the fingers. Why should it not be handled by a railway? This was his argument, and as he was a dreamer of commercial conquest, though not in an idle manner, he decided to remedy the deficiency. Looking into the future, he saw that a line not only would meet the immediate demands born of the gold rush, but that it would develop into a great highway between Europe and the East, as well as the Antipodes. He discussed the idea with kindred spirits, Leland Stanford and Thomas C. Durant, and they became enthused with the project. But the question was how to obtain the money requisite for construction? To appeal to the public was useless, and no assistance could be anticipated from the financial world. So they approached the Government, and their endeavours proved so successful that the country decided to subsidise the undertaking.

When the Government’s sympathy had been secured in a practical manner, the next step was to discover an engineer who could superintend the survey and conduct constructional operations. The country did not possess many Stephensons, and the work in contemplation was of such an unprecedented character that no ordinary engineer would prove equal to the task. Happily, however, there was in San Francisco a railway engineering genius whose ability was being wasted for lack of opportunity. This man was Theodore D. Judah. He was a born engineer, and his skill in railway engineering had achieved a peculiar distinction up and down the Pacific coast. This work was his sole hobby, and the greater the difficulties to be overcome, the more enthusiastically and determinedly he threw himself into the task. His efforts in this direction were so strenuous that he was regarded generally as a crank, and his great dreams of railway conquest provided a continual source of amusement. He was always diving into the mountains, reconnoitring the passes with a view to their suitability for carrying the steel highway, and openly admitting that his greatest ambition in life was to be given the chance to lift the metals over the gaunt Sierras frowning upon the Pacific coast, and to drop them on to the plains rolling eastwards from the opposite slopes.

On one occasion he resigned his position upon a new railway line that was being built around San Francisco, and, unaccompanied, forced his way through the rocky barrier, making a mental note of the configuration of the country as he proceeded in case of something turning up, laboured across Nevada’s dreary wastes of alkali, skirted Salt Lake, and at last gained the Missouri. As a result of his frequent peregrinations among the mountains, his eye became trained expertly in spying out the suitability of the country for the iron road, and he became known under the sobriquet of “The Railway Pathfinder.” It was a picturesque nickname, but it was one which described his personality to the full. That his wanderings were not in vain is proved by the fact that nearly every pass through the mountains which he stated to be adapted to carry a railway has been pressed into this service since, in order to gain the Pacific coast.

Indeed the pioneer trans-continental railway owes its birth to Judah. For years he had advocated the project, and emphasised its practicability. When Huntington and his colleagues were ready to commence operations they sent for Judah, convinced that he was the very man for whom they were searching, to plot the path for the line and to take command of the forces in the field. The Railway Pathfinder, realising that the ambition of his life was within reach at last, hurried eastwards. There was a short consultation which sufficed to prove to the promoters that Judah was the man to carry the enterprise to success, and there and then he was placed in supreme control of the construction. The difficulties among the mountains were what the promoters feared the most, but the pathfinder regarded them so lightly that their apprehensions vanished. He had spent so many months among their silent fastnesses that he knew the range through and through. His plans were daring and feasible, his reasoning lucid, and his enthusiasm infectious. In order that the directing hand in the field might not be trammelled or harassed by business or administration details, a special emissary was deputed to attend to these secondary but vital essentials, so that Judah might be able to concentrate his energies and ability entirely to plotting and pushing the line forwards.

According to the arrangement with the Government, the railway was to commence from the eastern bank of the Missouri River at Council Bluffs. The selection of the eastern bank as the starting-point involved the erection of a huge bridge as the first step in the undertaking. Such an idea appears somewhat curious at first sight, as one would have thought, naturally, that the western bank would have been selected as the obvious eastern terminal. But the Government recognised one point. The railways were spreading their tentacles slowly but surely from the Atlantic coast towards the Missouri River. When they gained its banks a break in the through rail communication would develop, as the eastern railways were in their infancy, and far too poor to undertake the construction of an expensive bridge across this wide waterway to link up with the line stretching to San Francisco.

Construction was commenced from both ends of the line. San Francisco was the Pacific terminal, but as the Golden Gate was connected already with Sacramento, the capital some miles inland, the latter place was the point to which the constructional forces were dispatched. The arm driven eastwards from the Pacific was known as the Union Pacific railway, while that forced westwards from Council Bluffs was designated as the Central Pacific. The two arms were to meet about half-way across the continent.

Judah hurried to California and was soon in the turmoil of his task. The great difficulty on this section was in regard to the supply of the constructional material. Everything had to be sent round by water via the most southerly point of the continent, and as this was a voyage occupying several weeks, extreme care had to be observed to send forward supplies in a steady, constant stream, so that no delays might arise from lack of material. But storms raged, while the negotiation of Cape Horn is a difficult feat at the best of times. The boats were caught in the terrible embrace of wind and wave, and, upon emerging from the conflict, struggled, battered and torn, into the nearest port for repairs. Despite these heavy drawbacks, which no human foresight could determine or avoid, practically no dearth of supplies ever was experienced at the railhead among the mountains. In fact, Judah prosecuted his task so vigorously that before many months had passed the first railway conquest of the Sierras, considered invulnerable for so long, was announced far and wide.

How was it accomplished? The pathfinder followed the easiest path open to him. Distances between points might have been shortened, but time was money. The builders had urged this emphatically upon Judah, so that opportunity to indulge in stupendous engineering feats was denied him. Yet the very conditions which were imposed enabled the pathfinder to display some master-strokes of genius unconsciously. So long as a natural path for the metals was available, he followed it. If his advance were disputed by an obstacle he either removed or ran round it. The hump was levelled and the depression was filled. The rivers were followed so far as practicable along their puzzling meanderings. He lifted the track several thousand feet towards the clouds to gain the railway summit of the range, and then dropped over the other side. In one place among the snow-clad peaks he had to hew a narrow shelf out of the solid rocky mass to wind round the huge shoulder of a mountain. The wall of rock sheered up on one side to a dizzy height; on the other way it dropped for over a thousand feet into the river surging below.

The San Francisco division teemed with complex and highly troublesome perplexities, but one and all arose from the resistance of Nature. Yet they were slight in comparison with those which the engineers experienced as they pushed forwards from the Missouri River. Here it was the hostility of man which harassed them. The Indians, driven from the eastern States by the march of civilisation, resisted its further approach into their domain. Fierce opposition was anticipated, but the results proved far more serious than the most gloomy forebodings. At every turn the savages swept down upon the little band toiling in the solitude of the wilderness, and these organised onslaughts became fiercer and fiercer as the base of operations was left farther and farther to the rear. For every spike that was driven, clinching a rail to its wooden cushion beneath, an arrow sped from an Indian bow, to be answered by the sharp crack of a rifle from the railway building forces. History does not record how many navvies fell victims to the noiseless weapon of the savages, or how many Indians entered the Happy Hunting Ground by way of a bullet. Yet the total of lives would outnumber the spikes driven to secure the metals for the 1,800 miles between the Missouri River and the Golden Horn.

A conclave with the Red Men was urgent before the engineers stirred from the bank of the Missouri. Council Bluffs is a famous spot in the history of the New World, because here the Indians were wont for centuries to meet to settle tribal disputes. It was here that Collis P. Huntington and his colleagues met the Red Men to discuss the terms and treaty for the acquisition of the necessary land to found the city of Omaha.

At that day the nearest point to which the railway had advanced towards the river from the east was Des Moines. The first locomotive required for constructional purposes upon the Central Pacific, and which weighed some 60 tons, had to be hauled across country on the deck of a trolley by teams of horses. When the trans-continental railway was taken in hand, however, the eastern railways were pushed forward with great speed to reach Council Bluffs, in order to carry the thousands of tons of supplies of every description requisite for building purposes.

The scarcity of one commodity was felt severely. In this country one may travel for miles and not see a single tree. This hit the railway hard. Every baulk of timber, whether it was required for a fire, a shack, or a sleeper, had to be brought over enormous distances. By the time a sleeper was laid it often cost as much as $2.50, or ten shillings!

The route between east and west is popularly known as the “Overland Route.” How it received this name is a little story in itself. Among those who arrived at San Francisco in the glorious days of ’47 to make money out of the gold-rush was a Dutchman, whose topsy-turvy English was characteristic of a foreigner possessing only an imperfect acquaintance with our tongue. He opened a saloon, which became a most popular resort. Whenever a stranger entered the rendezvous, Boniface’s curiosity was aroused. The new arrival was asked inevitably by which of the three routes he had gained the Golden Gate. “Did you come the Horn around, the Isthmus across, or the land over?” the Dutchman inquired. “The land-over” signifying the wagon-trail across the States, so appealed to the fancy of the railway-builders that they always referred to the trans-continental as “the land-over route,” which in course of time became twisted into the more correct designation under which it is known to this day.

The level character of the country west of the Missouri River lent itself favourably to rapid construction, as well as easy alignment. At one place it was found possible to lay the track as straight as an arrow for 41 miles. The grade grew quickly, and the rails advanced in a continuous black-grey line across the prairie with striking rapidity, when the Indians refrained from endeavouring to arrest its progress. However, the raids of the Red Men became so devastating eventually that it appeared as if work must be brought to a standstill.

At the critical moment another man appeared on the scene, and his efforts contributed very materially to the completion of the line. This was Major Frank J. North, one of the most daring frontiersmen that those troublous times with the Indians produced in America. He was Fenimore Cooper’s mythical “Pathfinder” in the flesh, and he came to be just as greatly feared by the Red Men. When the railway engineers failed to make headway against the Indians, he offered his services, which, needless to say, were accepted gladly. From that moment the protection of the grade became his one object in life, and his capture became the one absorbing ambition of the Indians. He had roamed the plains for years, leading a rough-and-ready frontier life, had become familiarised with the Indians, their habits, customs and ways; could anticipate their every movement and knew how to counteract their subterfuges. He was versed thoroughly in their ways of warfare, was a born fighter, and was possessed of indomitable energy and pluck.

In order to protect the railway-builders he raised four companies of friendly Pawnee Indians. With these trusty scouts he would creep out stealthily at night from the constructional camp, make his way with impunity to the tepees of the Cheyennes or Sioux, and ascertain their projected operations. Sometimes he would surprise an Indian camp, and scatter the inmates who were on the warpath to the four winds. His marauding expeditions became so audacious that the natives were compelled to withdraw a respectable distance from the grade. He became so universally detested among the foe that the mention of North’s name was sufficient to provoke the most dismal howls of execration and vicious snarls of vengeance.

At times he was absent so many days from the railhead camp that the engineers wondered gravely whether or not he had met an untimely end. Then when they were on the point of giving up hope of seeing him again, he would trot unconcernedly into camp, with his Pawnee shadows, as if returning from a hunt, but his general appearance and self-satisfied air told the navvies that he “had been at the Indians again.” He provoked the hostile Red Men to such an extreme pitch that they turned out in tremendous force sworn to his capture or death. Four times a pitched battle was fought, with tremendous losses; four times the Indians drew off, leaving North flushed with victory. At last the enemy became so disheartened that it withdrew, retreated for miles from the line, and there was a sullen interval in the conflict.

North, however, was not to be lulled into a false sense of security. He divined that some ulterior move was projected. So it proved. The Indians, instead of concentrating their energies upon the destruction of the forces at the railhead, decided to attack the long line of communication at various points, to surprise and destroy the supply trains. A guerilla war broke out, and this baffled North, for he could not bring them to a pitched battle.

The Indians clung like limpets to the grade, and woe betide any stragglers who fell into their hands, for they were cruelly tortured and put to death. Time after time, as the supply train was puffing along slowly, the plain on either side suddenly would reveal hordes of ferocious savages, who had crept through the tall grass unobserved to within a few feet of the track. The men on the train secured any shelter possible behind the transported goods, and blazed away furiously. Brisk skirmishes and opportunities to display marksmanship occurred nearly every day to relieve the tedium of swinging hammer, pick-axe and shovel. Major North happened to be attacked in this way one day, though the enemy were unaware of his presence. But they were so dismayed at the spirited reception that they received that they broke and fled, with North in pursuit. He chased them for hours, and inflicted such losses that the tribe surrendered. A few days later a large number of the vanquished enlisted under the railway-builder’s banner, assisted in the building of the grade, and became law-abiding citizens.

There was one point which was a tempting prize to the Cheyennes. This was a depot 372 miles west of Omaha. Its safety was entrusted to North’s friendly Indians, and they proved too watchful to enable a raid to be made with success. The Cheyennes were determined to secure its capture, and, quietly gathering reinforcements, one day made a supreme attempt to rush it with a thousand men. It was a desperate battle that ensued, but the defenders, being entrenched, secured the advantage, and after fighting desperately for several hours were left in possession of the hundreds of tons of supplies.

These tactics had to be pursued for some 500 miles, but the engineers in time became wearied at the daily round of working and fighting. Besides, they were approaching the Rocky Mountains, where the physical difficulties would be so great as to demand their entire concentration in order to lift the metals over an obstacle 8000 feet above the sea. It was realised, also, that the broken slopes would give the Indians every advantage to prosecute their guerrilla warfare to distinct advantage. The outlook was so depressing that a halt was called. The situation was urged upon the Government, and, as a result, General Grant decided to interview the Indians in person, with a view to placating them. He made a hazardous and exciting journey along the railway to the heart of the enemy’s country. There, with pow-wow and peace-pipe, an honourable treaty was drawn up; the Indians promised to abandon their opposition, and to permit the railway to go forward.

Another difficulty the builders had to battle against was the scarcity of labour. The Californian Gold Fields were too magnetising to cause the men to stay long on the grade. They preferred to woo the fickle goddess of fortune in a scramble for the yellow metal, to a steady, daily round of toil at a regular wage. As a last resource the sheet-anchor of the railway-builder had to be called in—the Chinaman. The Orientals stuck to the work, and under their efforts the line progressed with greater speed than had been possible before their advent. At one time the rails were laid so speedily that the teams could not bring up supplies fast enough to meet the needs of the graders and track-layers.

The permanent way was crude. It was a pioneer line in very truth. The earth was thrown up roughly, the sleepers were dumped on its crown, and the rails were hastily spiked to their bed. The line was little better than what one sees hastily improvised for the transportation of spoil on large engineering works. It writhed and twisted among obstructions in a fantastic manner, for the engineers, having neither funds nor time at their disposal, merely ran round or over humps, whichever method was the quicker. Speed and comfort were negligible considerations. The line, once communication with the coast was established, could be overhauled and strengthened later at leisure. Consequently, travelling was rough, the oscillation was severe, and the danger of derailment always existent. It was these conditions that prompted a phlegmatic Englishman, who essayed the journey shortly after the line was opened, to remark that “the train travelled more smoothly when it was off the rails!”

Some idea of the speed with which work was prosecuted, the innumerable drawbacks notwithstanding, may be gathered from the fact that the whole 1,800 miles of line were built and opened to traffic within six years from the turning of the first spadeful of earth at Sacramento. For the greater part of this distance the monthly average was 50 miles—truly a magnificent feat. In order to maintain this high pressure, 25,000 men and 5000 cattle teams were required, and the total cost of the work was $115,000,000, or, roughly, £23,000,000.

The dawn of the year 1869 saw the two advancing arms racing towards the Great Salt Lake. The Central Pacific, upon encountering this inland sea, debouched to the north and plunged into the broken Promontory Range. Here, at an altitude of 5000 feet, the two arms met, and, amid the wild huzzas of over a thousand people, the last gap was closed, and golden spikes were driven into a sleeper of polished laurel by Leland Stanford and Thomas Durant, the presidents of the respective divisions, to admit the passage of a train, waiting close by with steam up, to pass from the Central to the Union Pacific Railway. The precise point at which the opposing armies met is indicated by a board standing beside the track, the inscription on which runs—

LAST SPIKE,
COMPLETING FIRST
TRANS-CONTINENTAL RAILROAD
DRIVEN AT THIS POINT,
MAY 10, 1869.

The occasion was one of great rejoicing, especially among the citizens of San Francisco. The town went mad with excitement. The festivities commenced two days before the golden spike was driven, and was continued for two days afterwards. Literature contributed its quota to the commemoration of the historic event in the form of a poem from Bret Harte.

In crossing the prairie stretches the railway constructional forces were indebted appreciably for their support to the buffalo, which roamed the plains in tens of thousands. The slaughter of this animal was tremendous to provide fresh meat for the camps, and hides for the clothing of the workmen against the blasts and severe cold of winter. Their existence was providential, especially when the Indians succeeded in capturing and destroying the supply trains bringing up provisions. Water often was a serious problem. For stretches of over a hundred miles at a time not a drop could be obtained from the parched land, and specially-built cars had to be pressed into service to transport this indispensable commodity.

Some idea of the solitude of the country may be gathered from the fact that during a continuous 600 miles not a single white man or homestead was seen. Before the line was completed a pony express plied between Sacramento and Salt Lake City, and the journey under normal conditions occupied three and a half days. To-day the distance is covered in about one-third of the time.

In the course of a few years the traffic on the Overland Route assumed such proportions as to be beyond the capacity of the ill-laid track. The grades were too heavy and the curves too sharp, while rails and bridges were too light. Extensive reconstruction was taken in hand. Banks were abolished, curves were straightened, bridges were rebuilt, the permanent way was re-ballasted, short sections were cut out here, or introduced there, to reduce the mileage—in short, the whole line was rebuilt practically at an expenditure of millions to bring the great highway up to the model of present-day practice.

One of the most important of these improvement works was that known as the Lucin Cut-off. This was a daring piece of engineering forced upon the railway by rival lines, which, possessing easier grades and a better-alignment, could haul heavier loads at a speed beyond the capacity of the pioneer road. This adverse factor was experienced very severely around the north end of Salt Lake, where the line plunges into the rugged and broken Promontory Range, to overcome which such heavy grades had to be introduced as to reduce the speed of trains to a crawl of 12 miles per hour.

At first it appeared impracticable to ease this situation, but the chief engineer was called in and urged to find a means of extricating the company from the predicament. After several months’ survey around this sheet of water he prepared plans which he submitted to his directors. They were extremely audacious. He suggested the abandonment of 373 miles of the old line completely, as it was beyond improvement. In its place he proposed 326 miles of new track, which not only showed a saving of 57 miles in distance, but gave no ruling grade exceeding 21.12 feet per mile. At one point he was baulked by the configuration of the country in the Pequop range, where a grade of 74 feet to the mile was found unavoidable. Moreover, he showed a saving of over half-a-mile in vertical height, the climb on the westward run being cut down from 4,550 feet to 1,535 feet, and on the eastward journey from 4,456½ feet to 1,444 feet.

The salient feature of the scheme, however, challenged particular attention. Instead of running around Salt Lake he advocated a route across it, giving a line as direct as the bird flies from shore to shore, supported on earthen embankments where such could be erected, and in other places upon a timber viaduct. Some idea of what this scheme represented may be gathered from the construction of a bridge from Dover to Calais—a project that has been promulgated—for the distance was about the same.

The engineer was prompted in his belief as to the practicability of the suggestion from his personal investigations. Popular fancy had clothed this stretch of salt water in many legends, one of which was that its depths were unfathomable. This fallacy was scattered to the winds when soundings were taken, for the water was found to be comparatively shallow at the point it was contemplated to cross the lake. Collis P. Huntington hesitated from embarking upon the scheme when it was first unfolded, partly on account of its estimated cost, but more because of its unusual character.

However, when E. H. Harriman secured the control of the line, he entertained no qualms. His engineer said it was feasible, so it must be done to avoid that laborious haul over the hills to the north. Work commenced forthwith, and was pursued with great vigour. When the bank of the lake was gained, the engineer pushed the earthen embankment as far into the water as he could, so as to reduce the extent of the trestling. The distance from shore to shore was 27 miles, but as he took advantage of a peninsula which juts well into the water from the north bank, four miles of the line were built on dry land.

To commence the embankment from the water’s edge an ingenious expedient was adopted. Heavy planks loaded with weighty bags of sand were floated out on the proposed location, and upon this novel permanent way the temporary rails for the ballast cars were laid, and the spoil dumped into the lake until the embankment appeared above water-level. Then the section of floating track was pushed still farther ahead, and the same cycle of operations repeated until the limit of the earthwork was gained. As the embankment grew in height the light rails were replaced by a heavier type, over which rumbled cars carrying 40 tons of ballast apiece, and which was pitched pell-mell into the water on either side. The embankment was then left for a while to permit settling to take place. In time it became as solid as a jetty.

The trestle section proved the most trying, not so much on account of the technical questions involved, but owing to the difficulty in obtaining timber. The wood had to be brought hundreds of miles from the forests of Texas and the north-west. Extensive stretches of trees were purchased and saw-mills were erected to cut the logs to the desired dimensions on the spot. Upon arrival at Salt Lake the wood was dumped into the water, large log booms being formed, so that the material might become seasoned thoroughly.

Work was delayed considerably by the lack of supplies of timber, from storms which swept this inland sea, and which at times wrought considerable damage. At one or two places, although careful soundings were taken, the lake bed proved fickle. When the pile-drivers were set to work, banging the massive uprights into the solid earth, progress would be painfully slow for a time, and then suddenly the pile would descend with uncanny rapidity. The cause was discovered readily. The lake bed is covered with a thick crust of salt and soda deposits, the accumulation of centuries, packed so hard as to give the semblance of being solid rock when sounded. Yet it was only a shell or crust covering unstable soil below. Driving the piles broke up this rind, and then a solid foundation could not be found.

Attempts to remedy this state of affairs were made by pitching rock into the water to provide a solid floor to support the timber uprights. This method proved so slow and expensive that the engineer devised another solution of the difficulty. He ran out a light trestle and dumped rubble overboard around its foundations until the woodwork was buried completely, and a solid earthen embankment was produced to carry the rails.

The actual extent of timber trestling aggregates 12 miles, and this erection spans the lake practically at its narrowest central part. Some of the pile-drivers were carried on floating pontoons, while others were mounted on the track above, the permanent way being pushed forward as rapidly as the timber work was completed. Owing to the depth of the water, some of the upright members are as much as 110 feet in length. They are disposed in rows of five at right angles to the track, and connected by massive longitudinal members, on which is laid three-inch planking, superimposed with a layer of ballast. It was while building the timber work that the greatest depth of water was reached—from 30 to 34 feet.

The trestle was erected with striking rapidity, the record being the completion of no less than 5,317 feet of track in six working days. Had it been possible to bring the timber up more quickly, a greater length of line could have been laid in the time. At rail-level the viaduct is 16 feet in width, and the track is so smooth and solid that the “Overland Limited” can hurtle along at full speed without producing the slightest vibration.

By the time the viaduct was completed, 38,256 piles had been used. This represented no less than 2,824,700 lineal feet of timber which had been torn from the forests. If these logs had been placed end to end they would have formed a continuous line for nearly 535 miles.

So straight did the engineer plot and build the Lucin Cut-off, that even if he had complied with Euclid’s definition of a straight line, it would have been necessary only to have deducted 1,708 feet from the 102.91 miles of track which he laid. In addition, he abolished 3,919 degrees of curves. To understand what this means it is only necessary to remember that each degree represents a segment of the circle. By dividing the above total by 360, the number of degrees to the circle, a result of 11.88 circles is obtained. In other words, on the old route between Lucin and Ogden, the train not only traversed the distance between the two points, but described nearly 12 circles as well. For 36 miles the track is dead level and for another 30 miles the rise is so slight that one has to walk half-a-mile to rise his own height. By the time the task was completed a round £1,000,000, or $5,000,000, had been expended. It appears a huge outlay to reduce working expenses and to increase revenue, but it affords a striking illustration of the boldness of guiding railway spirits in America.