Frank Smith

Frank likes to show this picture off, says it's his good side.

Frank here is a dying breed. He's a ol' miner, was born in a depot, and his father laid track. He bought a season pass, which they sell in March, for $150 bucks and rode 48 times last year, this year he got to tell everybody that he rides for about 3 bucks plus lunch. This year he had to of rode it at least 50 times and with all stop and go excitement of the train, in Franks case alone, rocks on the tracks, a derailment (rare), and slipping and sliding in the rain. He's a widower, a story teller, and an always reminder of the days of old. I like to imagine he spends his winters in an old saloon somewhere in western Arizona, sitting in on shootout reenactments; just another live-hearty place for old men. 

He loves telling people about the time the rock fell on the track, and I got a picture of him (that he doesn't know about yet) with the conductor helping people off the train. We all had to hop off our train, walk around the rock, and hop onto the other train. I was so exited to be on a train going backwards I took pictures of that too. And realized, it didn't matter if the train was going forward or backward to how the picture turns out. Another time I had hopped off the train at Cumbres Pass and ran down the highway to meet the train at the next crossing. Since the train only goes around 10 miles an hour, he likes to joke and say "he was in a hurry, so he walked" and that's when I got the next set of pictures. 

He's a good man, and he's single.