Squamish Railroad Museum

Another one of Grampa Ted's brilliant itineraries for Juju.
So around the turn of the last century, Canada was trying to lure immigrants to populate the provinces and built itself an amazing railroad system through some beautiful country, and Squamish, B.C. was the western terminus. Squamish also thrived on mining copper and logging and paper products until recently; now they attract rock climbers, mountain bikers, outdoor enthusiasts, and folks headed to Whistler, less than an hour away. We came for the railroad museum, which was impressive to say the least. It is indeed a train lover's dream come true. There are trains of literally every size- from the Thomas train table inside the roundhouse (next to a lovingly restored Victorian-era private train car) to retired locamotives, boxcars, snowplow cars, coaches and every other car I know of. They just sit there, on the tracks, open with little stepstools to invite you up inside. Each car has something different to offer- some have old pictures, collections of railway silverware and pottery, badges, antique telegraph equipment, maps and communications systems. One car had been outfitted with a miniature model train system behind glass that ran the entire length of the car- miniature village after village. Then there was also a wooden train climbing play area, and the tracks for a small train for kids to ride on- unfortunately, it was out of service for the winter season. I cannot imagine how many retired train lovers have poured their hearts and souls into this place. And almost nothing was closed- you were welcome to walk around the tracks and inside the old trains, welcome to sit in the engineer's seat for the driver's view, welcome to poke at the old metal and peer the windows- from the inside. Julian was obviously in heaven. Finally, someone was hearing him when he requested day after day, "I want to see the train tomorrow".

After the train museum, and lunch at a local brewery, we went for a walk at Porteau park, also on Howe Sound. Even though it wasn't yet 3 o'clock, the tilt of what seemed like a weak sun nearly blinded us as we walked through the forest at the water's edge, watching the frost sparkling on the beached logs, and blowing on our mittened hands, to keep them warm.