Curious relatives and friends often ask me, “Well, what can you do there?”

I usually smile and say something about on-campus activities or the farmers’ market, to quaint laughter from my city-slicker, big-college acquaintances and family members.

They forget one thing: What students in small, ordinary-looking towns seem to lack in variety, they make up for in sheer creativity. The next time I was home, I had a better answer to the rehearsed question.

Traincatching.

“Train-what?” My father’s eyebrows lift slightly in amusement. “You stand on a bridge and wait for a train?”

The trainbridge has a slightly mythical edge to it. It’s almost impossible to reach if you haven’t been there already, and you never know who will be there or exactly what will happen.

Even the drive out is mysterious, winding up and down Missouri hills on impossibly small country highways toward a place with no lights. Upon arrival, there is still little to be perceived past a small crowd of people and the soft thud of shoes on the wood. Occasionally the bridge’s resident dog is there, tail thumping against jeans and shoes as he seeks attention.

Initially, the trip consists of small things. Slowly people become recognizable. No one knows when a train is coming, and it seems like we have all happened to arrive at the same impromptu party.

People scramble down the rocky slope on either side of the bridge, balancing on the tracks and shouting up at those still on the bridge, placing pennies on the rails and trying to see how far the flash on their cameras will take them in the darkness. Those on the bridge make casual conversation and admire the brilliance of the stars across the dark landscape, the lights from the nearest city faint and insignificant.

The distant whine of a whistle changes everything. The people down below are charged with a sudden urgency, trying not to trip on the uneven terrain as they pick their way up from the tracks, and those already on the bridge jostle each other for a vantage point right above the track. Placement is everything.

At this time the train is still just a bright spot up ahead, lighting up patches of trees and moving with an almost theatrical slowness. As it gets closer, though, and the crowd falls silent, we can hear the faint mechanical whirring that denies any impression of sluggishness.

Finally the trees just to the side of the bridge are caught in a spotlight, and everyone cheers as the front of the train looms into view and lets off a mellow blast of greeting.

Then the light becomes sharper, casting everyone in the glare. The noise becomes louder, deafening, and even from the crowd’s vantage point it’s hard not to get the impression of being engulfed by the massive piece of machinery heading straight at the bridge.

Just as it seems that the noise couldn’t get any louder or the light any brighter, a giant blast of heat batters the bridge, lifting hair off shoulders and pressing clothes.

For an instant we’re all suspended in that moment right before the bridge is hit, completely enveloped in a wash of sensory exaggeration.

Then, just as quickly, everyone is laughing in relief as the cooler wind returns and a steady river of train cars flows just underneath our feet, the sedate clacking of the train slowly beginning to lessen.

There are some aspects of a detour that don’t fit well into the words of a passing conversation. I’m sure my friends and family still think sitting around and waiting for a train to come up and scare you is not a particularly brilliant use of time. But I like to think of it as a little treasure that I have stolen for myself and a limited number of other people, a sort of secret shared between us.

It’s not always a flashy exhibit or an innovative restaurant that catches our eyes. Sometimes a detour is in little slices of life, just far enough from the ordinary to matter.

Sometimes it’s worth it just to take time to wait and enjoy.

Photos by Phil Jarrett