In November, my husband and I traveled to the town of Folkston, Georgia, which is in the extreme southeast corner of Georgia just a few miles from the Florida border. We went at the urging of Mark’s brother, Erich, who lives fifty miles south in Jacksonville and has been charmed by this tiny town. The population of Folkston is about 2000 people, but most days the town also welcomes a significant number of tourists. People come to the town for one of two things: The nearby Okefenokee Swamp, or the phenomenon called The Folkston Funnel.
The Funnel is a confluence of rail lines that come together just north of the town in order to pass south into Florida. Because of the geography of the southeastern U.S., two out of three of the rail lines that head in and out of Florida must pass through Folkston. Everything that travels between Florida and the northeast or the upper Midwest goes right through Folkston on one of two tracks. Roughly 60 to 65 trains pass through every day, loaded with everything from cars to coal.
Train spotting isn’t just the title of a film about Scots low-lifes. It’s also a hobby pursued by thousands of Americans. Most residents of Folkston had always thought of the trains as background noise, until one resident saw the town’s potential as a tourism destination for rail fans (as they often call themselves). He persuaded the town council to apply for grant funding, and in 2001 Folkston built a small viewing platform on the east side of the tracks where they cross Main Street. The platform is simple. It has a roof, a bulletin board, a few chairs, and a loudspeaker that broadcasts communications from trains in the area. There’s a simple guest book where visitors write the date of their visit and where they’re from. I saw names from all over, mostly from places in the southeast but a few from distant states like Michigan and Massachusetts.
Despite the platform’s Spartan simplicity, on a pleasant weekend day you can expect to see anywhere from thirty to sixty people out near the crossing. Mark and I were there on a cool Saturday in mid-November and saw forty people out train watching. Many were there with their families, including lots of small kids who were having fun getting dirty and running around the area. Many rail fans use digital or video cameras to document the trains, almost as though they were on a photo safari. Each time the whistle of an approaching train was heard, fans got their equipment cocked and stepped up towards the tracks.
My brother-in-law, Erich, is my guide to everything to do with trains. He’s been going up to Folkston from his home in Jacksonville, Florida on spare weekends for more than a year now, and knows where many of the trains come from and what their schedules are. He’ll hear a whistle and tell you that’s the Amtrak Auto Train heading towards Orlando, or that a loaded coal car passing south is on its way to a power plant outside of Jacksonville. As a college student, he sought out an apartment built so near the train tracks that the walls shook whenever the trains passed by. While others dream of buying a second home or a boat, his ambition has always been to own his own rail car. He’ll do it someday, I don’t doubt it.
I can’t tell you how charmed I was to see a thriving hobby and social subculture that owes nothing to modern consumerism. This isn’t something promoted by large multi-national corporations. There isn’t a cable show covering it, there are no celebrities involved, you don’t even need to buy anything to pursue it, although there are a few specialty magazines that cater to the fans. Both the town and its visitors seemed like a slice of Americana that could have been seen anytime over the past fifty years. It’s great to know that kind of thing is still out there, and that the entire world doesn’t yet resemble a standardized Starbuck and Gap-supplied shopping mall where all the entertainment is blow-dried and filtered for mass consumption. The pure visceral thrill of a large train passing close enough to blow your hair back is all the excitement these train fans ask. Late in the afternoon, I stood near the crossing while two heavily laden CSX trains blew their whistles as they thundered past in opposite directions. I must admit, I found it mighty exciting myself.
