Introduction: Scarborough photographer Tim Byrne traveled across the country by train recently, chasing spring from the Windy City to Colorado’s Rockies. As the forsythias bloomed and snow melted away, Byrne was there to capture it with his camera, as well as the experience of riding the rails, a form of travel now foreign to many Americans. To hop on the train with Byrne, turn to page 10.

To reach Oakland, Calif., from Scarborough, Maine, just travel westward 3,555 miles, cross four mountain ranges, and a couple of rivers. Along the way, enjoy the emergence of spring six times, as well as a couple of late blasts of winter.

A twist for most Americans, my trip was completely by rail. The ride on the Downeaster from Portland connected with Boston’s “T” and Amtrak’s Lakeshore Limited to Chicago. From the Windy City to Oakland, the California Zephyr train continued a pleasant adventure across a country emerging from the grey days of late winter to the emerald green of the California spring.

The third week in April is spring vacation week for Mainers – and I was due for a break. The perfect cure: I had a photo assignment booked in the San Francisco area. Rarely do I need an excuse to travel by train, and as the schedule worked, the timing would take me out of the studio for only an extra work day plus the preceding weekend. So I planned a train ride west. It was a great adventure to see the country from ground level.

One of Amtrak’s most successful regional trains, the Downeaster connects coastal Maine to Boston. On Easter weekend, the train was sold out, with people traveling for the holiday. After heading south from Portland and its early morning grey, Spring’s face did not take long to emerge. Daffodils put a bright ribbon around sheltered foundations of buildings along the tracks near Wells. When we reached Woburn, the forsythia was in full bloom everywhere. Spring’s presence seemed to bring a higher pitch to the chatter among passengers. We had all suffered from cabin fever, and color outdoors – any color – was welcomed.

Leaving Boston, Amtrak’s route on the Lake Shore Limited parallels Interstate 90 to Chicago, with the road and rail rarely more than a couple of miles apart. The first sight is a sharp look up at the back of the Green Monster at Fenway. Baseball fans streaming through the Kenmore area barely glanced at us as we raced by the stadium.

Through Massachusetts budding trees filled the skyline and gave a greenish or reddish tinge to the air. As we climbed into the Berkshires west of the Connecticut River, cuts through the granite held remnants of winter’s ice and snow, reminding me that winter had not yet melted away completely.

The descent into Albany, the junction of New York’s mighty Hudson and Mohawk rivers, came just prior to the first sunset of the trip. One of the great mysteries of railroads is trying to imagine where the trains were headed. At Albany, our westbound train crossed paths with the Adirondack, a day-train heading south from Montreal to New York.

There’s a fraternity among train crews – a brief nod or wave from cab to cab, a “how’s it running” from engineers to each other, waiting for the trackside signals to clear them to go on their ways. It’s a quiet, low-spoken language, a lot like the talk among fishing crews dockside at the end of a day of hard work.

Our coach was full, but the daytime chatter turned to a murmur as twilight settled over the Mohawk. I fell back into the comfortable coach seat to pass the miles with a detective novel.

At 6 feet 5 inches tall, I’m not small. Yet, the ride was smooth and as comfortable, as though I were sitting in a recliner at home. My neighbor, Ari Aviram was returning to Cleveland, Ohio, from celebrating Passover with his mother in the Peekskill, N.Y., area. He praised Amtrak’s ride, saying that it was a “great experience” and a good alternative to a long drive between the two cities. He gave a great description of the rebirth of Cleveland – the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, the new Jacobs field, a cleaner downtown. Aviram climbed off the train just before three in the morning, finding his car in the nearby parking area, and waving back at me as the Lake Shore resumed its western journey.

Northern Indiana surprised me. Horse farms and large pastures. Young colts – and this is the right word to use – frolicking with their mothers on an endless carpet of emerald-green grass. Then near Elkhart, Ind., miles of manufacturing facilities for, it seemed, every type of travel trailer known. Land must be inexpensive, as each assembly plant was a one-story metal structure, accompanied by huge parking lots full of parts, chassis, tires on one side, and acres of a single model of travel trailer on the other. Then another assembly plant for a different model.

There is no doubt Chicago is still the rail hub of North America. Freight cars broadcasting names of railroads from all over the continent roll by, wheels squealing, frames rocking. Intermodal trains on a brief layover on their journey from sea to sea, solid with freight cars of red, blue, green and orange containers – a kaleidoscope. Most of Amtrak’s long-distance trains touch here at one end or another of their trips. The Lake Shore pulled into Union Station on track 28.

My time in Chicago was brief. There was a holding area – similar to those in an airport – for each train. I was connecting to the California Zephyr, which was loading shortly after I arrived on track 24 for its 1:50 departure.

Amtrak’s western trains are bigger than eastern counterparts. Railcars approach two stories high, carry more people in coach, and provide a superb view in quiet, comfortable surroundings. The ride through western Illinois to the Mississippi flies through a light drizzle. Fields of early crops take on an impressionistic touch through rain-splattered windows. We cross the Mississippi River into Iowa just before sundown.

We reached Denver ahead of schedule, just as the city was taking on the copper glow of sunrise; the Rockies west of town have an aura of their own. People in Scarborough talk about “sprawl” in terms of a few hundred homes a year. Coming into Denver, the city limits seem five miles east of where they were seven years ago when I last visited. Numerous housing developments near the tracks containing hundreds of homes – each – under construction.

In Denver, train crews swapped in and out after a long night’s duty. The oncoming shift would take the train over the Rockies, through dozens of tunnels, including the Moffat Tunnel, which bores under the continental divide about 50 track miles west of Denver. Spectacular scenery surrounded the train – one stretch pretending spring; another with the remnants of winter.

Later that day, the train raced between a multi-level Interstate 70 on one side, and a raging Colorado River on the other. Passengers on board watched the show out windows on both sides of the “dome car” – a car with windows on both sides as well as the top. Melting snow and a headwind approaching 40 mph coupled to make waves stand up in the riverbed. Rafters braving the waves followed the train westward. All came together near Glenwood Springs, the gateway to ski areas in western Colorado.

The highlight of this journey through the west was crossing Donner Pass. At 7,085 feet above sea level, Donner Pass was the site of the legendary tragedy of 1846/1847. Nearly half of a wagon train of 90 members perished during an early fall snowstorm.

Our journey this year followed a 3 foot snowfall in the area by a day. Piles of plowed snow rose nearly 10 feet on each side of our passenger car, forcing a memory of those who attempted to make the crossing 160 years ago. I can’t imagine trying to survive under such conditions.

The train raced westward to Sacramento, dropping off most of its passengers in the station near California’s state capitol. The few left on board gathered in the dome car to watch the sun set over San Francisco Bay. At 70 plus miles an hour, it was a thrill to watch. Big flocks of migrating, long-winged sea birds raced the silver train across miles of golden marsh toward its final evening destination. But missing from sight were familiar Maine clam-diggers on the flats, old mill towns and summer resort communities, budding oak and maple, and a familiar accent in the air.

We were a couple of hours late arriving in Emeryville, Calif., the western end of the journey. But in consideration of 3,555 miles of pleasant travel, that was just a few more minutes to enjoy.