Mark Roessler Photo

Otis, the author's son, takes in the scenery on his first real train ride to Brattleboro.

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The village I grew up in was the last stop on the Hudson River Line commuter railway. Travelers who wanted to head to points north of my former hometown, Croton-on-Hudson, had to switch from the electric cars to diesel ones.

During the nearly twenty years my family lived there, the train became central to our pursuit of happiness and prosperity. In transit from their beds at home to their office desks in New York City, both my parents spent at least a decade's worth of their mornings and evenings riding that train. On weekends, they often took my brother and me in to enjoy the parks, museums and theaters in the Big Apple. When we got older, he and I took the train in to see concerts and shop for obscure music in Greenwich Village.

Giving us cheap and easy access to the magnificent metropolis of Gotham and all stops in between should have been plenty to satisfy most, but Croton was spoiled. The trip along the banks of the Hudson River made the journey itself worth the price of a ticket. Just down the hill from the front doorstep of my old home, the river yawns open to its widest point—three miles across. Though at times it could seem like a stormy inland sea, there were some mornings when it was as still as glass, and through a light mist the lofty ledges of the Palisades on the far shore were reflected. After about forty-five minutes of gaping at the life on the river, the train snaked around the northern tip of Manhattan, then took you on an urban safari through the wilds of the Bronx and Harlem before plunging underground, only to resurface in Grand Central Station. Not a bad show for under $10.

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Trains are equally important to my four-year-old son, Otis, who is growing up in Northampton. Until a couple weeks ago, though, he'd never had the opportunity to ride on a real one.

We've got a large plastic bin of wooden train tracks that we cover the living room floor with regularly. Anytime we go to Look Park he insists on multiple rides on the miniature train they have there. We've been to a couple different train and trolley museums that have rides. As much fun as these options can be, they lack the core joy of a real train journey: arriving at a destination.

Earlier this winter, my wife decided to take advantage of some vacation time and a family member's open invitation and planned a trip to Florida. Another train fan, she decided to ride the rails south from Springfield and return by plane. Otis was staying home with me, and breaking the news of her chosen mode of transportation was likely to cause as much protest as the mere fact that she was going to be away for a week. It required some gentle negotiation and downright bribery.

"I know it doesn't seem fair that mommy gets to ride the train and you don't, but, but, but... you know what?"

"What?" he asked, tears welling up in his eyes.

"While she's away, we're going to go on a train ride."

"A real one?"

"Yes, a real one. Just you and me."

I wasn't entirely certain how I was going to pull this off.

There's no passenger train service on the Northampton side of the Connecticut River Valley. Train stations near us have been converted into restaurants, museums and bars, and only freight trains rattle slowly by on the bent and rusty rail lines. For a while I kept the plans mysterious and vague because I only had a limited idea of our options. At first I considered looking online for historic old steam engines that still run in the Berkshires or southern Vermont, but none had schedules for so early in the season, and as handsome as some of these classic trains were, they weren't going anywhere but in circles.

Next I considered taking the train from Amherst down to Springfield and having someone drive us back to our car. This was almost the chosen itinerary until I stopped thinking in terms of just a day's visit and considered spending the night in Brattleboro.

Each day at around 4:21 p.m., an Amtrak train pauses in Amherst on its way north, up into Vermont and beyond. The small brick station is just down the hill from Emily Dickinson's home, and afloat in a sea of late-winter mud, it seems a bit meek and unassuming. While no Grand Central, though, it's got something very few other old stations have in New England: passengers. Passengers with backpacks, suitcases and duffle bags at their feet, ears and eyes straining for the first signs of the locomotive coming up the track.

On the day Otis and I arrived, we didn't get much of a chance to relish anticipating the train's arrival. The traffic on Route 9 through Hadley was at a crawl, and after an hour frantically tapping the steering wheel, we pulled into our parking spot just as the train arrived, grabbed our stuff and jumped aboard. We found a pair of seats on the western side of the train, and instantly the stress drained away as I saw the thrill in my boy's eyes. Everything was just as he'd imagined it, or better.

The stern conductor with a wry sense of humor and excellent memory. The hypnotic rhythm of the tracks. The glimpses of houses, trees and other blurred shapes in the foreground, and the thoughtful contemplation of the more distant vistas. The sense of flight while riding over a narrow bridge. The shock of darkness and sudden relief of roaring through a tunnel.

In truth, the train didn't do much roaring. We ambled along at a good pace, slowing at junctions and regularly tooting the horn at traffic intersections. At first there were a few too many new homes for my liking strewn throughout the otherwise pristine forests along the rails, but as we headed between the mountains and toward Montague, the farms, fields and woods were enchanting. Otis spotted a teepee in someone's field. He saw horses, cows, and a brigade of wild turkeys. At first he worried about the train crashing into the streets of Millers Falls as we crossed the bridge high over the falls, but by the time we were crossing the Connecticut River, he was more concerned that the pictures I was taking adequately capture how cool the river looked from this vantage point.

The ride was over too quickly, but the promise of doing it all again the next day kept the bitterness out of the joy. We also had reservations at the Latchis Hotel in downtown Brattleboro, which is a short walk from the station, even with luggage and a child in tow.

The Brattleboro train station, like so many of the old and beautiful buildings in the city, has had multiple owners and has been used for many different purposes. The main building is now an art museum with regularly updated exhibits featuring both local and international talent, and the ticket booth and waiting room for the train line are in a subterranean bunker near the tracks.

The Latchis, though, continues to fulfill its original mission as a hotel and complete entertainment complex that includes multiple theaters, an art gallery, stores and a restaurant. The current owners are working hard to restore the structure, which was built in Art-Deco style, to its original early twentieth-century grandeur.

The woman who checked us in asked where we'd parked, and when I explained that we'd taken the train, she was surprised. She asked if we'd like a room with a view of the train line, and Otis said, "Yes." In one direction, our second floor room looked across the rail lines to Mount Wantastiquet on the New Hampshire side of the Connecticut River, and then up Main Street into the center of town. While I took in the view, Otis explored the room, then the cable television, and he declared it all good.

We wandered down to dinner at the Flat Street Brew Pub and had a quietly triumphant meal from its limited but filling selection. Otis had a hamburger and a Coke and I had a Caesar salad and beer. For dessert, we asked for a slice of the chocolate cake we'd seen being eaten at a table next to us. It took a while to arrive. At first he played it cool, just asking me quietly when it would arrive, but then he stopped believing me when I promised "soon," and eventually he broke down. "I'm tired of waiting for my slice of chocolate cake!" he announced loudly to the room, and his direct approach did the trick.

As we consumed the excellent cake, my son confided to me that he didn't have the energy required to make it through the Brattleboro Arts event I had tickets for. Instead of acrobats and musicians, he wanted to hang out in the hotel room. I picked up a couple local beers from the Brattleboro Co-op next door, and while I drank them by the window, he jumped on the queen-sized mattress, watching the Disney Channel.

The next morning, I took a leisurely bath in the huge tub, and then we met friends for a fine breakfast at the Backside Café. Pancakes and eggs Benedict in our bellies, we were ready and waiting at 12:30 p.m. when the train arrived and took us back to Amherst.

The conductor recognized us and welcomed us aboard. As we ate apples, the both of us reveling in our successful journey, we planned our next trip. This summer, we decided, we're taking the train down to Manhattan to play in Central Park and check out the medieval armor at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.