The Maine two-Footers  and Book thus Titled

Robert Hall writes of a New England  legend. There is a sketch map at the end of the article.

There lately came into my possession by fortunate chance, a copy of a book which I read long ago – not owning it – and had ever since, greatly wished to own. Namely, "The Maine Two-Footers" by Linwood W. Moody – published 1959. "The title says it all" – book deals with the delectable public railway undertakings of 2ft. gauge, five in number, which operated in the U.S. State of Maine – "flourished", as they say, 100-plus years ago; public lines on that gauge, having been vanishingly rare anywhere else in the U.S.A. (This being America, the gauge concerned was literally two feet; as opposed to the British and European slight variations thereon.) For me, a highly-readable volume; and arousing considerable regret that these lines were decidedly "before my time": their "for-real" career bracketed the period between 1879 and 1943. A degree of "heritage" survival up to the present day, has taken place: but initially and for a long while thereafter, not in Maine. See James Waite's account of his 2011 visit  which chronicles to that point what has been preserved, to which further reference my be needed by the reader.

The more substantial ones of the two-footers went through proprietorial and organisational ups-and-downs which involved sundry name-changes; sometimes, as at other places and times in the U.S., featuring the noun "Railway" rather than the "Railroad" generally preferred Stateside. In the interests of simplicity, "standard" names for the lines – hit on by me, and featured on the accompanying map – are what I shall use in this piece.

Maine is reckoned a lovely part of the world, "for those who like that sort of thing": rural and thinly-populated, with great forests, mountain areas, numerous lakes of all sizes, and a long, rugged and splendid sea-coast (though only one of the five lines, touched on said coast) – pleasant background scenery for the narrow gauge.

Mr. Moody (1905 – 83), a native of Maine: had the good fortune to be acquainted at first-hand when they were active, with all of the five two-footers -- even if chiefly, in the lines' often sad final years of operation. Moody is – in my opinion – a lively, engaging, and literate writer; I was a little surprised to discover that "The Maine Two-Footers" is his only published true book-as-such; although he was the author of a 1947-published "guide-book-considerably-plus", to the venue in Massachusetts where a preservation operation re saved Maine 2-ft. stock, was set up (see further on in this piece); and many articles by him on various topics, appeared in American railway-enthusiast magazines. Moody's actual profession for the majority of his life, was railway work in various capacities.

I find the book's content, ideal for a "middle-brow" enthusiast such as myself: a moderately but not crushingly informative, mix of personal and other anecdotes, terrain traversed, and history and equipment. "My take" – not suggesting that it should be everyone's -- the voluminous and exhausting (however impressive) scholarship about legal / administrative / commercial doings; and mechanical / engineering technical minutiae; which characterise many railway histories: is not aspired to by Mr. Moody, and I personally do not miss these heights of learning. The aforesaid, applies basically to (some) British rail-historians – it could be that in general, the Yanks tend to do these things differently.

Overall, I enjoy Moody's writing style – he strikes me as having talent therewith – "a poet in prose", of an exuberant kind; recognise that this isn't everyone's cup of tea, and that there are those who prefer re this sort of subject-matter: a dignified and sober setting-out of facts, rather than merry acrobatics and "making whoopee" with the written word. Even I have now and then, moments of wishing that he'd calm down a bit – purple prose / flights of fancy / whimsy, without respite, can at times pall. I find that he tends to "flog" the diminutiveness of the 2ft. gauge – assorted and profuse metaphors concerning same: "midget", "miser gauge", "pygmy", "elfin", and above all, "Lilliput" as a noun / adjective re these lines. One wonders whether this last is a pure Moody "coining"; or whether it was a common expression among those who used / worked on these railways in their day – doubts have to be felt, re likelihood of ordinary folks in Maine, having been fans of Jonathan Swift and "Gulliver"; but, who knows? At all events: my personal preference is for the way Moody writes, rather than the earnest but dully plodding, unimaginative style of many railway historians.

The book is copiously illustrated with photographs – some dating back to the 19th century – 200 or so, "interleaved" with the 200-odd pages of text. It's clear that the lines were well-recorded photographically, save for the little Kennebec Central – always rather poorly-known, the first to close (1929), a mere five miles long, existing for a highly specialised purpose, and with no connection to the wider rail system: closest point thereof, in the town of Gardiner on the opposite side of the eponymous Kennebec River – such freight as the line handled, reached it water-borne. The KC gets just a meagre four photos – there is ample coverage for all the other lines. One cannot but remark how many of the pictures show scenes of the aftermath of derailments and other mishaps. The author recounts unabashedly, how frequent such happenings were, on the two-footers – going on to tell that "dramatic and drastic" though many of the photographs appear – physical harm to passengers was negligible, and to operating staff infrequent, and virtually never lethal. We timid Europeans may wonder, "how come?" – presumably, though, Moody's accounts are truthful. One could speculate that these very-small-gauge lines' slow speeds, un-weighty locomotives and stock, and sparse schedules; would lessen the likelihood of accidents' having horrific consequences. However; with the author's great love of and admiration for the Sandy River system – unchallengedly the biggest-and-best two-footer, which to his regret he knew only in its last few, not happy, years – he tells of this resplendent very-slim-gauge main line, with its trains achieving remarkable speeds: standard-gauge-comparable, with 60mph not unknown (this could be terrifying for a "civilian" riding on the footplate)... at times one can only reflect, "it must have been a different world".

With Maine being situated as far north as most of the northernmost parts of the "traditional" U.S.A. – Alaska doesn't count here – long, harsh winters and copious snow were inevitably a prominent part of the two-foot-gauge scene there. (Things were anyway thus, in the era when the narrow-gauge lines were active; with the effects of global warming, one can envisage their being rather different at the present day.) Moody expounds on "matters snow" with his customary gusto: telling of, in the depths of winter in the several months whose mid-point was New Year, massive snowdrifts highly disruptive to rail traffic; and the lines' valiant attempts to cope with those conditions – description and enumeration of snowploughs of assorted "shapes and makes". Snow-related anecdotes are recounted, some of them quite alarming – there sticks especially in my memory, a hideous tale from probably the late 19th century: of a twelve-hour, triple-headed run, battling appalling drifts, on the Sandy River's route northward toward Bigelow – the train's reaching its destination at all, without fatal consequences for any passengers or crew, was something of a miracle. Once again, the two-footers' seemingly charmed lives in this respect – for all the drama occasioned by "the white stuff", physical harm to people involved would seem basically, not to have happened. A fair number of the photographs feature snow of varying depths and magnitudes, and quite a handful of those show aftermaths of trains-leaving-track-in-snow. The overall impression is received, that life on the Maine two-footers was seldom dull.

As would be expected vis-à-vis the period in which they were active – these lines were steam-worked throughout their careers, save for a degree of railmotor use in the final decade-and-some, by the longest-lasting "substantial" outfits. The steam model most favoured was the Forney-type 0-4-4 back-tank, and its 2-4-4 back-tank variant. The Sandy River went in also, for 2-6-0 and 2-6-2 tender locomotives; and the Wiscasset, Waterville & Farmington had one solitary 2-6-2. Five steam locomotives from the 2ft. lines, survive and are preserved today and James' article gives their status / locations, at any rate as of some years ago. All the survivors are Forneys, of both varieties: two each from the last two lines to close, the Bridgton & Harrison and the Monson. The fifth, numbered 9, represents as it were – with rather satisfying neatness – the other three: began her life on the Sandy River, sold later to the Kennebec Central, and subsequently sold on to the WW&F, shortly before this last ceased operation. Sadly, no tender locomotives have survived: the Sandy River's 2-6-2 no. 24 was bought upon that line's 1935 closure, by a railfan – who subsequently in 1937 (one would wish to think, in a desperate situation and with great regret) sold her for scrap.

The Sandy River and the Bridgton & Harrison both entered – in the mid-1920s and early '30s, respectively – the railmotor field. These units were essentially home-built by the railways: the Sandy River's, in that line's well-equipped workshops at Phillips. From converted Model T Fords, used basically for "departmental" purposes; the SR progressed to creating "proper" passenger railmotors: the four-wheel car no. 4, and the subsequent rather elegant bogie no. 5 – save for the engines and radiators, these were completely Phillips-made. For most of the SR's last decade, these two railmotors performed sterling service for the railway's ever-declining passenger business: this for the warmer majority of the year, when they covered all passenger workings except for a few steam mixed trains per week. For the several months of Maine's bitter "peak" winter, everything reverted to steam; greater power to get through heavy snow events – and the passenger cars had heating, which the railmotors didn't. 

The Bridgton & Harrison's railbus was a rough-and-ready vehicle in comparison; but it seemingly served well from circa 1930 onward, economically taking on the bulk of everyday passenger workings. At the time of the Sandy River's closure, an enthusiast bought that line's railbus no. 4; which, it seems, he effectively donated to the B & H – thus endowing them with a railmotor superior to their existing, cruder one. Have not found it easy to figure out from Moody, and other available indications: precisely when in the second-half-of-the-'30s / early '40s, no. 4 entered service at Bridgton. At all events, this railbus survived the B & H's 1941 closure, to be preserved: it is now in the collection of the Maine Narrow Gauge Railroad and Museum at Portland, Maine; together with a Sandy River Model T-adapted "inspection car".

Following on from steam-locomotive doings recounted above: I find self having rather a soft spot for the Wiscasset, Waterville & Farmington – the last of the bunch to open (in 1895), and seemingly always the luckless "loser" among them (in the time-honoured "thing" of disrespectful recasting of railways' initials: the line's long-suffering users called it the Weak, Weary and Feeble). Like many another railway undertaking worldwide in rail's "glory days", this line long held ambitions to open and run routes way beyond that to which it ultimately found itself confined – styling itself for a while, the Wiscasset & Quebec (fat chance). Lesser ambitions within its own state, even, were thwarted by circumstances / lack of money / opposition from other and more powerful interests; it never reached Farmington (which was the junction between the standard-gauge Maine Central Railroad, and the Sandy River); nor Waterville – though it briefly got near thereto, via a short-lived and hardly if at all used, branch off its main stem: the 44 miles from Wiscasset (standard-gauge junction) north-east to Albion, essentially the WW&F's sphere of action throughout its 38-year lifetime. The line's ceasing to run, was sudden – though not very surprising – with its being in desperate financial straits: on June 15th 1933, a train derailed, rather badly; the management suspended services. These were – despite initial negotiations – never resumed; there followed a lengthy "legal limbo" situation, with dismantling of the track, by stages: that process finalised only, consequent on the hunger for scrap metal in World War II. 0-4-4 back-tank no. 9 – "spoil" from previous sellings-on – was bought by an enthusiast, and survives in preservation to this day.

Our lines – including the poor old Wiscasset, Waterville & Farmington – were of varied characters, and magnitudes. Two were unquestionably, short – definitely less than ten miles – and, whilst with public passenger services, they basically existed for respective specific purposes. These were the Kennebec Central, and the Monson – incidentally, the first and the last of the two-footers to be abandoned: the former in 1929, the latter in 1943. The Sandy River was by universal consent, the "biggest and finest" of the five: a quite intricate system totalling at its peak, some 125 miles (certain parts having been essentially branches to serve the timber industry, some of them without meaningful passenger accommodation). In the Sandy River's heyday, it ran what approached the status of two-foot-gauge expresses between its standard-gauge junction at Farmington, and the lakeside resort terminus at Rangeley. This railway's decline in its last half-dozen or so years (minor railways' general troubles from the 1920s on, plus the Depression of the 1930s) is a melancholy story, and a saddening one for the enthusiast. – the line's death-throes caused the US narrow-gauge-fan community at the time, to be grieved and taken aback. It is generally felt that ill-luck played a part in the story; things "coulda-mighta" imaginably gone better, but... the agony finished with abandonment of the system's last operational sections in summer 1935: incidentally, exactly three months before the closure of the UK's  – same-gauge – Lynton & Barnstaple.

The Bridgton & Harrison was a quite smart and workmanlike outfit – however, on the overall "small-scale feeder line" narrow-gauge pattern; just one route, twenty miles at maximum (for its last decade or so, minus its outermost few miles). Things so worked out that it was the last surviving two-footer in anything like the public eye – the Monson, short and obscure in the back of beyond a good way northward, and having lost its passenger service in the late '30s, is really "not in the frame" here. Broadly as with the Sandy River ("detail differences"), the B & H's last years were a tale of rather doleful decline – "real" passenger business had dwindled to almost nothing: freight aside, what remained was basically summer-holiday / tourist traffic, and enthusiast specials (of which there were many: gricers seizing a likely last chance at the Maine Two-Footer scene). The end for the B&H – heavily affected by the doings of local politics – came in September 1941. Hopes for and moves (rather ineffectual) vis-à-vis rescue of the line by preservation initiatives, came to naught.

Re-reading Moody's book after very many years, would seem to have corrected a couple of misapprehensions seemingly formed by me following from my initial reading. The principal one, being about envisaged-but-aborted two-foot-gauge preservation in the 1940s. I would seem to have conceived an erroneous narrative concerning the Bridgton & Harrison – as above, Maine's last surviving two-footer "which people had heard of", and the last with a passenger service – some fifteen miles long in its final years. I'd perceived this line, on its last legs, firmly intending abandonment as from the end of the 1941 summer tourist season; with (as with the Talyllyn in Britain a decade later) enthusiasts having formed a substantial preservation society in hopes of taking the line over and running it "for its own sake" and for tourist traffic – but being thwarted near the end of that year by events at Pearl Harbor and what followed. This was the"final blow" and the line was dismantled in the World War II scrap drive.

As per my mention above, the author tells in passing, of a few railfans' having voiced thoughts during the railway's last, increasingly enfeebled, years: of an imaginable enthusiast takeover – but it would seem never to have gone beyond wishful-and-wistful thinking; no-one who might have been able to supply the necessary financial input, was willing to do so. The B&H's fate – essentially, at the mercy of local government which controlled policies and purse-strings – was sealed by a decision in mid-1941, to abandon the line and sell it for scrap. Services ceased in Sep. '41: dismantling followed very rapidly. As told of later in this piece, a goodly amount of motive power and rolling stock was saved by railfan purchasing initiatives; but the line itself, was very soon gone. Thus (contrary to the distorted impression which I had formed) although much seriously bad stuff in World War II must in justice be laid at the door of the nation of Japan: they can be exonerated re the matter – frivolous in comparison – of putting the final nail in the B&H's coffin !

I suspect that my mistaken notion of the B&H's ruined chance of survival under preservation, may have grown from muddled memories over the decades, from my first reading of Moody's book; of musings by the author, about his beloved Sandy River. Author writes ruefully of that line's management having in his opinion, acted and "strategised" in an excessively defeatist way, in the Depression-hit early 1930s. He hypothesises concerning this matter, the railway's holding on for a couple more years, until the Depression's tailing-off in the later 1930s, with the economic boon re the envisaged – and further and more in the actual – World War II: given which "variables", he sees the line's starting to coin the money in, after many anxious "lean years". At one point he goes so far as to opine that "if the railroad could have held out until the pre-war boom, it would probably be running today". Viz., in 1959? – the author's having been a railwayman by profession, prompts one to allow him more reckonable understanding of these things than would likely be credited to a clueless gricing wishful-thinker from some other walk of life – notwithstanding, the mind boggles a bit... to say nothing of "hindsight being 20/20". 

Wonderful nonetheless, to dream of the SR's being still in commercial service at the end of the 1950s – probably only in part (in "our real time-line", two-thirds of the system's maximum total length had already closed before final abandonment in '35); but with things globally as they were six-some decades ago, an excellent chance seen of seamless passing into preservation, of a portion of the total – 42 miles remained active as at "real-time" 1935 final closure – with same still going strong today: never abandoned; in site of origin; with a decent / seemly / worthwhile mileage "running from somewhere to somewhere" – if only...

"Preservation" has happened in the matter of the two-footers – not thus as to please to the max, a rather miserable purist such as myself; but without a doubt, "better than the worst possible alternative". The hero above all, of this saga – 1941 to the present day: has to be Ellis D. Atwood, wealthy big-time cranberry grower (and railway enthusiast) of South Carver in the state of Massachusetts: some 35 miles south of Boston, and 150 miles south of the nearest Maine 2ft. gauge line. In autumn 1941, with the Bridgton & Harrison having been abandoned, and its track being rapidly ripped up for scrap -- a number of enthusiasts, Atwood prominent among them, bought with preserving in view: a couple of the line's locomotives, sundry items of rolling stock, and a quantity of its rail. James Waite's 2011 account tells in detail, of subsequent doings – there follow here in mine, just very broad outlining; and thoughts on a few miscellaneous points.

After the inevitable four years' hiatus when rail preservation had to be put aside while the U.S. concentrated on more serious matters; in autumn 1945, Mr. Atwood set about fashioning a working re-creation to some extent, of Maine's vanished narrow-gauge lines: on his extensive Massachusetts cranberry-growing land (we learn that the favoured term in this trade, is "cranberry bogs"). He acquired – one gathers, amicably "for the good of the cause" – ex-B&H stock saved by others in '41 (leading to his being the possessor of two 2-4-4 back-tank Forneys) – and fortuitously, the two 0-4-4 ditto of the Monson, abandoned 1943: had escaped scrapping, and were duly purchased; and (vigorously assisted by our author Linwood W. Moody) Atwood embarked on constructing around his "bogs", a five-and-a-half-mile circuit of 2ft. gauge trackage – completed and opened for traffic in spring 1947. Per Moody, the name by which the new line was "christened", the Edaville Railroad: was contrived from the initials of its originator – E.D.A.

An oddity to do with this new-as-of-the-mid-1940s line (isolated from all other railways): available sources seem to differ as to whether it was for Atwood, purely a "preserving-and-gricing-for-fun thing"; or whether it had an attendant purpose involving the transporting-around of materials in the interests of his cranberry cultivation. In the section of Moody's "Two-Footers" book dealing with the Edaville, he would seem to state categorically that it was "gricing and fun" only; and Moody was personally there and actively working on the project, from 1945 to '47. Others – including the website of the Edaville Railroad – said rail entity surviving to this day, though in a very different form from that of its earlier life – tell in equally strong terms, of the line's having been intended and employed for genuine use in the cranberry business; though it was also, of course, for Atwood's pleasure as a keen railfan. Both "strains" here agree on the line's affording visitors an enjoyable ride, having initially featured only in a low-key way -- but people discovered the scene, and liked it and told other people, and things "went from strength to strength", and it fairly speedily became a significant and lucrative crowd-puller.

As we learn – after Atwood's tragic and untimely death in 1950: the line continued to operate as before, under a succession of lessees; increasing financial difficulties caused this situation to come to an end in 1991. It was possible then, for the outfit's ex-Maine stock to be acquired by preservationists actually in Maine, and transferred to these people's various, by then active, Maine-based venues. James Waite's 2011 account gives the developments leading up to that point.

The Edaville Railroad would seem rather to merit the title of "the line that refused to die": after being from 1991 to '99, quiescent at best, it has had sundry ups-and-downs from its 1999 revival, until now. It is, with stock from elsewhere than Maine, still with us today – at all events, "kind-of"; there having been assorted owners with assorted goals, all bound up with the wider Edaville cranberry estate "territory". A complicated tale: involving among other things, the line's original five-and-a-half-mile circuit having been reduced to a working two miles – though with a considerable amount of the remainder (but not all) still in situ and seeing the odd bit of special-occasion use. 

Some 64 years passed between the opening of the first and closure of the last of these systems, a span which has comfortably been exceeded by the Edaville's various incarnations. These are covered at length by this Wikipedia article: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edaville_Railroad, albeit the article is said to need updating and lack many proper citations. Should you be tempted to visit what is a self-confessed 'theme park' then a visit to its website will tell you most of what you need to know. https://edaville.com/. 

Both editions of this book are widely available on the web through Amazon and Abe books as well as booksellers. The first edition was published by Howell-North Books in 1959, the second by Heimburger in 1998.  The dust jacket of the latter records the significant differences between them. "This revised edition features his original text with many new photos added. Non-Maine material seen in the original has been deleted and because of space limitations, so have the locomotive rosters. This information, however, is readily available from other sources." Both asking price and shipping costs (for those outside the USA) vary wildly.

As often occurs, there is confusion on the web over the two editions. I (RD) have the second edition which definitely carries ISBN (10) 911 581 472. I have also seen 911 581 478 quoted. The first edition predates the ISBN system which dates from ca 1972 so is not so adorned. Hence, if you are after a specific edition, ask the seller what their copy carries, the two dust jackets are distinctly different and the first edition has 203 pages, size 8" by 10" and the second edition 240 pages, size 8.75" by 11.5". Make sure that any copy you are considering buying comes with the maps which were attached to a pocket on the inside back cover in the second edition.