Now Rachel could hear the trolley speeding down the hill from Panama Rocks. Its brakes squealed as it approached Main Street. Just then Rachel saw its nose appear as it made the turn towards her and the station next to the Little Brokenstraw Creek. The Geographic Positioning System antenna and solar array that covered the trolley's roof glistened in the sunlight. On the station bench next to Rachel's grandma was an elderly man with a knapsack. In a moment the trolley had come to a stop in front of the station. Its windows were open and in the cab were a few tourists from the Rock's Hotel, probably on a day trip to Chautauqua Lake or the Institute.

As they did over a century ago, many tourists now loved the ride around the lake by trolley just to see the sights. Coordination of steamboat and trolley schedules were becoming common again as well.

Grandma reached for her heavy wicker hamper loaded with yogurt and other goat milk products they were taking to market in Lakewood. Rachel joined her to take a handle but her elderly friend was already there to help. Sara leaned to her,

"You remember Mr. Whitney, don't you Rachel?"

Rachel nodded a greeting but didn't really remember. She was eager to get on the trolley. The three of them climbed the steps up to into the cab. The engineer winked at Rachel and then spoke into a small wireless mike headset.

"Next stop Goose Creek Village, then Blockville, Ashville and the Lake Line. Connections there to Chautauqua Institute and Mayville. This train will continue on to Lakewood, Celeron and Jamestown."

The engineer pushed forward on the controls, engaging the batteries that made up the bulk of the weight of the car. Smoothly they began their journey. As grandma took care of the fares, Rachel ran and got the bench seat at the back of the car. The three large back windows were raised and Rachel got up on the cushioned bench seat on her knees and gripped the seat back with both hands. By the time Grandma and Mr. Whitney joined her the trolley had reached the Panama Union Cemetery and was starting the climb up the long hill out of town. Sara looked back at the town as it receded. The green bluff of Panama Rocks was lit in the sunshine. A turkey buzzard rode a thermal high over the ridge and then turned south towards Muzzy Hill.

The Panama Spur took twenty minutes to reach the main Lake Line. In a few minutes the trolley crested the hill at Eddy Road and began the long descent down and up and around to Randolph Road. It was the most exciting part of the trip, almost like a roller coaster. Rachel felt her heart rise in her chest as they bottomed out at the bottom of the first hill. On the way up the hill to Randolph Road they passed an Amish carriage and a couple wearing helmets and bright spandex on high performance bicycles. Rachel let go of the seat-back with her right hand and waved to them.

Mr. Whitney had been speaking with Grandma and Rachel noticed for the first time. She remembered now that he was a dairy farmer who was a member of the Co-Op and Grange in Panama. Grandma was saying,

"You'll be fine Ted. And you know the Grange will be there for you if you need it."

But he sounded worried..

"Sara, you've got the right idea. Keep it small and specialized. It's the only way dairies around here will survive. The regional authorities are putting plenty of pressure on the larger farms to convert to grain or bean for human consumption or get out of the way for those who will. It's not that easy, especially when you're losing money... Well, it's for my boys to decide now. I'm just glad Nancy and I got the land trust in place and can keep the farmhouse and out-buildings."

For a few minutes they passed a large field to the north planted with soybean and then another field with alternating rows of corn, squash and beans, in the classic Iroquois Three Sisters mix. Soon the trolley was slowing the stop at Swede Road...named Goose Creek Village. Rachel looked South and could see the entrance to the new co-housing development that had been completed last autumn. She could see just a few roofs between the trees. While it was still under construction, she and her Dad had ridden bikes to the site. He had said it never would have been built if it weren't for the trolley service. She remembered how all the houses were connected through a long zig-zaggy basement. They all shared a heated pool and gym her dad said would be covered by an inflated dome.

Sara turned to look, too. A few young adults and a mother with two children stood in the shade of a partially enclosed trolley stop designed in rustic Adirondack style. The train engineer spoke into his tiny microphone,

"Goose Creek Village... Next stop Blockville... Ashville and the Lake Line..."

The trolley came to a stop at Goose Creek Village. About forty families lived there now with more coming. Some worked down in the new office building in Panama, and a few commuted into Jamestown but most worked at home. Half of the first floor spaces were taken up by specialized shops and services. Sara's doctor had moved there from Jamestown. Goose Creek Village met the new regional planning criteria for clustered housing. Over 75% of its 200 acre property was designated undevelopable woods, another 20% was earmarked for gardens or recreational use, while only 5%, or 10 acres, could be hard surfaced (roof or road). The taxable property was calculated on the 25% of the site that was occupied. It was a formula that was drawing people from what had been suburbs, without the sprawl associated with single family dwellings and universal automobile dependence.

Soon the smooth acceleration of the trolley began again. A dog from the village tried to keep up with them, and Rachel laughed and called to him, but soon he was out of sight.

Before they pulled into Blockville the trolley came upon a new chrome yellow Chrysler Photon that was going out toward Panama. The Photon was a solar powered two-seater that was getting popular even in the Northeast. It must have been cruising at about 45 kph because Rachel gasped when it passed her window and disappeared within a few seconds. They passed Mill and Water Streets and the trolley's brakes squealed as they came into the four corners of Blockville.

It was busy. There were at least three Amish style buggies at the blacksmith's and Stull's Grocery Store had no free parking spaces around it. Sara spoke to Ted again.

"When was the last time Blockville had a grocery store? 1955?"

"Well, Nagel's garage was there on the northwest corner as late as the 1960's. I think Bruce and Cecil Bush had the grocery across the street sometime into the fifties."

The stop in Blockville lasted only a minute, but it added several more passengers on their way towards the lake. Soon they were passing the new lumber yard just to the east of Blockville. Others said it was because of the lumber mill, but Sara thought the growth and popularity of the Harmony Historical Society had put Blockville back on the map. Certainly their historical reenactments and restored farm and shops had contributed to the new sense of community.

Rachel got up and went to the window looking south. Once past the tree nursery, as they approached Ashville, she would get a long view of the dam pond and the ducks and geese that populated its banks. Whenever Rachel was in Ashville she would try and get over to the pond to feed them. It was a beautiful spot. Sara leaned to her a said softly,

"Sorry honey, not this time"

The trolley banked as they rounded the big curve by the cemetery. Sara leaned against the force of the curve and saw the tall stone obelisk memorial to "Hetfield" slide by. It had been a familiar marker all her life. Rachel gripped the window sill. It meant Ashville was coming up. They passed the dam with its small hydro-electric generator rolling past the center of town and over the bridge crossing Goose Creek. The trolley stopped at the old renovated station across the street from Ashville General Store.

Next to the station was the Trolley Simulator. It was a big building. Inside was a detailed working scale model of the entire Chautauqua Lake region trolley system. The model worked in real time and mimicked the movement of real trains. The model was kept up to date reflecting new buildings and actual stands of trees. Geo-positioning technology on each trolley forwarded its location and speed by satellite to the regional dispatcher and that information was shared with the Simulator.

It was always fascinating to Rachel to think that a model train one inch long was pulling into a miniature station just as their real trolley arrived. Every school age child within a day's travel had spent a day in Ashville exploring the Trolley Simulator. There were now plans with the Army Corps of Engineers for the Simulator to expand its functions to include certain Chautauqua Lake watershed activities. Already an office of the Allegheny Regional GIS Coordinator was housed within the building running detailed computer environmental simulations of the Chautauqua area.

As passengers entered and left the train the engineer spoke into his mike headset.

"This stop Ashville. the next stop is Cottage Park with our connection to the Lake Line. Passengers going to Chautauqua Institute and Mayville should transfer there. This train will become an express and continue on to Lakewood, Celeron and Jamestown."

Trolley started again and pulled out of Ashville. After a curve it started down the long straightaway towards the lake. As they approached the lake, Rachel moved forward in the car. Even though the train was now full there was a spot behind the engineer where she could stand and see over his shoulder. They were passing through a flat wetland, managed by the Chautauqua Watershed Conservancy. There were no houses on either side of the roadway for almost a mile here and the area had become famous for its aquatic bird population. Rachel had walked on the raised boardwalks that wound through the marshes and seen egret and heron fishing in the clear shallow water before it reached the lake.

As they neared the lake a vista opened up to reveal a broad view of Sherman's Bay. The Strip had never reached this far up the old Fairmount Avenue, and consequently the view was unhindered. When the economic collapse hit the Strip much of the commercial property that was unrelated to recreation and water activities had been torn down as an improvement to lakeside amenities. On the left was Sherman's Bay Marina. Beyond a row of new lakeside townhouses, known as Cottage Park, stretched towards Maple Point. As they got nearer Rachel could see dozens of colorful sails shining on the westerly breeze.

They were not the sails of boats like her grandmother and Mr. Whitney had seen as children. These were KeelKites. Developed originally in the Finger Lake Region of what had been New York State, KeelKites had become the rage everywhere in just a few years. Already second and third generation designs were finding their way to the growing market.

A KeelKite consisted of a submersible keel about eight feet long that was attached to a kite-like sail by stainless steel cables. When in motion, the pilot hung below the sail in a harness, about twenty feet above the water. The keel ran about two feet under the water like a submarine. It had fins and a rudder that could be controlled by the pilot in the harness. The keel provided the resistance to keep the sail from blowing away, while the sail captured the energy to pull the keel through the water. In effect the KeelKite was a sailboat without the boat.

Due to low water resistance, KeelKites could sail significantly faster that comparably sized high performance catamarans. The KeelKite depended on a small waterproof computer to assist the pilot in balancing the inherently unstable dynamics between wind and water. As in water skiing and hang gliding a successful launch was critical. The KeelKite needed a running start and the pilot needed to be in the air at launch. KeelKites could start off by being towed from a power boat, if one was available. The Sherman's Bay Marina had two launch towers, thirty feet high, on a pier about a hundred and fifty feet from shore that used a spring to launch the keels like torpedoes.

Apparently a regatta race was starting out from the Marina. More than a dozen pilots tacked back and forth getting into a starting formation for a race up the lake to Bemus. As she watched a bright pink sail blossomed with air as a pilot was launched from one of the towers, then the trolley man startled her,

"Cottage Park and Sherman's Bay. Connections with the Lake Line..."

Rachel turned and ran back to the rear of the car. Several passengers were already preparing to disembark. The trolley passed through a switch and swayed and rattled as it joined the easterly track of the main line. Just past Big Tree Road the train turned to parallel the embankment of the old Conrail right of way. They climbed to the top of the embankment and Rachel could see the houses near the lake above Summit Avenue. In a minute they coasted into the Lakewood Station near Chautauqua Avenue. Rachel grabbed a pole as the train slowed to a stop. She swung around it and seated herself next to Grandma. There were two stops in Lakewood. The first was Lakewood Center. It was the second stop, near Burtis Bay, that had given Rachel the spooks. People mostly called the place Striptown.

"Don't worry honey, this is the just the Center."

She looked into Rachel's worried eyes and added,

"Rachel, I can get a good price for our yogurt there. We should only be in Striptown about half an hour."

Mr. Whitney was going to get off at Striptown too. In his knapsack he carried two family heirlooms that were of cash value... accurate spring wound watches. Every week there was a open air flea market in a park near the lake on Fairdale Avenue. Cash, alternative currencies and barter were exchanged for goods and services. At another time and place it would have been called a Black Market.

"Well Sara, I need the cash. At least my boys do. Once we can get past this year, things will be different"

Grandma turned to him and said only...

"It's too bad, Ted."

Soon they were moving again. As the landscape flattened out the train embankment rose. In a few blocks they were high enough to pass over the bridge that straddled Shadyside Road. The embankment had few other streets penetrating it and therefore sharply segregated the lake homes to the north from the remains of what had been the Strip along the old Fairmount Avenue.

Rachel began to get nervous. Looking south the light glared off the flat roof of industrial style buildings. What had originally been a marshy area had once been completely developed. Now it was in ruins. They passed close to the back of the old Quality Market. The back wall and much of the roof had collapsed in a forgotten snowstorm after the store failed. Rachel couldn't help but look into its looted bowels and shudder. The Red Lobster next door had been built on top of a creek. When it burned to the ground the watershed authorities decided no one could rebuild on so sensitive a site. Now no one had the money to clean up these commercial carcasses. Marsh weeds grew through the old blacktop in their parking lots.

Once past the Quality the passengers on the train had a wide view south to ruins of the Chautauqua Mall. There was no traffic. Most people tried to avoid the area. The only "patrons" appeared to be a few gulls sitting on the few rusted sodium lamps that were still upright. Some years earlier there had been an effort to clear and pile up some of the useless acres of asphalt to return the site to its original state of wetland, but money had run out. Over the years the blacktop had been broken up by spring thaws and blistering summer heat. From the trolley you could even see clumps of grasses and a few saplings growing on the mall roof. All that was visible of the hard surface of the parking lot was a lumpy green and brown field dotted with Indian Paintbrush, White Clover and other opportunistic wildflowers. In places small birch trees had grown through openings in the pavement. A few abandoned cars punctuated the scene and as Rachel watched, a pack of wild dogs ran from behind a burned out van. The leader held something in his mouth that the others raced to grab. Ted spoke,

"When I was young I took a train into New York City from Connecticut. We passed through the South Bronx. It was worse than this then. Bigger, scarier. I couldn't understand what I saw at the time. Now I know its just that people gave up on one way of doing things and began another."

Sara was aware of Rachel holding her arm tightly.

"But so much has gone to waste. When we can afford to, we are going to have to clean this up."

Rachel had turned to look away from the ruins of Fairmount Avenue. She still held Grandma's hand and she looked to the north as they approached the Striptown station at Fairdale Avenue. The trainman spoke again,

"The next stop will be Fairdale Avenue...Striptown..."

The train slowed again. Below them, to the north, Rachel could see the building that once housed the Chautauqua Lake Association. Nearby was the ancient and still active Lakewood Rod and Gun Club. Burtis Bay no longer existed. What had been open water had become a meadow six feet deep in burr reed, cattails and other marshland grasses. In school she had learned that the decades of runoff from the commercial development around the lake had caused the silting in of its south eastern part near the outlet into the Chadakoin River. The hundreds of new acres of marshland was a blessing for the flora and fauna of the lake. It acted as a buffer and filter for the toxic material that seeped from the abandoned commercial strip up on Fairmount Avenue.

Many lakeside homes, marinas and recreational facilities between Lakewood and Celeron were now as far as a mile from open water. Needless to say, they had lost their value. In fact, they had become a slum and were for the most part abandoned. The Chautauqua Watershed Authority was concentrating on plight of these properties first, before turning its attention to the strip area south of the tracks.

Rachel could see the tents, booths and other temporary structures of the flea market as they slowed to a stop at Fairdale Avenue. This was the commercial hub of Striptown. Those with suburban homes up above the mall now came down to this area along the north of the tracks to shop for everything from fresh vegetables to illegal kerosene.

As they got off the train Grandma and Rachel stayed close together. Mr. Whitney had his knapsack on his shoulder and was again helping with the wicker basket. They worked their way slowly down the steps from the station that led toward the market. There a variety of traffic on the road. An old diesel truck smoked as it waited for an oxcart carrying a heavy piece of farm equipment.

Grandma led Rachel to a nearby area where horse drawn carts displayed local peas, lettuce, and leeks. Sara had an arrangement with a friend who operated a stall here to sell her goat milk products. A teenage boy behind the counter explained that Sara's friend was away and would return shortly. Mr. Whitney put the wicker basket on the counter and said good-bye. Rachel watched him move off through the crowd to sell his watches. Grandma was busy unpacking her basket and Rachel turned to entertain herself with the market scene. The ground was muddy, even though the sun was shining. She noticed a young chocolate Labrador sniffing around the food booths for anything interesting. It was just past being a puppy and seemed very friendly. Rachel smiled and suddenly didn't feel so nervous about the place.

She bent to stroke the Lab's head and then scratch behind his ears. Before she did, one of the vendors shouted at the dog and threw a stone at it. The young dog yelped and bolted from the curb. Under other circumstances the sound of a passing gas relic with no muffler would have alerted the dog. But the Labrador noticed too late. The dog was knocked to the muddy road by the front tire. The next tire rolled over its rear leg. Rachel was only feet away and heard the bone snap and the dog scream. She had never heard anything like that in her life. The car didn't stop, it accelerated. Rachel's eyes flooded and she went to comfort the dog.

Already the crowd was so thick around the accident that she couldn't see Grandma. The dog couldn't get up for a moment. As Rachel reached out she saw the panic in the Lab's eyes. It was up in a second and hopping south to the Fairdale Avenue underpass beneath the tracks. Rachel had to help. She followed, her heart pounding as she went through the underpass. The dog was up on Fairmount Avenue and hobbling badly. Rachel followed further. She was sure she could catch up to the dog in a minute and get him some help. The young dog looked back at her and hurried on. She wasn't thinking of her own safety, even though the sight of the Strip frightened her.

She was getting tired. Up ahead on the left was a place that looked open. Maybe she could get help there. It was an old building, from before the time of the Strip. It had a big painted sign that was peeling and faded, "Johnny's Lunch: Our 9th Decade of Service: Three Texas Hots Only $1.29". The dog spotted the teenagers before Rachel did. There were five of them and they looked mean. The Lab crossed the road to avoid them. Rachel looked across the road at the wreckage of a Burger King and McDonalds that moldered in the glare of the afternoon sun. She crossed the five empty lanes of the big strip after the pup. She wasn't quite sure now if she were following the Lab, or was being followed herself by the teenagers.

Rachel saw the wounded dog continue south up the hill between the wrecked burger outlets. She followed the dog up the access road that climbed to the big Wegman's shopping plaza. A faded sign read "Bio-Hazard Containment Area: Keep Out! Alleghaney Regional Authority". The closed plaza loomed over the devastated strip below. There had once been 50 acres of parking herethat funneled cars down to this ramp onto Fairmount Avenue. Rachel heard the sound of a bottle breaking on the pavement behind her, but she was too frightened to look back. Next to the access road was a depressed area the size of a large playing field. It was the catch basin for the site. For decades the oil, gas, antifreeze, transmission oil, brake fluid, windshield wiper fluid and road salt worked their way to this basin to be mixed with the drippings of dumpsters and blowing litter. There were even several rusted out cars down there in the soup. The dog passed through an opening in the old chain link fence and it headed down into the catch basin.

The Lab lost its footing and yelped as it slid down the steep incline. It rolled the last yard or two before it splashed into an old truck tire locked in the muck. The dog cried and struggled in the slop. Besides shopping carts and tires, there were unrecognizable shapes in the muck.

Rachel thought she heard someone up on the access road behind her now, but she was already on her way down to reach the young Lab. She must get the dog out of here and to help. She got down to the bottom of the incline without falling and for the first time began to sense how much danger she was in. The dog was looking past Rachel fearfully up the slope. She chilled inside as she realized that she and the pup were standing in the shadow of something coming down into the pit after them. Her heart was clenched as she turned to face whatever it was.

"Rachel, hold on! Let me get you two out of there!"

She could see the profile against the sun now. It was Mr. Whitney moving sideways down the slope. By the time he reached her, she knew she was safe and that the puppy would get help.