(FORTUNE Magazine) – It's mobile, all right; and it's a home. But after that, any similarity between a private railroad car and even the most sumptuous Winnebago ends. This I discovered when, toward sunset on an autumn evening a few years ago, I boarded a private car for the first time--the Survivor, en route from New Orleans to St. Louis. Built in 1926, this 101-ton, 82-foot-long jewel box on wheels once belonged to Woolworth heiress Barbara Hutton, who, after she married Cary Grant, honeymooned aboard it so she could pitch woo in surroundings most definitely not five-and-dime.

Paneled in oak and lit by silver sconces, the car is a prime specimen of the some 500 private cars extant. Of these, about 150 meet Amtrak's stringent safety standards. Hooked to the back of a passenger train, they can go anywhere Amtrak does (at $1.80 per mile, plus charges for coupling, uncoupling, and overnight storage). It's safe to say there is no more luxurious way to move yourself and a few dear friends overland.

A classic car typically contains crew quarters for a chef and steward, a full kitchen, a formal dining room, three double staterooms, a lavatory with tub or shower, and a lounge that opens onto an outdoor observation platform--the kind from which U.S. Presidents (and Ralph Bellamy) used to wave. Cars with wine cellars, turkish baths, and wood-burning fireplaces are not unknown.

Self-contained and self-sufficient, capable of generating both heat and light, their larders stocked with foie gras against the awful chance none will be available in Winnemucca or at any other whistle stop en route, private cars are a refuge from an uncongenial mass-transit world--just so many rolling Walden Ponds.

And they're not all that expensive. Daily charter rates for a party of six (a comfortable number for a three-stateroom car) range from $300 to $500 per person. When you think about it, they're even rather reasonable to own, if you're of a mind. Or so figures Bill Ruger Jr., president of gun manufacturer Sturm Ruger and himself a prospective car owner. "On a per-foot basis," says Ruger, "they're really much cheaper than a yacht."

He's got a point. An 82-foot car in Amtrak-worthy condition represents an investment by its owner of perhaps $250,000 (purchase price plus refurbishment). Just flip through the classified ads of any yachting magazine, and you'll see that a comparably equipped 82-foot yacht costs you $800,000 to $1.2 million. And try as you might, you'll never get to Denver in it.

Touring inland cities, mountains, and prairies is the chief delight of traveling by private car. You set your own itinerary, traveling in the comfort of your own well-appointed home--in the company you choose, favorite books at hand, drinks mixed just the way you like, menus chosen by you in advance.

It was dinnertime when I boarded the Survivor in Jackson, Miss., late on an October afternoon. My host, Dante Stephensen, owner of an Atlanta jazz club and restaurant called Dante's Down the Hatch, greeted me at his car's front end and led me down a corridor to the rear.

Along the way I caught glimpses of everything an unreasonable man might want: dining table set with starched napery and heavy silver, master bedroom with a double bed, well-stocked bar, books, a humidor. The words of Mrs. August Belmont, a grande dame of the last century, came back to me. "A private car is not an acquired taste," said Mrs. Belmont. "One takes to it immediately."

Steward Nancy Barber put a bourbon in my hand, and as Amtrak's City of New Orleans picked up speed, scattering red and yellow leaves, I sat on the observation platform and watched the sun set and lights wink on in the little towns we passed. At every gate crossing, kids and adults waved.

After a dinner of roast leg of lamb, poached asparagus, and a zabaglione torte, it was time for coffee, a cigar, some light reading (the National Enquirer, if you must know), and bed. At 79 mph, the dominant note in the lounge was the tinkling of crystal chandeliers. We sped north into the darkness, depended from Amtrak like the jeweled fob of a cheap watch.

So now...on to important questions: Where does one obtain a private car? And then, where does one park it?

Parking isn't as big a problem as it might seem. Stephensen keeps the Survivor on a siding near his home. Other owners strike deals with warehouses or factories that have rail access. Many offset the cost of upkeep by making their cars available for charter at least part of the year. You can get a directory of those 44 cars by sending $5 to the American Association of Private Rail Car Owners (AAPRCO) in Washington, D.C.

If you prefer a more permanent relationship with a private car, there are brokers who match buyers and sellers. The middlemen include D.F. Barnhardt & Associates, whose newsletter not only lists cars on the market but also addresses issues of burning interest to owners ("Creosote Under Attack"). The best way to learn the fine points of car ownership, however, is to attend any of the annual AAPRCO meetings.

These pretty much have to be seen to be believed. Two or three dozen cars converge from the four corners of the continent to a central railhead. The year I attended, it was St. Louis. There, owners of 30 cars mingled for several days, conducting association business and glad-handing the public, who got to peek into most of the cars. Judging from their faces, the visitors would not have been more awestruck had the Andrea Doria emerged from the Mississippi's mists. Among owners, one senses a genuine camaraderie. "Oh sure," says Joe Goodell, owner of the all-stainless-steel Dagny Taggart, "if we pull into a station and there's another private car across the way, I'll go over and say hello, see if they need anything." Or the other owner may drop by Goodell's to ask if he can borrow a cup of lug nuts.

The showstopper at many conventions is the Virginia City, creation of late railroad buff, author, and bon vivant Lucius Beebe. As appointed in the 1950s, the car had its own wine cellar, turkish bath, radio telephone, fireplace, mascot (a St. Bernard named Mr. T-Bone Towser), and decor officially described as "Venetian Renaissance" and unofficially as "high bordello."

The car now belongs to Wade and Julia Pellizzer of Redwood City, Calif., who offer not just private charters but also occasional public excursions (e.g., Oakland to Reno, $350 round trip).

El Nino flooding blocked the Virginia City's access to Amtrak when I tried to make the Reno trip on Valentine's Day, and another car was substituted--nice, but no cupids. Wade Pellizzer was as disappointed as any of his guests. "One of my life's goals," he says, "is to cross the Sierra in a blizzard--when I-80 is closed to traffic--and I can sit by my fireplace in my car, a drink in my hand, and roll along and watch the snow." Maybe next time.