doubt I would have a completely different accent today and last night’s conversation in the wine bar would never have happened.
This time around, although the chances of anything even remotely resembling a repeat performance were unlikely, I reckoned that in these days of heightened border sensitivity, just in case, I would content myself with doing all my sightseeing from the American side. I have also realised that although we ‘did the falls’, in that visit more than three decades ago, by staying on the Canadian side, in fact missed some of the best aspects. With unexpected time on my hands due to the hotel receptionist’s misinformation, I walked around the State Park which basically constitutes the American side of the falls and is mostly on Goat Island, the small piece of rocky parkland that sits in the middle of the Niagara River and is responsible for splitting the great cataract into the American Falls on its near side and the U-shaped Horseshoe Falls which, as the border lies mid-river, beyond the island, are wholly in Canada.
Goat Island got its name, a sign helpfully tells me, because in the eighteenth century English settler John Steadman kept his goat here to stop the wolves getting at it, though it begs the question of how he got to it himself; this is not the sort of river you want to be paddling across regularly. The view from the bridge is daunting in its own right and affords an aspect of the falls that people who come to look at the cataracts themselves, usually from below, often miss. Behind me, upstream, is a churning torrent as the water rushes over its uneven rocky bed; ahead, downstream, it seems to become faster and more turbulent still, only to disappear all of a sudden in a fine cloud of mist. Only the persistent roaring sound testifies to the fact that this vast flood of water is actually dropping a sheer 100 feet onto the rocks below. From here it appears to be a vast river suddenly evaporating into space.
Time for a closer look. Although the Canadian side offers the possibility of getting close to the bottom of the Horseshoe Falls it does so in a very civilised, safe and secure fashion, via a set of lifts and tunnels. The US side’s equivalent is the Cave of the Winds, and it is an altogether less health-and-safety friendly setup. And a lot more exciting as a result. Nowadays there is a lift, which is where I am standing along with two Asian-American women, all three of usclad in see-through yellow capes with hoods, trousers rolled up to the knees, socks and shoes in a carrier bag and feet in a pair of disposable plastic sandals, all provided as part of the entrance fee. At five minutes past opening time, the lift supervisor in his green national park uniform arrives and ushers us in, telling us how originally there was just a wooden tower built against the side of the cliff. If that seems a bit scary it is nothing compared to the structure that still exists.
The term ‘Cave of the Winds’ is a bit of a misnomer, it turns out; the cave itself – discovered in 1834 and named with the classical flair of those days after Aeolus, Greek god of the winds – was wiped out in a rock fall in 1954 leaving only a dangerous overhang which had to be dynamited to make access even remotely safe. This is a stark reminder that if nature were left to itself, Niagara’s falls would eventually be nowhere near the twin towns named after them: natural erosion of the cliff face behind them is slowly causing them to retreat to the extent that in a few thousand years they ought to reach all the way back to Lake Erie itself and drain it. American and Canadian engineers have for decades now been working to delay this by shoring up the cliffs, but as we are not yet 300 years into their recorded history, nobody can be sure how successful their efforts really are. Having been close up, I reckon they’re probably wasting their time.
Mark, the ranger who takes over the tour from the bottom of the lift shaft,
This time around, although the chances of anything even remotely resembling a repeat performance were unlikely, I reckoned that in these days of heightened border sensitivity, just in case, I would content myself with doing all my sightseeing from the American side. I have also realised that although we ‘did the falls’, in that visit more than three decades ago, by staying on the Canadian side, in fact missed some of the best aspects. With unexpected time on my hands due to the hotel receptionist’s misinformation, I walked around the State Park which basically constitutes the American side of the falls and is mostly on Goat Island, the small piece of rocky parkland that sits in the middle of the Niagara River and is responsible for splitting the great cataract into the American Falls on its near side and the U-shaped Horseshoe Falls which, as the border lies mid-river, beyond the island, are wholly in Canada.
Goat Island got its name, a sign helpfully tells me, because in the eighteenth century English settler John Steadman kept his goat here to stop the wolves getting at it, though it begs the question of how he got to it himself; this is not the sort of river you want to be paddling across regularly. The view from the bridge is daunting in its own right and affords an aspect of the falls that people who come to look at the cataracts themselves, usually from below, often miss. Behind me, upstream, is a churning torrent as the water rushes over its uneven rocky bed; ahead, downstream, it seems to become faster and more turbulent still, only to disappear all of a sudden in a fine cloud of mist. Only the persistent roaring sound testifies to the fact that this vast flood of water is actually dropping a sheer 100 feet onto the rocks below. From here it appears to be a vast river suddenly evaporating into space.
Time for a closer look. Although the Canadian side offers the possibility of getting close to the bottom of the Horseshoe Falls it does so in a very civilised, safe and secure fashion, via a set of lifts and tunnels. The US side’s equivalent is the Cave of the Winds, and it is an altogether less health-and-safety friendly setup. And a lot more exciting as a result. Nowadays there is a lift, which is where I am standing along with two Asian-American women, all three of usclad in see-through yellow capes with hoods, trousers rolled up to the knees, socks and shoes in a carrier bag and feet in a pair of disposable plastic sandals, all provided as part of the entrance fee. At five minutes past opening time, the lift supervisor in his green national park uniform arrives and ushers us in, telling us how originally there was just a wooden tower built against the side of the cliff. If that seems a bit scary it is nothing compared to the structure that still exists.
The term ‘Cave of the Winds’ is a bit of a misnomer, it turns out; the cave itself – discovered in 1834 and named with the classical flair of those days after Aeolus, Greek god of the winds – was wiped out in a rock fall in 1954 leaving only a dangerous overhang which had to be dynamited to make access even remotely safe. This is a stark reminder that if nature were left to itself, Niagara’s falls would eventually be nowhere near the twin towns named after them: natural erosion of the cliff face behind them is slowly causing them to retreat to the extent that in a few thousand years they ought to reach all the way back to Lake Erie itself and drain it. American and Canadian engineers have for decades now been working to delay this by shoring up the cliffs, but as we are not yet 300 years into their recorded history, nobody can be sure how successful their efforts really are. Having been close up, I reckon they’re probably wasting their time.
Mark, the ranger who takes over the tour from the bottom of the lift shaft,
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