is telling us this and reams of other mind-boggling statistics as he hops gleefully over wooden decking down across the rocks. The cave may no longer exist but the tourists come anyway, primarily because the access built to get to it is still there and offers one of the most ridiculously hair-raising possibilities of getting up close and personal to a waterfall that at its peak can create conditions akin to a hurricane. When I say the access is still there, I mean it is for the moment: Mark and his mates will be taking it down in about six weeks’ time, near the end of November and re-erecting it next spring. This is largely because in mid-winter it gets so cold up here the falls can freeze, crushing anything in their way and forcing themselves over the edge in time-freeze slow motion, like a fast-moving glacier, with maybe no movement for several days, then a few hairline cracks and moments of spectacular violence when huge chunks of ice topple over the precipice. I make a mental note to try to come back and see that some time.
Right now I am more concerned with keeping my footing on soaking wooden decking amidst a whirlwind flurry of spray from the nearest falls, known as the Bridal Veil, which is really a tiny offshoot of the American Fallscut off from the rest by a rock in the river. I now know why I’m wearing plastic sandals with my jeans rolled up to the knees. I may look like DP Gumby in a rain hood but at least most of me is dry. On the other hand, I’m a bit concerned about how long that will last. I’ve been looking at the wooden supports for the decking and can’t see how they’re fixed to the rocks. I ask Mark, who gives one of those big American ‘Hey guy’ laughs, and says, ‘They aren’t!’ He goes on to tell me, beaming broadly all the time, that the decking supports are simply wedged into crevices in the rock, and have been done that way ever since the whole trestle edifice – which must be at least 200 feet long, up and down the rocks and in a series of raised platforms perilously close to the face of the falls – was first set up in the 1860s. The plan of exactly how to do it is passed on from team leader to team leader, relearned and adjusted each time they put it up and take it down. He seems to think this should be totally reassuring, but I’m left staring at the struts of wood wedged into gaps in the rock beneath me in ashen astonishment and wondering just how quickly a British health and safety department would take to condemn the whole structure. The terrible truth is I know deep down that they would do so without even looking at it, which is one more tragic example of how cosseted we’ve become and how much our lives have been taken over by a nanny state. This is one of those big differences between our two countries: we’re brought up to have an instinctive respect for nanny; here they’d probably shoot her.
I’m still glancing at the supports apprehensively as we get ever closer to the falls, the noise grows and the spray from the onrushing torrent is like pointing a showerhead straight into my face. That’s when Mark points up at the highest platform, almost within touching distance of the face of the Bridal Veil, its wooden railings dripping with windblown strings of green moss and with a sign proclaiming HURRICANE DECK , and more amusingly next to it, no smoking. This latter has to be a joke. ‘Smoking impossible’ would be more accurate. Mark is gesturing towards it but making no move in that direction himself. ‘It’s perfectly safe,’ he assures me, roaring at the top of his voice to be heard over the thunder of the falls, ‘but I do this trip maybe 20 times a day, and I’d have pneumonia if I went up there every time. Suit yourself.’ I look at it apprehensively. The two little Asian-American women have very obviously bottled out, and are taking photographs of one another a couple of decks below. But, I tell myself, I paid money to do this.
The hurricane deck
Right now I am more concerned with keeping my footing on soaking wooden decking amidst a whirlwind flurry of spray from the nearest falls, known as the Bridal Veil, which is really a tiny offshoot of the American Fallscut off from the rest by a rock in the river. I now know why I’m wearing plastic sandals with my jeans rolled up to the knees. I may look like DP Gumby in a rain hood but at least most of me is dry. On the other hand, I’m a bit concerned about how long that will last. I’ve been looking at the wooden supports for the decking and can’t see how they’re fixed to the rocks. I ask Mark, who gives one of those big American ‘Hey guy’ laughs, and says, ‘They aren’t!’ He goes on to tell me, beaming broadly all the time, that the decking supports are simply wedged into crevices in the rock, and have been done that way ever since the whole trestle edifice – which must be at least 200 feet long, up and down the rocks and in a series of raised platforms perilously close to the face of the falls – was first set up in the 1860s. The plan of exactly how to do it is passed on from team leader to team leader, relearned and adjusted each time they put it up and take it down. He seems to think this should be totally reassuring, but I’m left staring at the struts of wood wedged into gaps in the rock beneath me in ashen astonishment and wondering just how quickly a British health and safety department would take to condemn the whole structure. The terrible truth is I know deep down that they would do so without even looking at it, which is one more tragic example of how cosseted we’ve become and how much our lives have been taken over by a nanny state. This is one of those big differences between our two countries: we’re brought up to have an instinctive respect for nanny; here they’d probably shoot her.
I’m still glancing at the supports apprehensively as we get ever closer to the falls, the noise grows and the spray from the onrushing torrent is like pointing a showerhead straight into my face. That’s when Mark points up at the highest platform, almost within touching distance of the face of the Bridal Veil, its wooden railings dripping with windblown strings of green moss and with a sign proclaiming HURRICANE DECK , and more amusingly next to it, no smoking. This latter has to be a joke. ‘Smoking impossible’ would be more accurate. Mark is gesturing towards it but making no move in that direction himself. ‘It’s perfectly safe,’ he assures me, roaring at the top of his voice to be heard over the thunder of the falls, ‘but I do this trip maybe 20 times a day, and I’d have pneumonia if I went up there every time. Suit yourself.’ I look at it apprehensively. The two little Asian-American women have very obviously bottled out, and are taking photographs of one another a couple of decks below. But, I tell myself, I paid money to do this.
The hurricane deck
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