Day 12 – 15: Niagara Falls – “Look! That’s where Lois Lane threw herself in the river!”
We ship out of Toronto and head south to Niagara Falls by train. After availing of the very last of our weekly transit cards’ usage, we navigate around the high-ceiling halls and winding corridors of Unity Station and wait for boarding.
It’s here I gut my Lonely Planet Guide to Canada, excising vast reams of information and reducing the tome down to merely contain references to Niagara Falls and the last stop on our Canadian sojourn, Vancouver. After the book-surgery it’s no longer as impressive in girth or in weight and I’m sure other items I’m carting around the world will experience similar fates.
We board and, once again due to some satellite hiccups, wifi is available for free so I write and catch up on what’s going on in Internet-land. From the backlog of articles I earmark for future reading it’s obvious the place has been getting on along without me quite nicely.
Two hours later and the train slows and deposits us in sunny Niagara Falls.
The train-stop is situated in an almost rural area with a few simple chairs and an exit to an abandoned town beyond. After some pointed questioning of the transport system in borderland Canada, we find a bus to take us to the Skyline Hotel where we will be staying for the next four days.
Niagara Falls is nothing like what I anticipated. From a location perspective, my expectations are considerably higher than what’s on offer and I find myself mesmerised at the extent of the ongoing global cover-up that must have started nearly one hundred years ago and continues to hoodwink travellers into thinking Niagara Falls is a location of sublime beauty and natural wonder. It’s not.
Maybe it’s because we have been spoiled by the never-ending images conjured by TV; a deceptive media machine showing Niagara as a picturesque locale with breathtaking vistas and unmatched natural beauty. What the angles of these same cameras have failed to show, however, is the abhorrent kitsch and gaudiness that exists right next to the splendour of the waterfalls. It’s like Vegas gone horribly wrong (if Vegas can ever be right) with cheap horror-houses and ostentatious souvenir shops that appear to have multiplied like a cancerous growth on the natural land. Arcades, bong shops, burger joints, sports-bars. It’s disappointing that such a vulgar and tawdry assortment of attractions are planted so close to what is, admittedly, a pleasant and scenic location.
No one warned me that Niagara Falls was full of such shit
And here comes the kicker. The Falls really aren’t all that impressive anyway. Up close, sure, there’s a majesty in the wonder of so much water falling off a cliff but, considering a pact between the US and Canada to divert half the water during the day (and 75% at night) to a hydro station upstream, it’s literally half the power you’d expect from such a national treasure. We’re literally looking at 50% of what Niagara Falls could produce and maybe herein lies the source of the letdown – there’s more power and wonder contained here. We’re just never allowed see it.
The disappointment of Niagara Falls as a location is mitigated by the fact that some old friends from New York have taken the eight hour drive up to see us. I worked with Craig back in my Diageo and Accenture days where we quickly discovered that we shared a similar (sometimes) puerile and (always) acerbic sense of humour. He and his fiancé Liz appear in the lobby of the Skyline an hour after us at which point they immediately play the “We’re getting married!” card in order to avail of whatever free wares might be on offer. The spoils of their shameless ploy is a two-for-one voucher for a buffet of which we avail of on our second day. We enjoy an impressive view of the town’s namesake laid out across the land before us, if not the abundance of mediocre food on offer. Liz does manage to consume an entire pot of mussels, however, which is an impressive feat in anyone’s book.
We spend our time in Niagara Falls ducking in and our of the arcades and playing Guitar Hero – a practice I enjoy despite the niggling feeling that I am literally paying a dollar a song for a game I can play at home for free. The arcade version doesn’t even have a tremolo bar though I do my best to convince Craig that he needs a PS3. When he hears Rock Band Beatles is coming out after regaling me about the hours he previously lost to SOCOM, I think I have a sale. Sony, send the usual cheque, you know the address. Liz also strong-arms Sheila into going on a ride called The Pile Driver (yes, it’s part of the town’s WWE attraction, the fact that any town could have a WWE attraction possibly giving you an idea of what kind of town Niagara Falls is) at which point the two women are catapulted straight up into the air at over 1G. And, because the “ride supervisor” is bored shitless – he fires them skyward again for good measure. Craig comments on how he never knew how big his wife-to-be’s feet were. How do you respond to that? I think I just nodded and waited for the screams. It didn’t take long.
Considering the last time I saw Craig was in Las Vegas a couple of years ago when he weighed about 50kg soaking wet and with large stones in his pockets, (and at a shooting range no less, the AK-47 he sported nearly shredding his lithe frame to pieces) and the fact that he now weighs about 75kg and has put on a considerable amount of muscle, we decide to hit the gym on day two.
Not one to shirk away from any display of foolish machismo, I match Craig set for set. Of course, I’ve been carrying enough supplies on my back to annex a small country half way across the world and my left shoulder has already froze once in Toronto due to the cumbersome and consistent load. So you’d assume I’d take it easy. You’d assume wrong. Craig issues a cry for “one for the corp!” and I comply until I feel a sickening sucking sensation in my left shoulder socket. I’ve experienced such an injury once before and it required extensive physio from a laconic (yet eager to inflict pain) physiotherapist named Ian. No Ian in Canada, however, so Sheila is called into action later on to jam knuckles and elbows into my inflamed joints. It helps a little but my left arm’s movement is restricted by about 50% and I’m dreading carting the rucksack back to Toronto. It’s sore enough walking, I can’t imagine carrying anything.
I end the session in the tiny closeted gym room of the Sheraton Hotel (which we’re not even staying in by the way) with a run on the one solitary treadmill. Old familiar sensations come rushing back, and as soon as I’ve converted the superior KPH scale into the archaic system of MPH, I’m off, quickly become transfixed by the soothing gait of the run. Something old and familiar. Something I’m good at. I feel like running for hours, and by the considerable expanse of my waist-line of late, I really should.
I won’t focus too much on “the weight issue”. My now San Diego native friend Dave once claimed I have a “bitch-like” fixation with my weight and he’s right – I really do invest far too much time and worry into how much I weigh. I guess it’s because since I’ve gotten older, and most notably since the marathon, my metabolism has down-shifted dramatically. I’m like a calorie magnet now. Any spare calories flying around will somehow insidiously find their way into my system. I don’t even have to eat anything. I can walk past a cake shop and put on weight. When travelling you pretty much go into hunter-survival mode — if stone-age man had access to Burger King and glazed cinnamon rolls that is. You eat whatever is put in front of you by the brightly-coloured serving staff and consider the consequences later. I simply can’t watch my diet here because, if I did, I might not eat for days. We go long periods of not cooking food for ourselves. I’ve never eaten so much prepared food in my life-time and I know for a fact the vast majority of it is laden with calories. But there’s some succor in simply going to a fast-food joint and ordering something I recognise and know will at least stave off hunger for a short-time. We bought cheese once on this trip, ate some, and immediately put it straight into the hostel “freebie” bin. I’m resigned to putting on weight over the next three months and I’m OK with it. I’m already concocting arduous and punishing routines for when I get back and I’ll have the time and the inclination to see them through.
Yep - that's a monkey. There's a monkey in Niagara Falls
Day three sees us hit the road in Craig and Liz’s car. We venture north to an ice-wine vineyard where we sample some of the weirdest — and sweetest — wines ever made. The burly gent describes the process and tries to illicit some modicum of sympathy from us by harking on about how last year’s harvest saw him out picking frozen grapes from a vine at 2am on Christmas morning. I feel like telling him to simply quit the ice-wine business, stop being a lazy bum and pick the bloody things when you’re supposed to and not let them freeze like bullets on the vine. He hits us with another sample, this time something he describes as a secondary wine; something to do with processing the already harvested grapes again to render a different tang. It sounds to me a lot like making a second cup of tea with a used tea-bag, and with a battery-acid like taste, I reckon there’s some credence to my fledgling theory. The red ice-wine requires a $2 donation to which I respond with a “thank you for your time” and then flee. We move on to another vineyard close by only to be greeted by similar tales of frigid tomfoolery before leaving as quickly as we entered.
On the way back to Niagara we stop off at a floral clock which is exactly what it sounds like: a clock face made out of carefully planted flowers with three giant metal hands rotating above depicting the time. It’s two minutes fast but, hey, I can hardly blame the plants. We also check out a whirlpool which is exactly what it doesn’t sound like. Standing atop a bluff and looking at the Niagara River below, tamer now since its 52 meter plunge up river, we view a curious natural phenomenon. Nature’s version of a detour, the water comes down from the direction of the Falls upstream before needing to take a right turn and ultimately head north. The abrupt change of direction has burrowed out an almost perfectly circular bowl from the soft soil of the area resulting in the water rushing in from one direction, going around in a complete circle before crossing its original path and then heading onwards. Technically it is a whirlpool but of a more languid and super-massive nature than the fast and tight versions I had in my head when pulling up in the car. Revealing a nugget of trivia she’s picked up somewhere (I find out where later), Sheila tells us how they’ve tossed in telephone masts and gauged how long it’s taken them to make their way around the vortex. This tidbit sends me furtively looking for telephone poles and a “launching area”. I’m an empiricist. I need to see these things happening first hand if I’m to be a believer. Craig postulates how long it would take a body to get around the watery circuit. Considering he suffers from an acute case of vertigo, I evily call him to the barrier’s edge to see if he would like to find out first hand.
The American Falls (actual size). Woo! Go USA!
This is not our only interaction with the wonders of the waters at Niagara as we also decide to “Tourist up” and take a Maid of the Mist tour out into the actual Falls themselves. This tour has been on offer not long after the Belgian priest who first found the Falls stumbled upon them back in 1677 and is an almost compulsory activity these days. We board the Maid (which is actually Maid #6, after all, you can’t expect the same boat to be in operation for nearly 350 years) and venture out into the rapids of the Niagara River. We pass the American Falls first on our left which, no surprises here, is situated on the American side of the attraction and is, well, it’s a nice waterfall but nothing special. We then mosey on down to the Canadian or Horseshoe Falls which is probably the one most people associate with the location.
To my eyes it’s more on the American side than the Canadian but apparently the two countries have yet to go to war over the naming convention. Being at ground level and looking up at nearly 360 degrees of white water rushing from above is definitely worth the entry fee. It’s still not selling me though, and I blame television once again. And Superman. Craig reminds me that this is where Lois Lane tossed herself into the waterways in Superman II to prove that Clark Kent was the Man of Steel. I think back to the scene and the spectacle of the Falls was definitely more impressive on the silver screen than it is in real life. Maybe it’s because I was younger and more impressionable but, sitting in the belly of the Falls, looking up at one of nature’s great wonders and, though happy to be here, I’m still not blown over.
The automated guide tells us of how numerous people have thrown themselves over the Falls in barrels and have lived to tell about it. My mind immediately snaps to David Blaine and whether or not the man is out there right now designing the perfect barrel. If anyone can survive going over the precipice, it’s got to be that fruit-cake.
What I dislike intensely about what should be a more serene and natural environ around Niagara Falls (and not the garish hellhole that it is) is balanced by seeing Craig and Liz again. Their endless energy and magnanimous nature counters the tasteless commercialism of the place. A friend of their own, Candice, comes down from just outside Hamilton and we have a wonderful dinner, talk about Canada’s IT industry and the plight of the Blue Jays. Craig informs her that I’m a rabid Jays fan (of all of one week) and, a native of Toronto herself, even she can’t believe I’d support the team. We also get her to say “aboot” a lot which elicits surreptitious smiles from our faces and actual guffaws from Craig and Liz.
On our last night we switch accommodation to a hostel where we meet the talkative proprietor Patrick, a double for Penn from Penn and Teller (whichever one is the huge guy with the pony-tail. I should know this, I saw these guys in Vegas) who appears to have travelled the world and would like to talk about it at length. Earlier on in the day when Sheila innocently went to locate the hostel while we indulged ourselves in yet another round of donuts and coffee, I honestly started to get worried that she had been hit by a car or something equally tragic considering she had been gone for so long. She materialises about forty minutes later with a hand-drawn map and tales of the area as if she’s an Indian native. This is probably where she’s gotten the inane trivia about telephone poles and whirlpools. Patrick is a character, however; big-hearted and genuinely tries to not only make each of his backpackers welcome but to also get the most out of their stay in the area. If only he would let people check in first and then burn the ear off them. These bags are heavy Pat.
The next day Craig and Liz drive us back to the train station (this time their GPS is seemingly not hellbent on sending us over the Rainbow Bridge and into US territory like the previous day) and we say our goodbyes. The next time I’ll see them they’ll be married and we promise to make it back to the east coast next year at some point. It’s hard to plan any kind of vacation when you’re on a three month trip.
We get back to Toronto and it’s almost like returning home. There’s the CN Tower, there’s Rogers Stadium, and there’s my shoulder lying on the ground spasming from the weight of my backpack. We seek out the bus terminus and make our way to Toronto airport (one of them, don’t ask me which) where we board for Vancouver. Forever westwards. When we land we’ve gained another three hours and a third Canadian city to explore. But first, we have to wade our way through the homeless people.
Tags: Trip
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