My writing group decided to try our hands at travel writing this time. Here's mine:
One of Chris Van Allsburg’s latest books is called Queen of the Falls. It tells the true story of Annie Edson Taylor, the first person to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel and survive. The year was 1901, and Taylor was a 62-year-old widow who figured she had nothing to lose and financial security to gain by taking this daring plunge. She poses unsmiling in the photographs of the time, standing grimly next to her custom-built barrel. In one, a tiny ginger and white cat perches on the huge cask beside her; she had sent him over the falls before her to see if he would survive. When Annie’s turn came, on October 24, her 63rd birthday, she slid into the barrel, which was fitted with a mattress, and had a friend screw the lid down and pump out most of the air to create a vacuum seal. Then it was over the side of the row boat and into the roiling waters of the Niagara River. In less than 20 minutes she was swept over the Horseshoe Falls and into history.
It was hard not to think of that story as I stood at the edge of that same precipice on a rainy day in late June. I had been to Niagara Falls many times before but this was the first time for my mother, sister, brother-in-law, nephew, and niece. We had chosen to start our visit on the Canadian side. Many people claim it superior to its American counterpart, but I do not share that opinion. If anything, that vantage offers a better view of the American Falls along with the Horseshoe cataract that both nations share, but from either side of the river you can get close enough to feel the roar of the water in your chest as it blasts toward the brink at 25 miles per hour and then plunges into the gorge at 2 ½ times that speed.
On this day, our wait on the Rainbow Bridge to pass through immigration and customs was a little less than 30 minutes, and my brother-in-law took advantage of the time to shoot several photos from the pedestrian walkway overlooking the falls. “It feels like a different country already,” my mother noted as we turned onto Niagara Parkway. I knew what she meant. The squat, mid-20th century architecture of the NY side had been replaced by a lighter, more international style of building, including several sky-scrapers. The parkway along the river is broad, and framed by wide sidewalks with green grass and curved flower beds beyond. It is more like a riverside promenade than the sprawling park with its meandering pathways and shade trees on the US side.
We found convenient parking in a lot just across from the visitors’ center and joined the throngs of other tourists heading for Niagara Falls. The rain held off, but the mist from the falls seemed to rise right into the low clouds above us, and the water was emerald green in the filtered light of the overcast day. We started our walk just upriver from the top of the falls, and traveled with the current until we reached an overlook directly above the edge. There the water poured over with such momentum that although the sharp rim was visible, it was submerged by at least three feet, and it was hard to believe that this was not even the fullest force of the falls. Since 1895, water has been diverted from the river to provide power to much of western New York and Ontario. These days, anywhere from 60-75% of the water flowing toward the falls is channeled underground to one of five hydroelectric power plants nearby.
Across the way, the yellow slickers of all those folks visiting the Cave of the Winds bobbed on the redwood decks at the foot of Bridal Veil Falls. Below us, at the foot of the falls, The Maid of the Mist intrepidly motored her way into the flume, her blue-coated patrons crowded on the bow eager to snap that perfect, postcard-worthy shot.
We heard many different languages from our fellow visitors, adding to the international vibe, and as we ambled along we found ourselves engaged in a good-natured ballet of selfies. One person would step out from the railing as another glided in; people would bow and spin to avoid photo bombing: all of us wanted a picture that conveyed the illusion that we were alone there, and yet? It wouldn’t have been the same without the rest of us.
One of Chris Van Allsburg’s latest books is called Queen of the Falls. It tells the true story of Annie Edson Taylor, the first person to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel and survive. The year was 1901, and Taylor was a 62-year-old widow who figured she had nothing to lose and financial security to gain by taking this daring plunge. She poses unsmiling in the photographs of the time, standing grimly next to her custom-built barrel. In one, a tiny ginger and white cat perches on the huge cask beside her; she had sent him over the falls before her to see if he would survive. When Annie’s turn came, on October 24, her 63rd birthday, she slid into the barrel, which was fitted with a mattress, and had a friend screw the lid down and pump out most of the air to create a vacuum seal. Then it was over the side of the row boat and into the roiling waters of the Niagara River. In less than 20 minutes she was swept over the Horseshoe Falls and into history.
It was hard not to think of that story as I stood at the edge of that same precipice on a rainy day in late June. I had been to Niagara Falls many times before but this was the first time for my mother, sister, brother-in-law, nephew, and niece. We had chosen to start our visit on the Canadian side. Many people claim it superior to its American counterpart, but I do not share that opinion. If anything, that vantage offers a better view of the American Falls along with the Horseshoe cataract that both nations share, but from either side of the river you can get close enough to feel the roar of the water in your chest as it blasts toward the brink at 25 miles per hour and then plunges into the gorge at 2 ½ times that speed.
On this day, our wait on the Rainbow Bridge to pass through immigration and customs was a little less than 30 minutes, and my brother-in-law took advantage of the time to shoot several photos from the pedestrian walkway overlooking the falls. “It feels like a different country already,” my mother noted as we turned onto Niagara Parkway. I knew what she meant. The squat, mid-20th century architecture of the NY side had been replaced by a lighter, more international style of building, including several sky-scrapers. The parkway along the river is broad, and framed by wide sidewalks with green grass and curved flower beds beyond. It is more like a riverside promenade than the sprawling park with its meandering pathways and shade trees on the US side.
We found convenient parking in a lot just across from the visitors’ center and joined the throngs of other tourists heading for Niagara Falls. The rain held off, but the mist from the falls seemed to rise right into the low clouds above us, and the water was emerald green in the filtered light of the overcast day. We started our walk just upriver from the top of the falls, and traveled with the current until we reached an overlook directly above the edge. There the water poured over with such momentum that although the sharp rim was visible, it was submerged by at least three feet, and it was hard to believe that this was not even the fullest force of the falls. Since 1895, water has been diverted from the river to provide power to much of western New York and Ontario. These days, anywhere from 60-75% of the water flowing toward the falls is channeled underground to one of five hydroelectric power plants nearby.
Across the way, the yellow slickers of all those folks visiting the Cave of the Winds bobbed on the redwood decks at the foot of Bridal Veil Falls. Below us, at the foot of the falls, The Maid of the Mist intrepidly motored her way into the flume, her blue-coated patrons crowded on the bow eager to snap that perfect, postcard-worthy shot.
We heard many different languages from our fellow visitors, adding to the international vibe, and as we ambled along we found ourselves engaged in a good-natured ballet of selfies. One person would step out from the railing as another glided in; people would bow and spin to avoid photo bombing: all of us wanted a picture that conveyed the illusion that we were alone there, and yet? It wouldn’t have been the same without the rest of us.
