It was a morning’s ride to Niagara Falls, but I slept in a bit so did not leave the campsite at Taughannock Falls until about 11.00 on Monday morning. The first part of the ride, up the western edge of the Lake was pleasant enough and I went via Seneca Falls , where I thought to see another waterfall. I stopped in town outside a shell of a brick building, which to begin with I did not quite understand. There were the remains of some plain brick walls, around and over which, a new steel structure with a roof had been erected. Adjacent to it was a lawned area with a sunken mirror faced water feature along its full length. I went to the larger, in tact building alongside it and walked in to a hallway filled with statues of Victorian looking women in period dress, and approached a counter with a receptionist. I asked her where the falls were, to which she replied “ Oh, there are no falls, they went many years ago when they constructed the locks for the canal, but you can visit the locks, it’s a pretty walk” I didn’t want to see the locks, I wanted to see the pretty falls. I took one of the leaflets from her desk and glanced at it. I was in The Women’s Hall of Fame, a museum and monument to pioneering women and the American suffragettes. The building, which I had seen next door, was apparently the church meeting hall where these courageous women had stood and lectured for the female franchise, but of course, despite its huge significance, it had subsequently been used as a warehouse, and a store ( shop) and then fallen into disrepair, and finally after a fire had fallen down. All that remained of this once important landmark, in the history of less than 150 years ago, was a bit of old brick wall and a modern pagoda of girders and a tiled roof. (shades of the Hartwell House?)
The mirrored water feature listed the names of the suffragettes and female pioneers of democracy and abolishionism and the franchise. I am afraid that I was not in a bra burning mood, and despite the fact that I perhaps should have paid some suitable homage, I took my male chauvinist pig self back on my Hog and on down the road.
As you ride round the ring road of Buffalo, New York State, through Tonawanda to Niagara Falls, you get a sense that all is not well. Riding down the highway, alongside the most north
easterly shore of Lake Erie, towards the Falls, there is a cloud on the skyline to your left and several large chimneys and soaring radio masts with flashing aircraft warning lights. Almost before you know it you are in Niagara Falls township, and I followed the signs to Goat Island. This is the island that splits the falls into 
their two main sections, the Horsehoe Falls and the American Falls, the former facing mostly north east and best visible from Canada I believe, and the American Falls, slightly smaller and less specatacular as they can only be seen front on from Canada or by a walkway that leads down to them. Here was the source of the skyline cloud, such a dense mist rising from the Horsehoe Falls that the actual falls themselves were virtually invisible. There is a well planned and nicely laid out walkway, in a terraced, lawned garden, which leads you to the 
viewing point on the US side. On the opposite bank, the view is not of forests or simply a viewing platform but of a whole skyscraper town, complete with a large toadstool of an observation tower with an outside lift and a massive ferris wheel. The US side is not much better with a small park area and car parking and a few tatty souvenir kiosks and, of course, the fast food outlet, though thank goodness, at least that there isn’t a giant Macdonalds sign, although it’s probably only a matter of time. The Falls themselves cry their millions of gallons of tears as the profiteers abominate what must be one of the natural wonders of the world. It is really such an anti-climax to see what one imagines to be a site of extraordinary natural beauty and awe, 
prostituted by the absence of any reverential planning law. This should be a place where there is no building in site, where development should be concealed and confined only to the essential items needed for the visitor. I can almost forgive the need for the hydroelectric plants, but the rest is quite frankly totally inexcusable. Both the Americans and Canadians should be ashamed that they have allowed such desecration of this world heritage. But, of course, neither of them will pay any attention to me or my blog, other than perhaps, if they read it, to stick me in Guantanamo as a radical. I hope to God there isn’t a Yogi Bear theme park at Yellowstone, but I suppose I was at least warned beforehand about Niagara if I’m honest. New Daughter told me, as she had been there, and my Father told me roughly what to expect because they had visited with the family one year when I was in medical school, forty years or so ago.
Then, of course, I was unfaithful to myself. Now I am here, I have to do one of the “things you do at Niagara.” I tossed up between The Cave of the Winds” or “The Maid of the Mist” The former won. ( Well, I could always do The Maid of the Mist from Canada at the end of my time in the States if I want to !!!)
The Cave of the Winds is the modern alternative to the original trip of the same name. The original one took you down a shaft to the river floor and then along a walkway which passed behind the American Falls. Until 1923, there was a vast overhand of rock which projected the
American Falls well out from the rock face and the undercurrent of spray had cut a deep cavern behind the falls. In 1923, the overhang collapsed and the cavern was destroyed and there was no walkway, so each year, after the ice has melted, this new walkway is constructed which takes you to within about 12 feet of the southern edge of the American Falls. All decked out in plastic flip flop sandals and bright yellow bin liner bags with sleeves and hoods, nowadays, the tourist travels to the shoreline in a lift shaft and then along a concrete lined tunnel to trail along the wooden walkways. Along the shore here is a large colony of protected ring billed gulls, and several other sea birds nesting. The noise and the smell are both pretty powerful. The walkway culminates, for the foolhardy amongst us, in mounting “the hurricane platform” where the thunderous roar of the water, the spray, and the wind that accompanies the downward force, blows you almost 
off your feet and drenches you with water. Well, yes, OK, I did do it, and yes, OK, I did get
someone to take my picture, and yes, OK, I AM a hypocrite, but it was fun, and it doesn’t really intrude on the environment or the atmosphere of the place like the concrete jungle above does.
Would I go again? Probably the answer to that is “Yes, but, I would want to see the classic view of the Horsehoe Falls from the Canadian side, and maybe I will do so when I am in Canada.” I hope that the view of the shore on the American side from Canada is less offensive than the view of the Canadian side from the US.
Overall score? 9/10 for the Falls, and 1/10 for the respective National sensitivities to this fabulous natural asset. Badly handled Canada and America, very badly handled. Thank goodness neither of you own any African game reserves or the Victoria Falls. I am told that the U.S. government has suggested that they may create exceptional special areas in their National Parks , so called wilderness areas, which would be left to remain entirely natural and be highly protected from visitors. Might I suggest that you might start here, tear up the buildings and the detractions from this wonder of the world, plant it with natural forest vegetation and return it to the world after nature has properly restored it for you? If this is the price of capitalist democracy, it is too high, and I say that as a British democratic conservative. Some things in the world are sacrosanct. They don’t belong to the country they are in, they belong to the world. This is surely one of them?
I left Buffalo with very mixed feelings, pleased that I had seen Niagara, but cheated, angry, and upset at the mess that surrounds it. I rode south and west on the 20, riding fast as the weather was changing once more. I was going to have to find a motel again as there were no campsites registering on the Satnav within100miles. It was getting dark when I stopped at a nameless grey motel on the highway, all one could say about it was that it was on the left, dull, and cheap but dry with a bed and a shower. I lay awake for several hours, possibly due to coffee, but also due to mulling over the disappointment of Niagara Falls for about 4 hours. Robert Louis Stevenson wrote, “…to travel hopefully, is better than to arrive”. I know now exactly what he meant.
The following morning, it was sunny again and I left room number 6 and continued west on 20. It was not long before I passed through about a five mile stretch, where it seemed as if it was a small reservation, with Indian life souvenir shops on both sides of the highway and advertisements for tax free tobacco everywhere. I was just contemplating whether to buy some cigarettes, when I was through it and couldn’t be bothered to turn back. Soon I entered Chautauqua County. That rang a bell. It was the old native American word that Robert M. Persig uses in his book, “Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance” to describe the writing which he puts in his chapters. A sort of mixture of a talk, self examination and self discussion and resolution with life. I didn’t know there was a county named that, so with some interest, I stopped as I passed through the small townships, and rather cheekily, called in at the town offices in Brocton, Portland, Westfield and Ripley to ask there ‘what was the meaning of the word’ after which their county was named. In Ripley, I got the answer that it was a meeting place of tribal talking, but in the others, I got dumb looks and comments that it was an old native word and they had no idea what it meant. They said that it was the name the Indians gave it, and I guess that may be true, but it’s a bit sad that the people who lived there and named it only 200 years ago are so ignored and minimalised as to not even have any significance left in their words.
I was glad I had read the book. I like the word, like Persig did., I realised that some of what I am experiencing now is a Chautauqua, and I felt pleased to feel a fuller understanding with him.
I have to say that the ride along the southern border of Lakes Ontario and Erie, especially on the roads I followed was particularly monotonous. The land is flat, sometimes farmed, sometimes small faceless townships, all the same, same lookalike buildings, same malls, same intersections and lights. I skirted Cleveland and then had three options, either to take the 90, which is the motorway to Toledo, or the 2 which runs alongside Lake Erie, or the 20 which runs inland. I opted for the 20, which, in retrospect was probably a lot more boring than the 2 would have been and a lot slower than the motorway. But gradually, this northern part of Ohio became more green and more acceptable and slightly undulating. I rode on into Indiana, and as evening drew on, I had come to Elkhart, and saw a sign for Amish Acres, a living museum and working farmship of the Amish.
I have to confess that my ideas of the Amish community are largely based on a National Geographic article I read years ago, and Harrison Ford in “Witness”! I thought this was a good opportunity to investigate a bit more of these picturesque and unique people, so I turned south and found myself in Nappanee. It was 8.30p.m. rapidly growing dark, and drizzling with rain, and I hit the Satnav for a campsite, and found one within 3 miles. Pla-Mor, did not immediately fill me with a lot of confidence, when I read it on the screen. I do not like American spellings at the best of times, and this was so naf! However, it was close, and a storm was brewing. I followed the signs and entered right, off the 6, to what seemed a lovely site. I was impressed the moment I went to the office. The greeting from the young girls behind the coffee counter was polite and enthusiastic and smiling, and equally from Nicky the receptionist. A few people were sat at the tables chatting, and most of them looked up or said good evening. One of them introduced himself as Dan. He turned out to be Nicky’s husband, waiting for her to finish her shift at 9.00pm. I booked in for two days. I needed the break, needed the savings, and wanted to see the Amish. It was a good idea to set up the tent for a couple of days, and this camp was also Wi-Fi equipped, so I could catch up some writing and try to get my photos loaded up. One of the men at the table showed me my campsite, but allowed me to park the bike up in a big barn as the rain started and I returned for a coffee in the café. Some time later, after recounting a little of where I had come from, I left, with my pint polystyrene cup of coffee in hand, and set up the tent. It was so simple and so quick. I off loaded a lot of my stuff inside and laid out my sleeping bag. Once in, there is just enough room to sit up and plenty of room to roll over. Rod, the man who had shown me my pitch, said that they needed rain. The corn was parched and they had had a drought. I was surprised. I thought now that I had escaped the rain, but it was definitely overcast and starting to drizzle. The U.K. is covered in floods and the rain has been incessant for almost eight weeks, the wettest summer on record. The fire and other emergency services have been pumping vast quantities of water out of homes and rescuing flood victims all over the country for weeks. And here, in northern Indiana, they want rain! That’s certainly not what I want, but it seemed I had brought it with me.
O.K., the rainmaker has arrived!
Best wishes,
Doc
The mirrored water feature listed the names of the suffragettes and female pioneers of democracy and abolishionism and the franchise. I am afraid that I was not in a bra burning mood, and despite the fact that I perhaps should have paid some suitable homage, I took my male chauvinist pig self back on my Hog and on down the road.
As you ride round the ring road of Buffalo, New York State, through Tonawanda to Niagara Falls, you get a sense that all is not well. Riding down the highway, alongside the most north
easterly shore of Lake Erie, towards the Falls, there is a cloud on the skyline to your left and several large chimneys and soaring radio masts with flashing aircraft warning lights. Almost before you know it you are in Niagara Falls township, and I followed the signs to Goat Island. This is the island that splits the falls into 
their two main sections, the Horsehoe Falls and the American Falls, the former facing mostly north east and best visible from Canada I believe, and the American Falls, slightly smaller and less specatacular as they can only be seen front on from Canada or by a walkway that leads down to them. Here was the source of the skyline cloud, such a dense mist rising from the Horsehoe Falls that the actual falls themselves were virtually invisible. There is a well planned and nicely laid out walkway, in a terraced, lawned garden, which leads you to the 
viewing point on the US side. On the opposite bank, the view is not of forests or simply a viewing platform but of a whole skyscraper town, complete with a large toadstool of an observation tower with an outside lift and a massive ferris wheel. The US side is not much better with a small park area and car parking and a few tatty souvenir kiosks and, of course, the fast food outlet, though thank goodness, at least that there isn’t a giant Macdonalds sign, although it’s probably only a matter of time. The Falls themselves cry their millions of gallons of tears as the profiteers abominate what must be one of the natural wonders of the world. It is really such an anti-climax to see what one imagines to be a site of extraordinary natural beauty and awe, 
prostituted by the absence of any reverential planning law. This should be a place where there is no building in site, where development should be concealed and confined only to the essential items needed for the visitor. I can almost forgive the need for the hydroelectric plants, but the rest is quite frankly totally inexcusable. Both the Americans and Canadians should be ashamed that they have allowed such desecration of this world heritage. But, of course, neither of them will pay any attention to me or my blog, other than perhaps, if they read it, to stick me in Guantanamo as a radical. I hope to God there isn’t a Yogi Bear theme park at Yellowstone, but I suppose I was at least warned beforehand about Niagara if I’m honest. New Daughter told me, as she had been there, and my Father told me roughly what to expect because they had visited with the family one year when I was in medical school, forty years or so ago.Then, of course, I was unfaithful to myself. Now I am here, I have to do one of the “things you do at Niagara.” I tossed up between The Cave of the Winds” or “The Maid of the Mist” The former won. ( Well, I could always do The Maid of the Mist from Canada at the end of my time in the States if I want to !!!)
The Cave of the Winds is the modern alternative to the original trip of the same name. The original one took you down a shaft to the river floor and then along a walkway which passed behind the American Falls. Until 1923, there was a vast overhand of rock which projected the
American Falls well out from the rock face and the undercurrent of spray had cut a deep cavern behind the falls. In 1923, the overhang collapsed and the cavern was destroyed and there was no walkway, so each year, after the ice has melted, this new walkway is constructed which takes you to within about 12 feet of the southern edge of the American Falls. All decked out in plastic flip flop sandals and bright yellow bin liner bags with sleeves and hoods, nowadays, the tourist travels to the shoreline in a lift shaft and then along a concrete lined tunnel to trail along the wooden walkways. Along the shore here is a large colony of protected ring billed gulls, and several other sea birds nesting. The noise and the smell are both pretty powerful. The walkway culminates, for the foolhardy amongst us, in mounting “the hurricane platform” where the thunderous roar of the water, the spray, and the wind that accompanies the downward force, blows you almost 
off your feet and drenches you with water. Well, yes, OK, I did do it, and yes, OK, I did get
someone to take my picture, and yes, OK, I AM a hypocrite, but it was fun, and it doesn’t really intrude on the environment or the atmosphere of the place like the concrete jungle above does.Would I go again? Probably the answer to that is “Yes, but, I would want to see the classic view of the Horsehoe Falls from the Canadian side, and maybe I will do so when I am in Canada.” I hope that the view of the shore on the American side from Canada is less offensive than the view of the Canadian side from the US.
Overall score? 9/10 for the Falls, and 1/10 for the respective National sensitivities to this fabulous natural asset. Badly handled Canada and America, very badly handled. Thank goodness neither of you own any African game reserves or the Victoria Falls. I am told that the U.S. government has suggested that they may create exceptional special areas in their National Parks , so called wilderness areas, which would be left to remain entirely natural and be highly protected from visitors. Might I suggest that you might start here, tear up the buildings and the detractions from this wonder of the world, plant it with natural forest vegetation and return it to the world after nature has properly restored it for you? If this is the price of capitalist democracy, it is too high, and I say that as a British democratic conservative. Some things in the world are sacrosanct. They don’t belong to the country they are in, they belong to the world. This is surely one of them?
I left Buffalo with very mixed feelings, pleased that I had seen Niagara, but cheated, angry, and upset at the mess that surrounds it. I rode south and west on the 20, riding fast as the weather was changing once more. I was going to have to find a motel again as there were no campsites registering on the Satnav within100miles. It was getting dark when I stopped at a nameless grey motel on the highway, all one could say about it was that it was on the left, dull, and cheap but dry with a bed and a shower. I lay awake for several hours, possibly due to coffee, but also due to mulling over the disappointment of Niagara Falls for about 4 hours. Robert Louis Stevenson wrote, “…to travel hopefully, is better than to arrive”. I know now exactly what he meant.
The following morning, it was sunny again and I left room number 6 and continued west on 20. It was not long before I passed through about a five mile stretch, where it seemed as if it was a small reservation, with Indian life souvenir shops on both sides of the highway and advertisements for tax free tobacco everywhere. I was just contemplating whether to buy some cigarettes, when I was through it and couldn’t be bothered to turn back. Soon I entered Chautauqua County. That rang a bell. It was the old native American word that Robert M. Persig uses in his book, “Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance” to describe the writing which he puts in his chapters. A sort of mixture of a talk, self examination and self discussion and resolution with life. I didn’t know there was a county named that, so with some interest, I stopped as I passed through the small townships, and rather cheekily, called in at the town offices in Brocton, Portland, Westfield and Ripley to ask there ‘what was the meaning of the word’ after which their county was named. In Ripley, I got the answer that it was a meeting place of tribal talking, but in the others, I got dumb looks and comments that it was an old native word and they had no idea what it meant. They said that it was the name the Indians gave it, and I guess that may be true, but it’s a bit sad that the people who lived there and named it only 200 years ago are so ignored and minimalised as to not even have any significance left in their words.
I was glad I had read the book. I like the word, like Persig did., I realised that some of what I am experiencing now is a Chautauqua, and I felt pleased to feel a fuller understanding with him.
I have to say that the ride along the southern border of Lakes Ontario and Erie, especially on the roads I followed was particularly monotonous. The land is flat, sometimes farmed, sometimes small faceless townships, all the same, same lookalike buildings, same malls, same intersections and lights. I skirted Cleveland and then had three options, either to take the 90, which is the motorway to Toledo, or the 2 which runs alongside Lake Erie, or the 20 which runs inland. I opted for the 20, which, in retrospect was probably a lot more boring than the 2 would have been and a lot slower than the motorway. But gradually, this northern part of Ohio became more green and more acceptable and slightly undulating. I rode on into Indiana, and as evening drew on, I had come to Elkhart, and saw a sign for Amish Acres, a living museum and working farmship of the Amish.
I have to confess that my ideas of the Amish community are largely based on a National Geographic article I read years ago, and Harrison Ford in “Witness”! I thought this was a good opportunity to investigate a bit more of these picturesque and unique people, so I turned south and found myself in Nappanee. It was 8.30p.m. rapidly growing dark, and drizzling with rain, and I hit the Satnav for a campsite, and found one within 3 miles. Pla-Mor, did not immediately fill me with a lot of confidence, when I read it on the screen. I do not like American spellings at the best of times, and this was so naf! However, it was close, and a storm was brewing. I followed the signs and entered right, off the 6, to what seemed a lovely site. I was impressed the moment I went to the office. The greeting from the young girls behind the coffee counter was polite and enthusiastic and smiling, and equally from Nicky the receptionist. A few people were sat at the tables chatting, and most of them looked up or said good evening. One of them introduced himself as Dan. He turned out to be Nicky’s husband, waiting for her to finish her shift at 9.00pm. I booked in for two days. I needed the break, needed the savings, and wanted to see the Amish. It was a good idea to set up the tent for a couple of days, and this camp was also Wi-Fi equipped, so I could catch up some writing and try to get my photos loaded up. One of the men at the table showed me my campsite, but allowed me to park the bike up in a big barn as the rain started and I returned for a coffee in the café. Some time later, after recounting a little of where I had come from, I left, with my pint polystyrene cup of coffee in hand, and set up the tent. It was so simple and so quick. I off loaded a lot of my stuff inside and laid out my sleeping bag. Once in, there is just enough room to sit up and plenty of room to roll over. Rod, the man who had shown me my pitch, said that they needed rain. The corn was parched and they had had a drought. I was surprised. I thought now that I had escaped the rain, but it was definitely overcast and starting to drizzle. The U.K. is covered in floods and the rain has been incessant for almost eight weeks, the wettest summer on record. The fire and other emergency services have been pumping vast quantities of water out of homes and rescuing flood victims all over the country for weeks. And here, in northern Indiana, they want rain! That’s certainly not what I want, but it seemed I had brought it with me.
O.K., the rainmaker has arrived!
Best wishes,
Doc
No comments:
Post a Comment