roadtripping.

A tour of the Niagara Peninsula: proof to the innocent that bicycle camping is actually fun.

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The trail along the niagara river is undeniably beautiful. Well built, in mint condition, and offering stunning views of the river, the cliffs, and the few houses (palatial mansions all) built along the river. It runs the full length of the river, from Niagara-on-the-Lake to Fort Erie, with one short section in the city of Niagara Falls where one must take to the roads. It has enough little twists and turns and ups and downs to keep from being boring, and to keep one from noticing the slow ascent up the escarpment. We had no idea how much we'd climbed until we reached queenston.

Queenston is a charming town, population about eight, where we got completely lost for an hour and a half. It lies at the foot of the steepest part of the escarpment. We decided to stop here to pump some protein into our bodies and admire the statue of Alfred, General Brock's horse (Brock's own monument stands at the top of the escarpment; I looked at it several times as we rode up the river and thought, how the hell are we going to get way up there?). Apparently General Brock left alfred in queenston when he lead his men into battle on foot. They don't make generals like that anymore, let me tell you. Anyhow, our map insisted that the trail continued along the river and didn't climb the escarpment till further on. In reality, however, it had dumped us on the main street as soon as we entered queenston. After studying the map, we decided that if we turned left at the bronze horse (instead of right, the sane and obvious choice), we would rejoin the trail. This is not true! We just ended up at a dead end (rocks, trees, cliff) and lost some precious altitude. Next we tried another side street, only to end up at a boat launch (which of course means we were back at the water level, and all of the climbing we'd done so effortlessly on the trail was for naught). We looked around in vain before deciding that this was a sign that we should be eating ice cream. There is a charming little store in Queenston which sells wonderful ice cream (the best pralines'n'cream I've ever had) as well as Powerbars and Gatorade, this being a popular stop for all the cyclists on the trail. It's easy to find because it's the only store in Queenston that has fifteen bicycles sitting outside. Once we'd recovered and realised how late it was getting, we decided to just ride with the cars and to hell with it. So we turned right at the bronze horse, and just as we were approaching the main climb, noticed the trail off to our right! We considered burning the map in a ceremony of vengeance, but decided against it.

The escarpment is very steep. This was the part of our trip i'd been fearing most. The trail has a couple of switchbacks, which helps, but also reminded us why bells are necessary: people walk their dogs up this trail, so we were dinging and mumbling excuse-mes constantly, knowing that if we dared to stop we wouldn't be able to start again. I was in my granny gear, pedaling a hundred revolutions a minute and not achieving a walking pace. Finally the slope eased a bit and to my right, at eye level I saw the Brock Monument. We had done it! We had reached the top! We were emperors of the planet and had earned our fudge! No words can describe the feeling of reaching the crest of the hill. Anyone who has done a few climbs knows what I mean; this was my first and it was a killer. But I had done it, and the top came sooner than I expected. We stopped for a smoke-break (note: this is very bad! you shouldn't smoke, I shouldn't smoke, and especially not at those moments when one's lungs are working as close to full power as they are likely to get) before riding into the sunset on our way to the city of neon.

It was dark by this point, but we stopped to see the whirlpool anyway en route. It's amazing what you can learn by eavesdropping on tour guides. For example, at midnight half the water that would go over the falls is diverted away from them, into power reservoirs (one on each side of the border). Greg and I were excited by the idea of seeing the falls slow to a trickle, and made that our goal for Niagara Falls. We rode on to a campground just out of town (this was the one time we camped legally), set up our tent, put on tourist clothes, and rode gear-free into town along the river.

Oh, the thrill of riding without massive amounts of gear! We felt light as a couple of feathers! After finding a suiltable place to lock up, we took a stroll along the water. Greg pulled out the (previously hidden) final touch to our tourist costumes: plastic mardi-gras leis. We were tempted by the gaudy lights of Clifton Hill, the narrow street which houses all of the wax museums and believe-it-or-not museums, but ultimately decided they were not really worth eight bucks to get in. Just wandering among the tourists was enough. I have never seen so many scarily-dressed people in my life! The hair on these people was too big and spooky for words! The air was wet with mist (in parts it was actually raining) from the falls, and the water's edge was jammed with people of all ages, shapes, and descriptions, all oohing and aahing as the massive floodlights which shine on the falls changed from red to green to blue. Idiots with flash cameras tried to take photographs of each other in front of the falls. It's impossible to describe the size and sound of that many litres of water rushing by every second. thousands of people milled around watching this unnatural natural wonder. Finally, midnight was upon us the lights shone white upon the water for the last minute before turning off, and we waited for the falls to turn off.

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