Lost in a Far Country

by Thomas L Daniel

  “Call me when you get to Florida. No, call me every day.” She pulled her cell phone out of her jacket pocket to emphasize this statement.

  “I will, I promise. I really do. And I’ll be all right.” Jack got into the VW and turned its key in the ignition. The motor started, and Jack noted that the gas gauge read almost full. Then he put down the window, waved to Marilyn, and pulled away from the garage.

  Reaching the intersection with I-90, Jack crossed the highway and turned down the ramp to head east. He was not going to Florida; he was headed for Canada. He could cross into Canada easily at Buffalo, he believed, but he had decided he would go on to Niagara Falls. He had never been there, and he thought it would be an interesting visit. He was in no hurry, so long as he could find places to stay that were inexpensive. Searching on the Internet, he had identified a campground in a state park on Lake Ontario about ten miles from Niagara Falls. He planned to inaugurate his new camping gear staying there while seeing the falls.

  He crossed Pennsylvania and entered New York State, finding himself on a toll road. Presently he reached Angola and a rest area in the middle of the divided highway. Time for lunch, he thought, and I should also get gas. After parking the VW, he crossed the pedestrian bridge over the roadway to the median strip of the highway and the facility. A large building, with restrooms and many food counters. He joined the line at McDonalds and purchased a meal of a hamburger, French-fried potatoes, and a Diet Coke. He took it into a seating area and found a booth. Well, he thought to himself, a new life. Adventure and new directions. I’m not sure where all this will wind up, but I’m not turning back. Lunch finished, Jack went to the tourist information counter. He soon found himself in possession of an enormous number of pamphlets and brochures describing the myriad of attractions at Niagara Falls. Evening reading, he thought.

  Jack also picked up a road map of the Buffalo and Niagara Falls area. He returned to the seating area and spread it out. Okay, he thought. This won’t be too hard. I stay on I-90 around most of Buffalo until I meet I-290. Next I pick up I-190 and follow it around and past Niagara Falls. It will dump me onto state route 18, and that’s where the campground I am looking for is located. I’ll have to pay tolls a couple of places, I guess. Then tomorrow I’ll see the falls.

  Without difficulty, Jack navigated the interstate routes around Buffalo and Niagara Falls to reach the campground he had identified. Four Mile Creek State Park had a large campground on Lake Ontario. He had looked at it on the Internet and had noted that it emphasized hook-ups for trailers and campers. But he assumed correctly that he could pitch his tent and occupy one of the sites. In fact, he found himself welcomed by neighboring campers in large RVs. His neighbors watched him as he set up his tent and stowed his sleeping bag in it. They seemed curious that he would choose this simple tent for camping. He, for his part, thought the people in the large RVs hardly qualified as campers.

  Two of his neighbors, a friendly and gregarious couple about his parents’ age, invited him to share a beer with them. “No thanks, but thanks. I really don’t drink.”

  “Well then, how about a Coke or a Dr Pepper? We have both.”

  “A Coke would be great. Thanks.”

  Jack then found himself having to explain what he was doing there alone. He had anticipated that he might meet this question. “Well,” he said, “I’m on summer break from high school. I have a job lined up starting next week, and my folks lent me this old VW to travel around a bit before then.”

  “Good. Nice to meet you. We’re the Nicholsons from North Carolina. And your name?”

  “Jack. Jack Stavitch.”

  “And this is your first visit to Niagara?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll like it. In fact, it’s amazing. Unbelievable, really.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard.” Jack popped open the pull tab on the top of the Coke can and sat on one of the camp stools his new friends had set up next to their camper. He told them that his family had a winery in Northeast Ohio and told them about the wine region of the Grand River. They seemed interested. “Maybe we should go there,” Mrs. Nicholson said to her husband.

  “Be sure to visit the Stavitch Saint Urban Winery, if you do.” Jack was pretty sure they would not, but he hoped he had not made a mistake that would undermine the false trail to Florida that he had carefully laid with Marilyn.

  Jack found himself enjoying this couple and his time relaxing with them. Why can’t my parents be like them? he wondered. They once were he thought, until his mother became an alcoholic and his father buried himself in money-grubbing.

  “Will you join us for some supper?” Mrs. Nicholson asked. “It’s nothing fancy. I have salad makings and a beef stew ready to go onto the stove.”

  “Are you sure? I mean…?” Jack stammered.

  “Of course. We’d love to share what we have with you. We have a son, our only. He’s in college at UNC, in a summer session right now.”

  “Well, if you really mean it and really have plenty, then you are very generous, and I would enjoy joining you for supper.”

  “Of course we mean it,” Mrs. Nicholson replied.

  They chatted after dinner. As it grew darker, Mr. Nicholson brought out a Coleman lantern. “We have an electric hook-up here,” he said, “but this is more romantic and more appropriate for camping.”

  Then it became nighttime. Jack said good night to his new friends and crawled into his tent. Sleeping on the ground in his tent was going to be more of a challenge than he had anticipated. The ground was hard, very hard—unforgiving. He rolled up his jacket and put it under the small of his back. He wrapped his shoes in his pants. Not soft, but it would support his head. He wondered if he could find an inflatable pillow somewhere. That would have to be a priority item.

  — — — —

  Jack crawled out of his tent in the morning and made his way with his toilet kit to one of the communal bathroom facilities. He showered and shaved. Limbering up, he began to feel human and decided that his sleeping arrangement was at least tolerable.

  He closed the flaps on his tent after putting most of his gear into it. Did he need to worry about theft? He thought not. His neighbors in the campground seemed like nice people, and he hoped they were representative of other people there. Moreover, he had not much to steal. His money and passport were in inner pockets of the many-pocketed pants Marilyn had bought for him. His cell phone was in his pocket. And he had nothing else of value, he thought. Back on the road, he pulled into a Wendy’s not far from the campground. Breakfast. But soon, he thought, he would have to start making breakfast—and other meals—for himself. Fast food restaurants were easy, but he knew he would have to shepherd his money. He was soon back on the highway and then in Niagara Falls.

  Jack eased the Volkswagen into a narrow space between a van and a large SUV in the parking lot at the entrance to Niagara Falls State Park on Prospect Street. He walked to the visitor center, which was visible directly ahead. Inside, he picked up a park map at the information counter and asked what the best way was to see the falls. Probably a dumb question, he thought, but then they must be accustomed to dumb questions. “Go downstairs and out the back,” the attendant told him. “That will put you right in front of Prospect Point. Take a good look there, and then walk to your left to the pedestrian bridge to Goat Island.”

  Not seeing an elevator, Jack started down one of the two facing staircases, making his way among large groups of people coming up the stairs. He walked past a movie theater showing something—he did not stop to see what—about the falls, but decided to bypass the movie, at least for the present. Then past a small food service area and out into the park. He walked to the edge of the river’s gorge. “Oh, wow!” Jack said aloud as he reached the railing and looked out at the overpowering cascade of water. “That’s really something.” A placard told him that he was looking at the American Falls. He could see the larger International Falls beyond. Off to his right were entrances to an observation
tower and to the Maid of the Mist boat ride. He would decide about that after exploring a bit. The boat ride to the falls sounded exciting, if it would not cost too much. He knew he should be careful about spending his money.

  A short distance to his right was a couple. Young, but older than me. Probably in their twenties, Jack surmised. They were talking to each other in what seemed to be a private and personal way. Honeymooners? he wondered. Niagara Falls was a popular honeymoon destination, he knew. Maybe he and Marilyn would come here after their wedding. He was not sure when that would happen, but he was sure that it would and that the falls would still be here. As he watched, the man pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offered one to the woman, and took one for himself. He spun the wheel on a cigarette lighter and lit first her cigarette, then his. Not Americans, Jack thought. Most Americans would not light up cigarettes in public. In fact, most young Americans did not smoke—at least those among his acquaintances. Only a few girls, trying to look older, he thought.

  Jack turned to his left and started walking along the path that followed the edge of the river. The area was tastefully landscaped, mostly shaded by large trees. Paved pathways wound among the mature trees. The park was crowded with people. People of many languages, nationalities, and ethnicities. People variously dressed, some covered in obviously national clothing, many others lightly garbed for summer.I guess this is truly an international attraction, Jack said to himself, and it should be. I wonder if there is any other waterfall in the world like this. He tried to remember any reference to other waterfalls in geography classes. I guess, Victoria Falls, somewhere in Africa, on the Nile, maybe, he thought. In fact, his school geography classes had not mentioned such other major waterfalls as Iguaçu and Angel Falls in South America. The emphasis had been on North American geography. Yosemite Falls. He remembered a teacher once bringing a picture of Yosemite Falls to a class. She had been there, he supposed.

  Jack found himself listening to and trying unsuccessfully to catch words of other languages. He had taken Spanish in school, but if some of the visitors to the park were speaking Spanish, he could not recognize it. Maybe high school Spanish was not enough to give him even a small amount of proficiency in the spoken language. What’s more, he thought, the next language I will want to know might be French. That’s what some Canadians speak, and that’s where I’m headed. Jack had had no exposure to that language.

  Not only their spoken language and their dress but also the behavior of evidently foreign visitors piqued his interest. As he passed by them, he observed two men and two women in robes spreading out rugs on the grass. They knelt, and bowed down until their faces were close to the ground. They appeared to be praying. Muslims, Jack thought, praying to God while facing Mecca.

  He reached the pedestrian bridge to Goat Island. Two young boys were kicking a ball back and forth, their father tolerating their activity somewhat, but obviously wanting them to continue across the bridge. Jack thought that Americans would throw a ball, not kick it. They must be from a country where soccer is played, not baseball, not football. He paused on the bridge about halfway across. He turned and looked upstream, then turned back and looked downstream. The amount of water roaring through the river beneath him was enormous. And this is the smaller part of the river, he mused. However, this river—both parts of it—takes all the water flowing from the Great Lakes, including Lake Erie, out to the St. Lawrence River and the Atlantic Ocean. After it is joined by Lake Ontario.

  On Goat Island he turned right on the perimeter trail. He followed a side trail down the bridge to Bridal Veil Falls and Luna Island. This is unbelievable, he thought. One spectacular view after another. Retracing his steps, he came to a larger-than-life statue of Nikola Tesla, seated, apparently examining or reading a document. 1856–1943. Inventor of Alternating Current Induction Motor, the metal placard noted. I remember that from science class, Jack said to himself. Direct current—DC—cannot be transmitted without great loss of voltage. Alternating current—AC—can be, and that’s what makes electrical power transmission lines possible. So here is Tesla, the genius behind alternating current, at one of North America’s great sources of electric power. He belongs here! He made all this work. Not the tourism, of course; the falls did that. Jack remembered seeing a veritable maze of high-tension transmission lines on derrick-like towers along the New York State Thruway as he approached Buffalo. They would have been carrying Tesla’s alternating current. Did the electricity back at the Stavitch winery come from here? he wondered.

  Continuing his circuit of Goat Island, Jack noticed a long line of people waiting for what appeared to be an elevator. Jack looked up and saw no tower or overhead structure. He asked a woman in the line, “Is this the line for the elevator?”

  “Yeah. Of course.”

  “And where does the elevator go?”

  “Down to the Cave of the Winds.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That’s where you get to walk under the falls. Well, not really, but sort of. You really do get down close to the base of the falls. And you get very wet. They give you a poncho, but it doesn’t help much. You can buy a ticket over there.” She pointed to a kiosk.

  “Oh. Okay, thanks.”

  Jack decided he would save his money for the boat ride. It seemed to him the best thing to do and the best way to get a close look at the falls—a really close look, he guessed. He walked into a shop near the elevator. Lots of souvenirs were offered for sale: postcards, key rings, coffee mugs. At one side, fudge was for sale. Also, Jack noted, plastic ponchos. Protection from spray that Jack found refreshing on this summer day. And, thought Jack, being wet from spray is part of the Niagara Falls experience.

  He continued strolling and presently found himself walking into mist as he approached Horseshoe Falls, the principal waterfall. I know, or at least I think I know, that there’s some real important waterfall on the Nile, Jack mused, and the Nile is a big river, maybe the biggest in the world, probably bigger than this. But it can’t have as much of a waterfall as this. He stayed there, entranced, for several minutes. He walked down the path and out to Terrapin Point. A terrapin is a turtle, I think, Jack said to himself. He stayed at the point for some minutes, enjoying the amazing, close-up view of the falls and getting wetter and wetter. Awesome! Jack thought. Amazing. Beyond belief and imagining. Before he got entirely soaked, he turned and walked back up to the main trail and on past a parking lot to finish the loop around Goat Island. He walked back across the bridge and made his way back to Prospect Point.

  Jack ascended the broad stone stairway and purchased a ticket that provided entrance to both the observation tower and the Maid of the Mist boat ride. Eighteen dollars and seventy-five cents seemed like a large expense, but he felt he could not pass up this unique adventure. He took the elevator to the top of the tower, where he looked out and was duly awed by the panorama. He watched the several Maid of the Mist boats carrying passengers to the face of the cascading water. Some of the boats plied the river from docks on the American side of the river, others from the Canadian side.

  Jack then descended to the boat boarding area—and what seemed like a long, long line. However, he found that the arrival and unloading of a boat soon put the line into motion that carried him aboard. He was handed a red plastic poncho, which he put on, pulling the poncho’s hood over his head. He mounted stair to the upper, outside deck. “You’d better put your watch in your pocket under the poncho,” a fellow passenger advised him. “Camera, too, if you have one.”

  “Oh, yeah. Of course. Thanks. No camera. I guess we’re going to get wet.” He took off his watch and sequestered it safely.

  “Your first time?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yes, you’ll get wet, real wet. But it’s worth it.”

  Indeed, it was “worth it.” The boat was shortly under way. A loudspeaker gave a narrative with facts about the falls, including the tale of a boy who fell out of a boat and was swept over the falls to be picked up unharmed b
y one of the Maid of the Mist vessels. A number of daredevils in various contraptions had intentionally gone over the falls; only two had survived. And several people had tightrope walked on wires strung across the falls.

  Closer and closer the boat carried Jack and his fellow passenger to what seemed like the very base of the waterfall. And wetter and wetter. Jack was glad he had sequestered his watch. The falling, tumbling water roared in his ears. The boat moved closer, turned sideways, and then paused. Jack stared up at the cascading water. Spray from the falls drenched the boat and him. His plastic poncho did not provide much protection from the ubiquitous water. The boat turned and made its way back to the dock.

  Disembarking from the boat, Jack surrendered his wet poncho and mounted to the park level. Once again on paved trails, he returned to the visitor center. He stopped at the snack counter and purchased a chicken sandwich, curly fries, and a Diet Coke. Lunch, albeit a bit late, at midafternoon. He followed lunch with the forty-five minute movie about the falls.

  Leaving the Visitor Center, he headed out to Prospect Street. Traffic was heavy, but he managed to cross without untoward event. It seems, he thought, that Prospect Street is a major route through the city, especially for traffic heading to Canada. He turned right, but found little of interest along the street. He passed a wax museum, stopping to look at what was perhaps a larger-than-life wax sculpture of Abraham Lincoln. No identifying label, he noted, and no top hat, but still most likely Lincoln. He turned up McLaughlin Street, which seemed to him to offer many restaurants, some with outdoor seating. He had eaten, and he felt that the McLaughlin offerings were probably beyond his budget. Reversing his path, he returned to the parking lot and his car.

  On the way back to his tent and the campground, he stopped at the Wendy’s where he had breakfasted. Fried chicken and a salad for dinner. As he had thought they might, the Nicholsons welcomed him as he returned to his campsite and tent. He accepted a Coke from them, but declined the offer of another dinner. “More stew,” she said. “We have to eat it up. I don’t know why I made so much.”