John “David” Munday being interviewed after going over the Horseshoe Falls in a barrel for the second time, Sept. 27, 1993. Photo by George Bailey. Photo courtesy of Niagara Falls Public Library
The first he knew of danger, he recorded it
all on video. You could see the rush of river
as the barrel bobbed the lip of the gorge.
But during the fall—all you saw
was white, as if the camera was flying
for a moment—then, a black screen. And maybe
that’s what brought him back. The lack of color
did not capture what he heard: a string of viola
at its highest pitch, the tender impossible cry
of a newborn crow. The first I knew of danger,
I ice skated on a pond and found fat goldfish
curling in long, slow patterns Just under
my boot. I knew the ice was thin, but
I continued anyway, the way I did
with several men that year. Each one
was a poor replacement for the one I lost
but each gave me a small gift: a bruised lip,
a cup of Dutch coffee, a tap of ash
on my windowsill. If there was a video
of me that year it would have opened
in a bank of snow, widened to reveal
the pond, the woman skating by herself
in circles. Perhaps there’d be a cardinal, just
a small slash of red on the screen. Everything
else would be white, white, and what
is the color of ice—blue, or is it more white?
Don’t hate me because I sent the cat first.
Darling, desperate times require—
well, they require.
I told the little girl who owned the cat
I’d buy her a new one.
Days of waiting for a coin
of mention in the newspaper.
Days of waiting for wind—
for a sign, a purple swallow
circling the falls in a figure eight.
Draw me a line of three corks
and three holes so I can breathe in the barrel.
I thought I’d have all the floppy feathered hats
a gal could hope for.
No one seems to realize I am a star,
the original Queen of the Mist.
Tell me: What does a soul
look like after you dash
a plump cat to smithereens?
All I have are beat-down tap shoes
(someone even stole my barrel!),
a feather, a snip of string.
But look at the elegant line
of the arch of my foot, my boot,
how each hoop in my skirt
sings when I walk.
Isn’t that a picture?
Surely that’s worth a picture.
2. Charles G. Stevens, the Demon Barber of Bedminster (1920)
The right arm:
only thing
happy
to be found.
It even waved
a little.
3. Steve Trotter (1985,1995)
At age twenty-two, the youngest person to go over the falls successfully, and twice
Steve Trotter Raising His Hand in Triumph Moments After Going Over the Falls in a Barrel for the First Time. August 18, 1985. Photo Courtesy of Niagara Falls (Ontario) Public Library
In Tallahassee, you learn‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡to make the drinks
real sweet. Sweet drinks‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡equals sweet skirts
to wait for you long after‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡the bar closes. At the base
there are boulders—‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡smoothed by years of drumming
water. And somehow,‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡you missed every single one.
You’ve got a charmed life,‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡a deer-bone amulet,
and star-spangled shorts‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡to cheer you on both trips,
But even you know‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡your boundaries. There’s a limit to
how much you are able to‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡ridicule her. Venus flytraps
snap shut when the trigger hairs‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡are touched not once, but
are tapped exactly twice. Look‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡at your life: It can count.
Two is good,‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡just enough, for you.
Source: Virginia Quarterly Review, vol. 93(1) Winter 2017, p.68-69
Scow Rescue in Niagara River – Gustav F Lofberg being pulled to safety by breeches buoy. Courtesy Niagara Falls Public Library. August 7, 1918
Now it sits a pile of unstable rust Amongst the falls And their murderous rush Two men on a routine trip A few hours later Red Hill screaming Dont lose your grip A split second decision Could have ended their lives Lucky to make it home to their wives One man risked it all He figured as long as he tried There was no fault The unstable scow Hung by a tree Attached by a weak buckle Inching the rope to answer the mens pleas With each breath taking stride Praying not to end it all With a wavy ride One man hooked and back on shore Clipped to the rope He goes back for one more To this day The scow sits, where waves strive Two men, forever grateful To be able to enjoy their lives
Listen to The Niagara Scow by Amanda Tulk, read by Oliver Porteus
Source: Tulk, Amanda. Can You Hear It? : Poetry by Amanda Tulk. Niagara Falls, Ont. : Grey Borders Books, 2013
Artist’s Sketch of Three Sisters and Goat Islands Just Above Niagara Falls. Courtesy of Niagara Falls Public Library
“The last excursion of the year,” I read the other day, Affordin’ opportunity to see grand old Niagara ; And for a dollar and a half, to go up there and back, And see the sights, and ride above two hundred miles of track, Seemed like we’d get our money’s worth, if we could get away, And leave the farm and kitchen cares behind us for a day. We’d been a-wantin’, all these years, to go and see the falls, But, somehow, when the chances came there’ d be so many calls For both our time and money, that the chances slipped away, While year climbed on the top of year, ’til we are growin’ gray ; And still the cares we have to meet are such a clingin’ kind, It’s often mighty difficult to slip them off behind, And dump them in a heap somewhere, or lay them on a shelf, While we get out from under, and can slip off by ourself. But nature seemed to favor us ; the season was so fine We got our summer’s work along a bit ahead of time ; And nothin’ seemed a-crowdin’, like, and coaxin’ to be done, As is the case too frequently, to keep us on the run ; And Nancy hadn’t been away, exceptin’ to the fair, To loosen up the constant strain of daily wear and tear Of wrestlin’ with problems which perplex a woman’s brain, And keep her fingers busy, and her muscles on the strain, For such a long time back that I’m almost ashamed to tell, And if I really wanted to, I couldn’t very well ; And I, myself, had worked so long, as farmers have to do, To keep the work from snarlin’, like, and keep it payin’, too, That I was glad to see a chance to lay aside the strain Which makes the years to tell on me as well as Nancy Jane ; And when I read the notice, why, it seemed to strike us so, That both of us together said, “I guess we’d better go.” And so the thing was settled, and we’d picked our grapes and plums To be ahead of frost or thieves, provided either comes ; For frosts may be expected almost any pleasant night, And thieves, if not expected, are so plenty that they might ; And Nancy had our luncheon baked, and I had bought some cheese, And she had found a paste-board box, as handy as you please To put our picnic dinner in ; so when the mornin’ came, Continue reading “Uncle Alvin at Niagara by Almon Trask Allis”→
A crowd flowed onto the Suspension Bridge. Another onto Prospect Point. A third onto the Three Sisters Islands —all along the railings in the gorge. Across the river, a thousand more poured down to Table Rock. And up the shore, a hundred others— men, women and children— stood by the dock at Truesdale’s cottage, waiting to see me off. There were no clouds that morning, and so much light it seemed ten suns were whirling as I stepped into the skiff—in a tossing sea of handkerchiefs— and waved to them (while Russell blew a kiss) amidst the general hurrah.
Then we set out—with Truesdale straining the tiller against the single, headstrong sail— and Billy Holleran, a strong, strapping boy, manning the furious oars. The barrel rode upright behind us, bucking to run its course —and was jerked back to correction by the stern instruction of our rope. A quarter way out, we stopped on an island where I changed my clothes: no hat or dress now, but a blouse left open at the throat, and a skirt hemmed just below the knee. I made them turn away while I backed in through the rim— then they fastened down the lid, rolled me to the shore, turned me upright— pushed me in.
Four boats now. And behind the first, the towed barrel, weighed down with me— yet still intractable. And in the last, a cameraman recording every stroke as they rowed a mile across to the Point of No Return— where the river starts to churn, and a sailor knows he’d better bend his back —or else go over. There they knocked. And cut the rope. They must have pulled hard then to turn themselves south, but I went north—(a half mile more before I’d reach the brink). I careened and spun. Once it tossed me clear up out of the water. I went unbidden—and unwelcome—where it rushed me.
I wished I could have watched from some place overhead and heard the voices racing down the shore— passing on the message— dock to island, island to rock, rock to bridge: “She’s coming!” I would have liked to see them turn their heads— wave after wave, as each new group heard the murmur and craned their necks to catch a glimpse. I’d have liked to see the trolley racing down the shore, and the incline railway rushing down the gorge —so the ones who’d waved from Truesdale’s dock could be standing on the rocks below the Falls, looking up—to see if anything would come.
from Queen of the Mist, a novel in verse about the first person to go over Niagara in a barrel
