I’ve never felt deeper and more completely embraced by the earth around me than I did when I got the chance to enter the tailrace and push through rising waters to stand in Niagara’s secret mists. The specifics of how we did it are best left unreported — those with sufficient ability and experience to do what my expert acquaintances did for us would have already (the plant is now being renovated by the Niagara Parks Commission, as a result of which the wheelpit is on the verge of becoming completely inaccessible).
Lying below a river that will relentlessly tear into the bedrock until all has been obliterated from Queenston to Erie, this tunnel thirty-three feet in diameter is imprinted into my being forever. A swirling army of red brick millions strong, the eye of a petrified hurricane leading us right into the centre of the stalled but fighting storm that is Niagara Falls. Standing in its back-blast, in a place far deeper and darker than any middling storm sewer, I breathed and drank from the fount of the universe and swam closer to its centre than I ever will again.