Behind the raging horseshoe falls of Niagara there lies a secret like no other, a century old redbrick tunnel painstakingly laid. There is no recorded tally of its human cost but in 1906 it would be the biggest tunnel of its type in the world. The entry cost is a dangerous rappel through the bowels of a decrepit powerstation into this supervillain stronghold behind the crashing waterfall.

With great confidence the three foreigners converged upon Niagara Falls in search of great adventure and challenge. Their hearts brimmed with equal measures of excitement and anxiousness in attempting what less than a fistful before them had achieved. So it was scribed: the tale of how JonDoe, Stoop and dsankt laid their bold plans to conquer the mighty Confluence, infamous tailrace tunnel of Niagara.

Between the Niagara Parkway and the rushing water of the Falls squattly sits the ornate sandstone building of the TPC power house. Buff the dust off the windows with your forearm and take a peek though and you'll see there's a long hall populated by large blue cylindrical generators. This teaser is but a fraction of the building which extends another 10 stories below.



The water from the Niagara river enters the penstock, a massive vertical iron pipe, which descends into the wheelpit cavity below the generator hall. Layers of catwalks encircle the penstock to allow workers/the curious access to the turbines. Inside the penstock the torrent of water plummets 8 stories, gaining speed until it reaches the turbines, which the water spins furiously. This in turn spins the generators above to create electricity. This type of operation takes huge quantities of water which now robbed of their usefulness must be expelled from the turbines. The tailrace tunnels carry this water from the turbine exhausts and dumps it into the waterfall. The construction of this tunnel was a momentus task (scroll to "THE ELECTRICAL DEVELOPMENT COMPANY OF ONTARIO,LIMITED"). Yes I know it looks like a penis. Primer end.

Night 1

We packed as one does for your average average hundred year old, 9 meter tall brick tunnel enema and rolled out.



2100
Like three thrifty smut fiends crammed into a viewing booth our faces were stuck to the car windows, nose smeared sideways, eyes wide and mouths agape trying to get a look as we drew close to the powerhouse. The powerstation and its surrounds were a conflagration of temporary fences, cars, halogen floodlights and workmen all together in a giant bubbling couldron of activity for which we'd not prepared. The carefully laid plans had mostly concerned physical access to the tunnel, not dodging workers in the "abandoned" powerstation. Early cometh Mr Murphey, his law, and a pile of rectal spanners to insert into our works.

The jackhammers echoed loudly from within the plant, tearing apart what one hundred years ago was the pinnacle of electrical generation technology. Stoop ambled casually through the main gate and returned with news his body language conveyed all too well. The words merely confirmed it: "I'm gutted, they're doing 24 hour works. Two teams - one working till 3am the other until 7am."



0300
We'd come to play in Niagara's belly and nothing would stop us so shortly after 3am as the first load of workers departed Jondoe wired himself up with a radio mic and scampered off for a better look. He even managed to find a small concealed entrance into the station where some piping emerged through a temporary hole in the wall. Poking at the outside is all well and good, but the prize is held within. So as JD returned Stoop once again favoured the direct approach and primed his British accent and tourist photographer pose then slipped back into the building with a camera in hand. If he encountered workers he'd play dumb, lost and work that sexy British accent. Not genius I admit, but the best on hand.

0400
While awaiting Stoop's return we'd seen a few police cars pass, probably just doing the border patrol thing. Reassuringly none paid us any mind, since we had no plausible excuses for a car full of rappeling gear. While considering this suddenly a figure leapt into view like a man escaped of the encumbering shackles of gravity. With a positive bound in his step and a grin upon his face Stoop raced through his sentences like a madman, sans punctuation, breathing or pause. Translation: Access secured.



And right he was but the birds were beginning to chirp and we'd run out of time. Shortly after 0500 we boarded the Durgano and drove back to Toronto. It was a solemn drive, a flatline end to the emotional rollercoaster of the night. We were beaten, battered and exhausted. We would return the following night.

 

Night 2

We slipped into the station as the jackhammers echoed overhead, intermittently pausing to yelling voices and a flurry of worker activity. The concrete superstructure of the hall supports the massive generators above and provides maintenance access to their lower sides. The workers toiled above as we slinked like rats below.

Jondoe peeked cautiously down the hall while Stoop and I heaved at the giant plate covering the wheelpit. We lent our weight to the task, straining and pushing hard enough to slide back across the rough floor. Jondoe ran over and the three of us heaved in unison to create a narrow, but usable entrance. Light beamed through the scant opening to illuminate a rusty mud covered spiral staircase. This was our red carpet. Through matted hair and sweat my companions dirt smeared faces grinned at me, no doubt a reflection of my own. It had taken two nights but we'd finally passed the generator hall. Where were the save points?

The descent of the wheelpit has been likened by others to a journey into the depths of hell. Our headlamps valiantly fought the encroaching darkness, cutting wide shallow arcs that seemed to evaporate as quickly as they formed. The thick humidity lingered over us constantly and I could almost taste rust in my mouth. The jackhammers above shrunk to a dull monotonous clank in the background accented by the constant dripping of water. Like a vicious poison it seeps through the walls and over the past century bit deeply into every metal surface. We stood above an 8 story drop supported on a pestilence riddled skeleton of steel.



We descended 6 levels passing reams of bright yellow caution tape, I think it read "I Dare You". At the base of a ladder bolted to the penstock we found a level which appeared to stretch the length of the hall above. The vapor laden air impeded our vision and even the 3 million candle supertorch. The floor was constructed of metal I beams upon which sheets of thick mesh were laid to allow traversal. Devoured voraciously by the atmosphere the mesh hung in various states of decay. Workers reinforced various sections with wooden planks but they do little to reassure anyone crossing this minefield. We peered through the gaping mouth like holes at the fetid water and the distorted metal shapes within it. Turbines, pipes and cogs poke through the water's surface like the ribcage of an ancient dinosaur partially exposed above the desert sands.

Stoop tentatively began towards the upstream end of the powerstation across the most dangerous floor I have ever seen. It's urbex nightmare material. With each step slabs of rusty metal broke free, fell for a brief moment then crashed loudly into the water. A fall from that height wouldn't kill unless one were skewered upon the assorted pungi rust sticks below. Stoop clambered across the edge of the walkway taking what scant purchase he could. I worked the other way from the ladder heading downstream into a sturdy concrete area. Every few moments I'd hear splashes as Stoop moved further away.



At the downstream end of the station a once staunch iron door sagged lazily open before a 7ft brick corridor. In the corridor I was engulfed by a howling wind which seemed to pull me into a tall arched chamber along whose upstream edge ran an 80cm slot cordoned off by a rusting metal guard rail. I pushed lightly on the guard rail and it snapped in my hand. A section of rail the length of my forearm clattered through the slot and banged against the insides. A brief silence was followed by a loud splash that knocked my jaw to the floor. Below was the monster.



With us we carried the hopes of our friends who had reached this place previously but lacked the gear to venture further, deeper. We would avenge their misfortunes. Through the haze the narrow slot yielded a glimpse of ankle deep water rushing past and the echoing crash of the falls. I buzzed inside like never before. My wang could have doubled as a taser.

Whipping out the drill like gunslingers of old the pitch was bolted quickly, though the first anchor was slightly too shallow and would improperly load the bolt. Jondoe muttered uneasily as The Brits finger primed the holes, eased in the virgin bolts, then punched them home with a hammer. The base of the rusty guard rail served as our backup. With a glowing confidence we examined our handiwork. Our single rope access to the tunnel was literally a lifeline. The only other exit from the tunnel is to brave a plunge into the backside of the falls. If you read the historical document above you'll know it's been done before, we weren't that keen.



Stoop demanded to go first as he was most experienced with a mid-rope change over (descending to ascending) so if things went bad he could come straight back up. He donned the harness and slid over the edge. The rope drew tight, creaked softly and held. I looked down at the tiny silver plates bolted into the concrete and smiled, brilliant. Stoop's headlamp was engulfed by the hazy abyss then a few tense moments later a great whooping and cheering echoed up the slot. His maglite beamed towards us victoriously. I jumped into the harness, breathed deeply and succumbed to the beast. Jondoe followed quickly thereafter.



The tunnel is guargantuan and the attention to detail present in such an isolated place is a testament to the construction ethic of generations past. Rough textured granite blocks trimmed the edge of the tunnel downstream of the slot. Their blue grey colour and rugged surface contrasted the smooth redbrick construction of the tunnel itself. Just upstream from our position was the underwater outlet of the subtunnel which joins the tailrace to the turbine exhausts (see diagram top). This is niagara's belly.



Moving downstream large sections of the ceiling littered the tunnel floor as shards of brick and mortar. This ominous sign concerned us until we saw the falls and any risk of anything collapsing on our heads was forgotten. The coloured spotlights used to illuminate the falls for the tourist shone through the thick waterfall in a mesmerising rainbow like display. Over the years the mouth of the tunnel has filled with eroded rock creating a picturesque lake the end of the tunnel. A kaleidoscope of colours danced across its surface and the sirens beckoned. We could only oblige. The chilly water crept slowly up our bodies as we inched along the very edge of the tunnel probing with our toes for any sudden drops. The roar grew louder and filled our ears as the falls loomed ominously above us.

From the nipple-deep lake we scrambled onto the pile of rocks and rubble at the tunnel mouth. I stood tall in the maelstrom of water and wind, like a fucking kungfu master weathering the storm upon the mountain top. I was Pei Mei. I was Milamber of the Assembly. The water pelted me from all sides stinging my naked torso. Gusts of furious wind battered me to and fro inside this elemental cauldron. I yelled in unashamed triumph from the depths of my chest for every drop of Niagara's sweet bukkake that stung my face and trickled down my cheeks.



Stoop returned to the rock pile to get some extra footage when something began to collapse at the falls and the sound of crashing rocks filled the tunnel. Stoop frantically scrambled down the rock pile and leapt into the water. If the rock wall collapsed all the water backed up in the tunnel would suck us over the falls. JD and Stoop pushed valiantly through the water making little progress. It appeared to be composed of molasses they moved so slowly. They were pale faced and exhausted; shivering, shaking and breathing hard. The rumbling stopped and once again the sound of the water alone filled the tunnel.



The junction of the two tunnels, the confluence, is an immense underground space unlike any I've experienced before. Again the details are striking - acutely angled steel plates layer over the brick wedge where the tunnels merge. Metal supports hang from the ceiling which appear to have originally suspended a walkway. Consider for a moment the men a century ago who walked through this tunnel, who built it with their bare hands. They'd been involved in something special, something groundbreaking for their era. We felt very fortunate to experience their handiwork up close and personal.




Jondoe scooted up through the slot and left me under the instruction of Stoop for the awkward art of ascending. We snapped a group photo, stowed and stashed our gear, bid the tunnel goodbye and began the ascent back through the station's rusty bowels. All traces of our visit were removed and at 0330 we slipped out of the powerstation, cloaked by the noise of the jackhammers above.



We chose to go it alone without any of the locals which caused some friction but overall made the adventure more exciting and well, adventurous. We wanted the full Confluence experience without a guide and got it. Shouts to Kowalski and Siologen for their help.

The tailrace is supervillain heaven. We may not have found the dim candle lit chamber wherein lies a throne of dinosaur bones, a horde of zombie fetuses and platinum chasises of embalming fluid but this would have been the place. A serious supervillain hideout, one any evil-doer of suitably ill repute would be proud to call it home. I hope we did it justice.

dsankt over and out, two doubleoh six. -dsankt, 2006