Page 69 of God’s Country

It wasn’t much of an argument, but it was enough.

Before we shoved off after lunch, we spotted a floatplane flying low over the lake. At first, we could hear the approaching hum of the engine, then we watched a de Havilland Beaver fly past a couple of hundred yards out. The Kennedy brothers weren’t suspicious when I made no move to signal the plane. Ollie probably figured I was afraid I’d get myself beat up if I didn’t cooperate, something I was sure he would eagerly see to before our paths parted. Stan may have chalked it up to my desire to make certain there was no more violence toward some innocent party, a floatplane pilot included. Neither of them had any inkling of my true motive.

Hunter Lake is a long, narrow body of water that doglegs almost due north near its end, where it feeds into a rocky narrows. Late that afternoon, as we approached the narrows, I slipped on my life vest, which I’d kept under the stern seat. Neither of the brothers noticed. It took a while for them to realize that we were now in a strong current.

Stan finally called out from the bow, “I hardly have to paddle. What’s up?”

“A lot of the lakes feed into rivers,” I called back. “We’re heading toward Sand River, which will take us north almost all the way to the border.”

“About fucking time,” Ollie said.

The sweep of the current increased the closer we got to the mouth of the narrows. So did the noise coming from where the lake dropped out of sight fifty yards ahead.

“What the hell’s going on?” Stan shouted.

“It’ll get a little rough as we hit the river. Not to worry,” I lied.

A few moments later, the true nature of what lay ahead became clear.

“Jesus!” Stan cried out. “Back paddle!”

He’d learned a few strokes in his time in the bow, but I had no intention of trying to stop our momentum. I dug in with my paddle, adding to the push of the current as we hit Sand River Falls.

No one in their right mind would attempt to canoe or kayak over that precipice. There’s a fairly easy portage around it. I’d been this way a handful of times, and I’d never thought of tackling the falls. This time was different.

The bow of my Wenonah scraped against a large boulder at the top of the falls. Stan put out his paddle to try to keep us from hitting. I saw Ollie grab the pack with its precious contents and hug it to his chest. In the next instant, Stan gave a holler as the bow tipped forward and the canoe, along with a massive flow of water, plunged down.

It wasn’t a long drop, only twenty feet or so, but there’s a mean jumble of big rocks at the base of the falls. Stan and Ollie fell toward those rocks as the canoe went perpendicular. The force of my Wenonah when it tipped caused the stern to act as a kind of catapult, and I was thrown clear of the rocks. I splashed into the pool at the bottom, which was seven or eight feet deep. I surfaced and swam to the riverbank. When I looked back, I saw Stan flailing desperately as the current carried him downriver. Just behind him, Ollie was being swept along, still clutching the pack. He glanced at me as he passed, gave me a look so full of hatred that it filled my heart with bitter pleasure. Thirty yards beyond the falls, the river curved, and I watched the two brothers disappear where my canoe and much of the gear in it had also gone.

I’d hoped the falls would kill them. Although I’d thought there was a chance we’d all die, I figured my life vest would give me a better shot at surviving. But as I watched the river sweep the Kennedy brothers out of sight, I couldn’t help thinking there was some sort of dark magic protecting them. The bear had ripped up Ollie’s tent but only taken the food. I’d had the upper hand with the Glock, then with my attention turned away for no more than a moment, I’d lost that advantage. And now Ollie and his brother had survived a life-threatening plunge.

Then I had another thought, one that came out of the darkest place in my heart. The wilderness was never meant to be the executioner. The Kennedy brothers were supposed to die by my hand alone. That was a responsibility I gladly embraced.

I climbed from the water and made my way as quickly as I could around the bend, where I saw that the canoe had become lodged against the trunk of a spruce that had fallen a while ago and was half blocking the river. Some of the gear was there as well, including the bear canister bobbing in the crook where two branches crossed. Stan clung to another branch as the current tried to pull him back into itself and downriver. Ollie was nowhere to be seen.

“Help me, O’Connor!” Stan cried. “For God’s sake, help me.”

But I didn’t move. I was more worried about Ollie’s whereabouts than the prospect of Stan’s demise.

“Get him out of there, you son of a bitch.” And there he was, pushing through the undergrowth, dripping wet but with that damn Glock in one hand and the precious pack in the other. “Get him out of there before he drowns or I’ll kill you where you stand.”

For one brief moment, I considered letting him kill me. Their chances of getting themselves out of the Boundary Waters alive were pretty bleak. But I came back to the dead man that morning and the possibility that they might run across another unsuspecting soul. So I went back into the river and let the current carry me to Stan.

“Hold on to me,” I called above the roaring water.

He glommed on to the back of my life vest, and I pushed away from the fallen spruce and let the current carry us downriver a bit until I could make my way to the bank. Ollie was waiting there as we stumbled out.

“You okay?” he asked his brother with genuine concern.

“Yeah.”

Ollie now directed his attention—and his Glock—at me.

“I want you dead so bad I can taste it.”

“Right back at you,” I said.

“Don’t do it,” Stan said to his brother, gasping a little.