Allen looked up at the porch where Ellen Kowalsky continued to talk to her congressman. He watched her for almost a minute.

“You want to go back to the motel?” I asked.

“No,” Allen said. “I need to ask Brennon a few questions.”

“I’ll go too,” I said. “I might get a good photograph.”

Five reporters were already ahead of us. I took out the Nikon and snapped some photos, mainly of Kowalsky, who smiled and patted backs as though he’d finally closed a long negotiated and frustrating business deal. But as soon as that thought came to me I knew I was being unfair. This was probably the first thing he’d had the slightest reason to feel good about in almost a month. I stashed my camera in my backpack and looked at the sky and saw the sun trying to rub through the gray overcast.

“Ask him about the rain,” I prodded, as Brennon finished with the reporter in front of us.

Brennon smiled when he saw Allen and me and extended his hand. He was more animated than I’d seen him before.

“Finally some good news, eh?” he said. “And you two had a lot to do with it. That article and photograph made a huge difference, especially with the politicians.”

“Good news for you all at least,” Allen said.

“Yes,” Brennon said. He motioned toward the Kowalskys. “When Herb called two weeks ago and asked me to help I almost said no. But after hearing Ellen last night—well, I’m just glad I’m here.”

“What about the rain?” Allen asked.

“One of my people has been keeping tabs. It’s not over two feet yet.”

I stepped closer.

“You’d go in at two feet?”

“Sure,” Brennon said. “We built one last year and the water was two point three.”

“But this is white water,” I said, trying to keep my voice level.

“Doesn’t make any difference. Besides, the river’s going down some. It won’t be above one point eight before we start.”

“And when do you start?” Allen asked.

“Two o’clock this afternoon. My men are waiting at the motel with the equipment. All I have to do now is get in touch with those twins. They’re doing the diving. The only problem is, I can’t call them because I’ve forgotten their last name.”

“It’s Moseley,” I said. “Ronny and Randy Moseley.”

“Yeah,” Brennon said. “That’s it.”

THERE HAD BEEN A WELL-MAINTAINED CUTBACK TRAIL LEADING to Wolf Cliff Falls, but it no longer existed. The bulldozer we’d passed on the logging road had gouged a new trail—a road-wide, hundred-yard mudslide. Foot traffic made it worse, as people slipped and slid down the ridge, grabbing onto scrub oaks and mountain laurel to keep from tumbling into the river.