Shore rocks dry last week lay partially submerged. Rhododendron leaves that had been untouched now bent with the current. The water itself was clearing but still dingy, like watered-down coffee. Driftwood, twigs, and leaves circled in eddies. I would have guessed two feet above normal.

“Quite a circus, ain’t it,” Billy said, sitting down beside me.

“Yes, it is,” I said, moving over to give him more room. “You think the water will get low enough for them to try?”

“It was two point three at noon. I haven’t seen a rafting party yet, so I guess Earl thinks it’s still too high. But it is going down. I’d guess an even two now, one point eight at the lowest.”

“That’s about what I was thinking.”

Brennon’s men put on bright orange life jackets and clasped safety belts around their waists. They huddled around Brennon while Ronny and Randy sat together on the bank behind them, caps pulled low over their eyes, their diving equipment beside them.

“Look at that,” Billy said, and pointed into the water. A dead raccoon floated downriver, its belly swollen as if pregnant.

“Got swept in, I reckon,” Billy said. “They’re usually smarter than that.”

More people came down the trail.

“Shit,” Billy said. “The Forest Service should’ve put up bleachers and charged admission.”

People crowded the bank now, talking excitedly as if waiting for a boat race or athletic contest to begin. Several teenagers took off their shoes and splashed each other in the shallows. A man stood on the rock where I’d photographed Herb Kowalsky. He ate a Hardee’s breakfast biscuit as he peered into the water.

I looked upstream and saw Ellen Kowalsky standing on the bank alone. She wore dark slacks and a dress jacket.

Billy looked back up the trail. “Please, Lord,” he said, raising his eyes skyward, “let that son of a bitch fall and bust his ass. Let him roll all the way into the river.”

I turned and saw Bryan thirty yards up the trail. He wore chinos and a green sports shirt. He also wore a pair of Docksiders, their slick soles offering as much grip on the mud as bald car tires on ice. One hand clutched a limb of mountain laurel. Bryan looked unsure whether to go down or back up. He moved closer to the plant, using its main stem to secure his right foot. A camera was strapped on his neck and he raised it, photographing the trail and the men installing the dam.

It would set a precedent, Luke had said at the first meeting. Bryan now had proof of that precedent.

Bryan took his final shot and tentatively turned around. He took a step and slipped, righted himself before he fell, and made his way cautiously back up the trail.

“No good can come of those photos,” Billy said.

“No,” I said. “No good at all.”