“The main idea is not to stop water but divert it to the right side of the falls,” Brennon said. “The dam itself will be five feet high and fifty feet wide. It’s portable. We’ll put it up and take it down the same day.”

Peter Brennon had placed a large laminated photograph against the podium before speaking. Now he pointed to the picture of the dam, explaining in detail how and why it would work. He spoke like an engineer—not a businessman or an advocate for a grieving family—an engineer who believed he had the solution to a challenging technical problem.

There was movement in the front row. Luke stood up, placed his hands in his front pockets, and waited for Brennon to acknowledge him.

“Make sure your machine’s recording,” I murmured to Allen, “because this is about to get interesting.”

NO ONE STOOD UP WITH LUKE, BUT HIS SUPPORTERS FILLED THE first row. Like Luke they wore flannel shirts and jeans and river sandals. Most were college students who’d driven here just for this meeting, students who worked summers on the river. Earl Wilkinson provided them lodging and meals and as little pay as he could legally get away with.

A lot of them would have worked for free. Running white water all day and partying at night was a pretty good way to pass a summer. Any cash they pocketed was a perk. Though most of their customers saw the Tamassee as little more than a longer, more dangerous version of rides at Six Flags or Disney World, the guides considered the river sacred, and it was inevitable they’d be drawn to Luke and his cause. They called themselves river rats. “Luke’s disciples,” the locals called them, and seldom fondly.

I studied the girl who sat beside Luke. She wore her blond hair in a ponytail. Her hand reached out and squeezed Luke’s for a moment. She turned and I got a better look. The unlined face confirmed she was still in her early twenties, which was not surprising. Luke Miller had always liked his women young and impressionable.

“How are you going to anchor this dam of yours?” Luke said, loud enough so that those behind him could hear the question, hear the challenge in his voice as well.

You would never guess he’d grown up in Gainesville, Florida, the son of a neurosurgeon and a University of Florida English professor. After a decade of living here, his accent was pure Southern Appalachian.

“A few small holes in the bedrock,” Brennon said. “That’s all we’ll need. Nothing significant. Nothing anyone can see.”

“To do that breaks federal law,” Luke said. “It violates the Wild and Scenic Rivers Act of 1978.”