Page 25 of God’s Country

The portage out of Paternoster begins just north of the final campsite on the lake. It climbs a rocky, fairly steep incline along the edge of Devil’s Cascade. Once you’ve topped the incline, you put in on the Otter River and canoe upstream a half mile or so to the next lake. The current is steady, but a good canoeist usually has no problem paddling against it. To leave Paternoster, canoeists have to pass that final campsite. I decided it was time I did the same.

I returned to my Wenonah, paddled back out into the lake, then headed for Devil’s End.

I made my way through Devil’s Door with some difficulty because the storm the night before had fed the Otter River and the current through the narrows was strong. I took my time paddling up the bay, which was a little over a quarter mile in length, doing my best to look like an unwary visitor. As I came abreast of the campsite, the two men stood up from where they sat on a log near the fire pit and watched me pass. One of them glanced back to where I knew Cordell was tied to a tree, probably to make sure he was out of sight. I waved to them, as if I’d noticed nothing, and continued on another fifty yards. Then I paddled up to the takeout for the portage. The two men left the fire and approached me.

“Morning,” I said brightly after I’d disembarked.

“Morning,” the smaller guy in the ball cap, the one I’d dubbed Stan, said. He flashed a smile. “What’s up?”

“I’m just going to portage around Devil’s Cascade.” I nodded toward the falls.

“Do many people come this way?”

“Not many, but some. Devil’s End is beautiful, and above the falls, the river is pretty peaceful. First time here?”

“Yeah.”

The big man in the Tilley, Ollie, eyed me like I was a mouse and he a snake. “You know anything about a devil’s asshole around here?”

“I’ve canoed with a few of those guys in my time,” I said and laughed. Ollie didn’t crack a smile. “Never heard of it,” I went on. “But there’s a formation called Devil’s Bottom. Looks something like a guy’s ass.”

His look changed. “Where’s that?”

“See that narrows back there?” I pointed to Devil’s Door.

“I see it.”

“It’s on the other side. You canoe back out that way and it’s pretty obvious. Kinda showing off Mother Nature’s sense of humor.”

“Back out there,” Stan said, looking toward the narrows.

“You planning on breaking camp today? Taking the portage up to the next lake?” I asked.

“Happy here,” Stan said. “Devil’s Bottom, you say? What about a devil’s asshole?”

“Like I said, never heard of it.” Which was true.

“Why is everything around here named Devil this or Devil that?” Ollie asked.

“When you come at Paternoster from up there”—I pointed toward the top of the cascade—“it’s devilishly tricky to get down here to the bay. It’s a hard, rocky portage, followed by a tough paddle through the narrows. If you come this way out of Paternoster, getting through the narrows is no picnic, then you have this long uphill portage still ahead. As I understand it, the early French voyageurs named the area.”

“All right then,” Stan said. “Won’t keep you any longer.”

Although I’d prepared a long story about why I had no camping gear, they didn’t seem to notice that telling detail. I lifted my canoe onto my shoulders, then headed toward the portage.

It was, as I’d told Stan and Ollie, a long, steep, rocky portage. Halfway up I paused, set the canoe down, and looked back. The two men were standing on the wide, flat rock where their canoes had been drawn up. They were in deep conversation for a minute, then Ollie stepped into the water, almost fell over, righted himself, and took hold of the stern of one of the canoes. Stan took the bow. They repositioned the canoe, managed to get themselves in without tipping over, and shoved off.

As soon as they were on the water, I began making my way back down, keeping to the cover of trees and rocks as much as possible. When I reached the campsite, they were still a couple of hundred yards from the narrows. I ran to the fir tree where Cordell was tied. He didn’t lift his head until he heard my voice say his name.

“Cork?” His face was a mass of bruising, his eyes swollen nearly shut. “Sure glad to see you.” His words came out muffled through lips that were blood-clotted and swollen.

I took my Gerber multitool from the sheath on my belt and cut the ropes that bound him. He fell over, and I helped him sit up again.

“Sorry,” he said. “In pretty bad shape.”

“Can you walk?”

He reached down and touched his right thigh. He was wearing tan, quick-dry cargo pants. The area of the pant leg he was indicating was dark purple with dried blood. There was a single hole in the center.