Later in the novel, Ken finally decides to make a stand.  Inside the boundaries of the park, he builds a small cabin out of plastic and 2x4's.  He hopes to taunt the media and the government into action.  Many  previous residents of the ghost town of Kiosk arrive at the camp to add their support.  The police seem afraid to act and the media is taking an interest.  Just when it looks like Ken's peaceful protest is starting to be noticed, the police arrive with a new tactic. (c) Richard Gould

With the dew still heavy on the grass and the sun not yet above the horizon, the North Bay ERT (Emergency Response Team) arrived in Kiosk. Ken had been up late talking to old friends and neighbours and he was still sleeping as the two vehicles stopped on the road near his cabin. He woke to the sound of slamming doors and loud voices.
He scratched at mosquito bites as he watched the police banging on vehicles and waking everyone they could find. One officer walked up to his cabin and beat on one of the two-by-four supports. "Wakey, wakey! It's time to vacate the park."
"What's going on?" Ken asked as he groaned and rolled off his bed.
"We need you people to vacate this area. You're trespassing, but if you leave now, no charges will be laid. If you refuse to leave, you'll be arrested."
Ken's mind switched from idle to high-speed. He walked toward his door, but remained inside. "This is my house; I have no intention of leaving."
"If you do not leave now, you will be placed under arrest."
"On what charges?"
"Trespassing for starters. Now move!"
"How can I be . . ." Ken stopped talking. There was no point explaining his position to this officer. He wasn't listening anyway. "Give me a minute to get dressed, would you?"
"Just get moving."
Ken watched as the officer moved off toward a tent that was on the hill where the old recreation centre had been. He stepped outside and saw people being hurried into their vehicles. Others were packing their belongings. One police officer was banging a truncheon on the bumper of a truck. The loud clanging noise echoed back and forth like the dinner bell at a summer camp. The protest was going to be ended in a swift sweep and it was beyond his ability to do much about it.
He looked at his cabin and reached a decision. He grabbed his backpack, hurriedly decided what he should take, and started to throw items inside. Another officer walked up to his cabin. "Let's get a move on here!"
"I'm going, I'm going." Ken's voice was edged with fear. "I'm packing as fast as I can." The officer walked away as Ken finished dressing and put on his boots. He tried to think of everything he should take; the police were moving fast and he had so little time. He rooted through his belongings, dropping some items and shoving others into his pack. When it was full, he opened the door and threw it outside.
People were being forced into action. What had been a quiet Sunday morning was now pandemonium. The young people on the other side of the road were emptying their tent and the old couple in the camper were taking down their awning.
The police were all over the place, walking up and down the road and through the field. They seemed aggressive, but Ken noticed that they weren't paying particular attention to any one person. They were just keeping themselves visible and hurrying everyone into action. This was good, because it gave him a bit of anonymity.
They spent most of their time dealing other campers and Ken realised that they did not to make him the centre of attention. The police were intimidating everyone, but leaving him pretty much alone.
It was time. Feeling very uncomfortable, he unlocked the chain from his ankle and let it slip into the trampled grass. He grabbed his pack, checked to make sure the way was clear, and ran half way up the hill that overlooked his cabin and the field. "Can I have everyone's attention?" Faces turned to him expectantly. "I'm not leaving the park! I will not be moved! The police are wrong and the government is wrong! I'm staying in this park . . . living in this park . . . for as long as it takes for them to admit it!" The police watched him motionlessly, but one officer started to walk up the hill. "Make sure you tell everyone this is wrong! Tell them I'm not leaving!" Ken turned and ran to the top of the hill.
Someone shouted, "Right on!" Other voices joined in. What had started as a blitzkrieg clearing operation was now bogging down into a cacophony of protest.
Ken stopped at the top of the hill and turned. The officer, who was now half way up, had stopped as well and was looking back at another officer. This younger fellow was already running, but he was also burdened with his flak vest and a big black belt with many pouches. Even though Ken had the pack, he was sure he could easily outrun him.
He turned and ran through the low branches of a group of red pines, aiming for the railroad bed not too far ahead. Keeping low, he darted left and right, but something grabbed him and he spun sideways and fell. He couldn't believe that the cop had been so fast, but as he tried to get to his feet, he saw the officer's legs beyond the pines, a short distance away. His pack must have snagged a branch, he realised, and he rolled back on his feet and continued to run.
He started to pull at the one strap of his backpack, thinking he would drop it, when he came to an area of swamp. He remembered the place, and he knew it was possible to cross without getting too wet. Jumping to the places that contained higher tufts of grass and plants that would not survive underwater, he avoided the soft suction of the boggy ground. He was only three-quarter of the way across when he heard the officer cry out and then he heard the soft splat of a body hitting the very wet ground. He laughed silently, but didn't turn back. Another splat. The officer fell again. "Shit!" said one voice and then another yelled: "Go that way!"
Two or three officers were in pursuit. The grin left Ken's face as he realised that this would not be as easy as he had hoped. He ran to the right, trying to draw those chasing him away from the lake. A group of tag alders t were so thick that they acted like a barrier, but he forced his way through. His backpack tugged at his shoulders and he again considered dropping it, but there were some items he needed. He would hold on to it for a while longer.
A hundred yards further, he turned toward the lake. It was crazy, he told himself, but he needed to get to his boat. Water would be the easiest route of escape. He forced his breath under control and worked his way down to the tangle of vegetation near the shore.
On the water's edge, he could see the train bridge. He was close. The loose round stones clunked hollowly under his feet and he struggled toward his boat.
The adrenalin pumping though his veins pushed him to run quickly, but he knew that silence was more important. He couldn't take his time, his tracks would be easy to follow, but any loud sounds might bring out new officers up from the tracks.
The sun had just peaked above the trees, but it would soon move up into bands of clouds that filled the sky. The sunlight cast eerie shadows through the forest making it difficult to see movement. Everything was moving, the leaves, the pines, the dry branches.
He inhaled deeply when he reached the canoe, suddenly aware of his shallow breathing and the need to remain quiet. He undid the chain and, as quietly as possible, removed the covering of sticks and leaves. Normally he would have dragged the canoe into the water, but that would have generated a lot of noise, so he lifted it over his head - as he would on a portage - and then gently placed it in the water. The sound of waves lapping against the hull seemed extremely loud.
He looked back at the train bridge and realised he was in full view. He threw in his pack and jacket and then returned to shore for the motor and the paddle. He picked up the chain and wondered if he should take it. It would be noisy in the canoe, but he could drop it on some material to keep the noise down. 'Should I throw the chain on my pack and jacket,' he thought, 'or should I throw it on my jack and packet?' He grinned. Here he was, about to be arrested and he was playing stupid word games. Last night he had met old Mr. Loeffler and they had talked about old-times. It must have done something to soften his mind.
He draped the chain over his shoulder, and lifted the paddle. A loud snap reverberated in the forest and looking up, he saw an approaching officer. "Shit!" He awkwardly grabbed the motor, pinching his fingers as it turned on its steering arm, and ran to the canoe. He could hear the officer breaking through the bush behind him. He had only seconds.
There was no way to get in gracefully, and he dove for the canoe. His face smacked one of the gunnels, opening a gash on his lip, and the weight of his body caused the boat to dip low enough into the water to hit the rocks below. The hull groaned in protest, but it bobbed up and Ken twisted around frantically trying to use his initial momentum to get away from shore.
The officer was only three feet away and with one jump, he could have easily grabbed the canoe. The blood drained from Ken's face and his body felt weightless and numb. He thrust the paddle furiously in the water, splashing like a kid in a water fight, and with the momentum of his jump, he moved away from shore. The officer got over his momentary hesitation, but still did not jump. Instead, he ran into the water.
Ken was in the middle of the canoe, a difficult place from which to paddle, but he twisted onto his knees as he pulled his paddle through the choppy water. It was going to be close. One good spurt and the police would have him. Then he heard a splash - the slimy rocks offered poor footing for even the most experienced bushman - followed by the sharp inhale as the officer surfaced from the water. He didn't look back but he couldn't imagine the cop trying to swim while wearing a flak jacket. He paddled furiously just in case.
When he was a very safe distance from shore, he turned. Two policemen were now on the shore, but the wet one was turning away. He had had enough. Ken dropped his paddle in the bottom of the boat and attached the motor to the small flat stern. It only took three pulls to get it started and the bubbling growl of the motor drowned out the sound of shouts back in Kiosk.
The officer on the shore shook his finger back and forth at Ken, like a mother admonishing her disobedient child, and Ken grinned and shrugged. "Boys will be boys," he said.
He turned the throttle and powered the canoe back toward the train bridge. There were some deadheads, half-submerged logs that could knock the motor off his boat, but if he was careful, he could get to the bridge in relative safety. Without a boat, the police could do little unless they started firing and he was fairly certain that wouldn't happen - not with so many witnesses.
Near the bridge were a number of logs, but the water was deep and he doubted that any of the police were sure footed enough to run a boom. He ran his boat downstream to a spot between the two bridges and yelled as loud as he could. "Don't let them chase you out!" Only a few people heard him but within a minute, more people appeared in the grass by the bank. Ken raised his right fist high over his head. Blood was running down his lip and dripping onto his shirt. "This is our home! I'm not leaving the park until they admit they took it away wrongfully."
A man on the car bridge was furiously taking snapshots. He was dressed in Khakis and had a vest full of camera accessories. Newspaper man, Ken thought. "It's time to fight back!" He held his fist higher and shook it in the air.
A police car sped across the bridge toward the ranger station and Ken knew where they were headed. The OPP kept a small boat at the ranger station. He had to get out of the river and into the lake quickly. Not only would he be trapped in the river, but even if he got out onto the lake, he didn't want them to follow him. He did not want to lose his motor.
"I'm not leaving!" Ken shouted to the growing crowd on the shore and then he swung the boat around toward the train bridge. Four officers were already on the bridge scurrying back and forth trying to find a way to block Ken's escape. Two were scrabbling down the rocky sides toward the water and two were staying on the top.
He opened the throttle wide, lifting the bow of the canoe out of the water and sped toward the bridge. There was little they could do, he thought and then he saw one climb up on the black metal side of the bridge. Was he going to jump off into the canoe? Ken remembered the kids jumping off the bridge into the water, but a fully loaded cop, wearing shoes, jumping into a canoe? It was unthinkable.
In his few moments of shouting, he had drifted a long way from the train bridge, and going upstream was slower. The cop on the top had dropped his vest and belt and was moving back and forth on the metal bridge as if getting ready to jump.
"Shit! Shit!" Ken clenched his teeth angry with himself for his foolishness. He should have just left.
One of the cops on the shore was dropping equipment and looked like he was getting ready to enter the water. Ken drove the boat over to the right, forcing the cop on the top of the bridge to balance along the railing to the new intersection point. The cop on the other shore stepped out into the water.
The boat was sluggish in the river and Ken throttled down so the bow dropped lower. He grabbed his pack and threw it forward. This would make the boat slower, but more manoeuvrable. He powered up again and began to weave back and forth, drawing nearer and nearer to the bridge. The cop on the top was forced to move right and left and his confidence was fading.
Ten feet from the bridge Ken turned hard left, ran parallel to the bridge for a few seconds and then turned underneath. A body jumped out from the side, just ahead of him, and all he could do, was keep going. The throttle was fully open and he was going straight out toward the lake. He could see the hand in the water, just to the side and it reached for the gunnels, but never made it.
With his heart beating furiously in his chest, he piloted the boat a distance away from the right shore as the river widened into the lake. He curved off to the right, around the point, and away from the town of Kiosk and the ranger station. If his stunt had accomplished one thing, it had gotten some extra pictures into one of the newspapers.

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Last modified: 09/02/02