206 BONES by Kathy Reichs Page A

in a commuters’ nightmare, a public relations fiasco for the government, and the death of one Sűreté du Québec officer.
     
In a nutshell, here’s what happened.
     
The town of Oka wanted to expand a golf course onto land containing a Mohawk burial ground and a sacred grove of pines. The natives screamed sacrilege. Their appeal was denied and construction of the back nine began. Incensed, tribal members barricaded access to the terrain in dispute.
     
No big deal. The cops clear the protesters, right? Wrong.
     
When the SQ restricted access to Oka and Kanesatake, First Nations groups began arriving from across Canada and the U.S. of A. In solidarity with Kanesatake, the Kahnawake Mohawks blockaded a bridge connecting the Island of Montreal with the south shore suburbs at the point where the bridge passed through their territory.
     
At the peak of the confrontation, the Mercier Bridge and Routes 132, 138, and 207 were all blocked. Traffic jams were vicious and tempers were fraying.
     
Enter the Canadian Armed Forces.
     
Ultimately, the Mohawks negotiated an end to their protest with the army commander responsible for monitoring the south shore of the St. Lawrence River west of Montreal. The lieutenant colonel’s name was Gagnon.
     
Life has its ironies. The original cheese-bearing Trappists lived in a miller’s cottage while awaiting completion of their monastery. The miller’s name was Gagnon.
     
A fourth facet is Parc national d’Oka, one of a chain of Quebec wildlife reserves and tourist resorts. May through September, the park’s twenty-four square kilometers host campers, picnickers, hikers, canoers, and kayakers. In winter, a few hardy souls still feel the need to bunk out in thecold, but the majority of visitors are snowshoers and cross-country skiers.
     
Wouldn’t catch me. But I do like summer outings, biking the trails, sunning on the beach, bird-watching on the floating boardwalk into Grande-Baie marsh. No argument here. I’m a warm-weather wuss.
     
As Ryan headed north on the Laurentian Autoroute then west on Highway 640, I watched close-packed city buildings give way to equi-spaced and identical suburban houses, eventually to snow-covered countryside. Yellow smudged the horizon, then the sky oozed from black to gray.
     
Forty-five minutes after leaving my condo Ryan turned onto chemin Oka. By then the sun was a low-hanging white disk. Leafless trees cast long, fuzzy shadows across fields and blacktop.
     
In moments, we passed the main park entrance. Just inside the gate a small stone building announced Poste d’accueil Camping—Camping Welcome Center. A yellow diamond showed a turtle, lizard, frog, and snake in black silhouette.
     
Twenty meters beyond the park entrance, an SQ cruiser idled on the opposite shoulder, vapor pumping from its tailpipe.
     
Ryan made a U-turn and rolled to a stop. The cruiser’s occupant set a Styrofoam cup on the dash, pulled on gloves, and hauled himself out. He wore an olive green jacket with black fur collar, dark olive muffler, and olive hat, earflaps tied in the up position. His name plaque read Halton.
     
Lowering the window, Ryan showed his badge. Halton glanced at it, then bent to inspect me.
     
I held up my LSJML card.
     
Halton flapped an arm toward the woods, then spoke in French. “Take the service road skirting the edge of the park. Party’s at the river’s edge.”
     
“What river?” I asked.
     
“Rivičre aux Serpents.” Halton grinned. “Little bastards should be sleeping this time of year.”
     
Ryan veered from the shoulder and we rolled forward, tires crunching on icy gravel. At our backs, across the highway, Le Calvaire d’Oka dominated the landscape. I’d once hiked the trail to its summit. A sort of woodland Way of the Cross, the path climbs five kilometers to a cluster of mid-eighteenth-century chapels. The view was kick-ass.
     
So was the poison ivy. I itched and oozed for weeks.
     
“Yield to reptiles?” Ryan’s lame joke suggested