The Waterfall That Swallowed Half a River — and How Two Numbers Solved It
On the North Shore of Lake Superior, inside Judge C.R. Magney State Park in Minnesota, the Brule River comes down through the forest in a hurry. About a mile and a half before it reaches the great cold lake, the water runs up against a stubborn knuckle of ancient volcanic rock that splits the current in two. The eastern half tips over the lip of an ordinary waterfall, drops some fifty feet, and carries on toward Lake Superior the way rivers are supposed to. The western half pours sideways into a gaping cylindrical pothole in the stone, a churning hole the locals call the Devil's Kettle, and then it is simply gone.
Visitors reach the spot on foot, and the trail ends at a wooden overlook above the falls. From the rail the split is unmistakable: one river, two destinations, and only one of them accounted for. Jeff Green first stood there as a tourist on a family outing, years before his working life gave him any professional interest in the place. He asked what every visitor asks, the question that hole had been putting to people for a hundred years. Where does the water go?
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