Another rock garden. Another cascade
down, down, down the rushing boulder-strewn river bed. Forget
scouting. I pick a line and hope I don't get rocked in. My kayak
wallows between rocks as I make my awkward turns. Left around a big
rock, over a couple small ones clearing them by scraping and
scooting, push off yet another rock... Looking for the channel.
Where is most of the water going? Lost it. Run aground... Now I'm
sideways. Not good... Push off. Too hard. The kayak tips. Just
enough to let water start to pour in. I'm tired and I react slowly.
Too late, I'm swamped. The kayak is going down. Pinned up
against the rock. I bail out as my loose gear, including my camera,
begins to float down the rapid. Paul zips by, but, trying to get
around me, high centers his kayak on a rock like a teeter totter. As
I grope for my paddle and stuff chest deep in water, I hear him
mumble, “I'm really SICK of all these stupid ROCKS!”
Well, we can't say that they didn't
warn us. No one with any common sense would try to boat the wild
Class III part of the Verde River in a recreational kayak. At low
water. With camping gear. The river is “littered with ruined canoes
and kayaks,” we were told. Sensational stories of daring river
rescues of foolish boaters had appeared in the local paper almost
weekly. “Un-boatable at flows below 180 cfs” we read in
one expert river guide. “You couldn't pick two worse boats for that
stretch of river,” we were told.
Despite the naysayers, we knew our
skills and limitations. And besides, we weren't going to jump head
first into a multi-day expedition down the remotest part of the
canyon. Our plan was to bypass the worst of the Class III and Class
IV rapids and roll our kayaks down an “easy” trail at Gap Creek.
From there we'd do an easy nine miles to out-of-the-way hamlet of
Childs. To make sure we made it and had ample time, we allowed
ourselves two days. The river flow was less than optimal, but,
considering that the Verde had ideal kayaking conditions less than
ten days a year, and having no whitewater skills whatsoever, we
decided low water was okay. In short, the were a multitude of reasons
for not making this trip and only one in favor:
The surest path to insanity is never
doing anything insane.
The first and perhaps most treacherous
part of the adventure was toting our loaded kayaks down Gap Creek
trail. A half mile doesn't sound like much—but trying to roll,
push, pull, lift, twist and manhandle those yaks down a steep rocky
trail was... Well, forget water-boarding. I think the CIA should
start making captured terrorists lug loaded kayaks across the desert.
It was pain in the stern let me tell you, but finally the sound and,
then the sight, of water quickly made us forget the pain. The push
off was a gorgeous little green pool with black rocks. A spirited
little riffle with splash mountain waves made our first rapid a fun
pleasure. Once through, I immediately swung into an eddy, made a
short cast and.. fish on!
Yeah... The people who can't comprehend
boating the Verde at low water are not fisherman. After the spring
flood, after the water clears up and begins to warm up, the fishing
heats up. And there's really no way to get to these holes but in a
yak. This is a brush-choked remote river in a a trackless rugged
canyon. Down there it sees virtually no fishing pressure. And this is
bass fishing at its best. Rather than a dead featureless reservoir
that hundreds of people fish daily, this is a living, moving,
breathing piece of lonely river. Riffles, eddies, channels,
backwaters, lagoons, cattails, overhanging trees, holes, and pockets.
Every bend brings new features and potential fishing holes. Every
cast addresses a new dynamic.
I'd like to report I got a strike on
every cast. But to do so would be diminish a worthy opponent. We
hooked enough fish to keep our interest. To make it fun. Paul caught
one truly special small-mouth bass—the kind of catch that keeps a
real fisherman happy for months...
In the meantime, we hit out first Class
III rapid. The water funneled into a fast chute that ran straight
into a cliff wall, The water curved back down the wall before heading
down river. We decided to portage that one. It was a no-brainer. In
our rec kayaks it was a sure flip. We were most of the way down the
next Class III before we realized we were in it. All the following
rock gardens looked pretty much alike at low water—regardless of if
they were named or classified. The only trick was trying to stay in
the channel and hope there was enough water to get you to the bottom.
Usually there wasn't. We'd get halfway down, or three quarters, and
run aground on a rock. The rest of the rapid would be spent wading
down the rushing water, trying not to trip over submerged rocks while
towing a heavy kayak behind you. This was water aerobics—extreme.
It was tiring but fun. The water wasn't cold and it was a beautiful
day. And in between rapids we got to fish. A lot.
So much so that a few hours had gone by
when I decided to check the map. With slow horror I realized we'd
only gone a couple of miles. We had maybe three hours of daylight
left and we still had miles to go. We had not even entered the eagle
breeding ground—which was a no stop zone for boaters. We had to get
though the entire no stop zone before we could make camp. Time to
make some time.
This of course was when the rock
gardens became tedious. Now under time pressure, the constant stops
ans starts, the dismounting and wading started to wear on our
patience. Soon we started to feel tired. Soon we started making dumb
mistakes. It was at this point that I sunk my boat and pinned it
against the rock. Eventually, because it was so low, I was able to
free it without help. Had the river been running just a little faster
I probably would’ve lost my boat right there. Still it was another
expenditure of time and energy. After each “dunking,” the boat
had to be dragged ashore, emptied, tipped up and the water drained
out of it. Then carefully re-packed and relaunched. Time was ticking
by.
We were pretty damn spent when we
finally reached a calm stretch of water which we both agreed,
checking our maps, was out of the eagle breeding zone. The sun was
taking on a severe slant, just above the canyon rim but now we could
look for a camp. We popped open our first beer of the day in
anticipation of the end of today's journey. Now, you might think,
being in a wilderness and on a river, that camping places had to be
bountiful. Nothing could be further from the truth. The bottom of a
river canyon is junk heap of huge boulders, trees and driftwood
choked with thirsty bushes and plants. We stopped and looked at a
couple places but the first was too rocky for a sleeping bag, the
second smelled of mud and cow piss. We floated on determined to find
something. There is nothing worse than expending all your energy in a
beautiful wilderness only to make a sketchy camp. A fantastic day
deserves a fantastic camp, so we floated on. Soon we heard the roar
of yet another rapid.
Our mood instantly deflated. No, it
was happy hour. Not rush hour. No more rock gardens today. No more
work! Yet, there didn't seem much choice. The camping was very
bad along this last stretch. Maybe we could do one more if... If it
was going to be worth it. I pulled in and scouted ahead on foot.
Bushwhacking my way through the brush, it didn't look promising.
Then, when I was just about to turn back... Sand. Beach. A calm pool
of water hidden off the main channel of the river. Flat ground. I ran
back to Paul and said, “one more time.” Buoyed by the sight of a
great camp, I had my best run of the day, zipped down the rapids and
exited into the beautiful little lagoon. I popped open another beer
while I waited for Paul. And waited. And waited. Finally a water
bottle floated down the rapid. Then a package of plastic worms. Then
a beer can...
Worried now, I pulled in and started
bushwhacking my way up the rapids. Still no Paul. More bushwhacking.
Finally I made it all the way up to the beginning of the rapids
without seeing him. Shit. I must've missed him. He must of
paddled right on by my kayak. Right on by the hidden lagoon. Shit.
No way to call him back. And no way I was going to chase him
downriver. I was done. By the time I got back to my yak, however, he
had paddled back upstream. He was drenched, exhausted and more than a
little pissed.. He took one look at where I'd pulled my yak in and
demanded to know if this was my “great” campsite. No check
this out. We got back in the yaks and paddled up into a calm
water lagoon. This lagoon was deep and beautiful and extended almost
a hundred yards up into the rocks where it ended in a gorgeous empty
beach.
A fantastic camp to end a fantastic
day.
Of course we were, by this time,
exhausted, wet and, with the sun dipping below the canyon wall,
already chilled to the bone. No time to relax quite yet. There were
kayaks to empty, tents to pitch, campfires to make. At least the
crisis was over for the day. As we started to unpack our bedrolls and
dry clothes, however, the river was about to give us one more
surprise. In lieu of store bought drybags, Paul had constructed his
own out of compactor bags—a method he had researched on the
internet. As he opened the first bag, however, he was horrified to
discover everything was sopping wet. I mean filled with water and
saturated. It was already cold in the shadows of the canyon. The
night was about to get a lot colder. This was a very serious
situation. Life and Death.
Death, I told him, if he
expected to huddle together for warmth.
With trepidation, he opened his second
“dry” bag. The first item he pulled out was kind of wet. But as
he dug lower, things got drier. At the bottom of the second bag his
sleeping bag was dry. In total he has a shirt, a jacket and a
sleeping bag that was usable. Enough.
Now it was time to stoke the fire,
roast some hot links over the fire and lighten our loads for the next
day by emptying our beer cooler. It was a night of happy exhaustion.
A celebration of survival and the slow, rich absorption of a day of
amazing sights.
The next day was smoother. After a
leisurely morning exploring our surroundings (and an Indian ruin
overlooking our camp), we were back on the river. The second day we
ate up the rock gardens. Our boats were lighter and our skills had
improved and the rapids themselves were a little more forgiving. We
caught more fish and again found ourselves behind schedule. On that
day though, when we picked up the pace, the kayaks responded. We tore
down the rapids aggressively paddling through them instead of
defensively steering. Sure there were still mishaps. But even the
recovery from those were those were more polished. Soon, we were back
on schedule and even had time to stop at the hot springs for a quick
visit. In fact, we ended up pulling into the takeout at exactly the
moment our shuttle driver arrived. It was that kind of day.
Would we recommend the trip for everybody? No way. Would we do it again? Absolutely. After about a year to recover.
