Canoeing the Mighty Verde
by Rod Richards
I grew up in a canoeing family. We actually had four canoes. So, as a child, I used to spend many sunny days canoeing down the meandering, silt brown Litle Miami River back in Ohio. I soon graduated to more adventuresome trips, and would spend weeks canoeing and portaging through the northern wilds of Canada. When I first moved to Arizona, and discovered that the state wasn't one big sand dune, I started looking around for some wilderness rivers to explore. It wasn't long before I discovered the Verde river. On the maps it looked perfect. For a 35 mile stretch between Childs Power Plant and Sheep Bridge Crossing there was not a single access road to the river. This would have to be an excellent paddle through Arizona's backcountry, undisturbed and naturally beautiful.
Eventually I talked Loyd and Brad into this great adventure. They both claimed to be well acquainted with a canoe, so we set the date for the third weekend of September. I would be in my whitewater kayak and Loyd and Brad would be in Loyd's indestructable plastic canoe. As we left work on Friday afternoon, we had no realization what true adventure awaited us. We immediately drove over to Loyd's house, loaded up his canoe, and headed north up the interstate. We didn't know how long it would take to drop off a car downstream at Sheeps Bridge and then drive up to our starting point at Childs Power Plant; but we figured on getting there late, setting up our tents, and then pushing off the next morning. In hindsight, we should have budgeted our time better. It was 8:00 in the evening before we left town. The trip up I-17 to the Bloody Basin turnoff was uneventful, but then we had 40 miles of bad dirt roads to get to Sheep Bridge. The forty miles was made up of over two hours of bumpy, winding, night time driving with a canoe rattling annoyingly on the top of each of our cars. By the time we finished dropping off the pick up car it was after midnight. Two more hours of bumpy, windy, dirt roads to get back to the interstate (now with both canoes rattling annoyingly on the top of my car), up to Camp Verde, and another hour of dirt roads to get to Childs Power Plant.
We were finally there, but it was 5:00 in the morning! We had time to sleep for an hour and then it was off on our great adventure. Little did we know that the previous nights grind was only a prelude to the coming attractions. We were about to embark on a 35 mile run of class II water (with no access points) through the state's only designated section of Wild River. I didn't know that Loyd and Brad's only previous canoeing experience had been on lakes; and unfortunately they made an assumption that a canoe trip was a canoe trip, and it didn't matter whether it was on a river or a lake.
We were doomed! They had never canoed on a river before, their canoe was heavily loaded, the river was flooding, the first rapid was one of the worst - filled with three foot standing waves, and they entered it sideways. Loyd was in the back of the canoe steering, and the only canoeing stroke he knew was the old basic standby - paddle forward. Fortunately Loyd, being the very cautious and meticulous fellow that he is, had lashed to the nth degree all the gear in the canoe. Unfortunately, at the bottom of the rapids, to drain their submerged canoe, they had to unlash all the nth degrees to be able to unload and empty the water out. They emptied all the water out, analyzed their previous disaster, repacked, retied everything to the nth degree, and immediately submerged on the second rapid also.
Of course, emptying a canoe is never quite as easy as pushing it to the side and draining all the water. A water filled canoe is very heavy and awkward. On the way to the side you must slip, trip and flounder over every moss covered boulder in the stream. Then, once to the side, you will inevitably be standing in knee deep muck while draining your canoe, regaining your composure, and trying to convince yourself that the previous two disasters were mere flukes. By now, their ankles and shins had lost their fair share of skin to the slippery rocks, and they had unpacked and repacked their submarine twice. And, human nature being the way it is, standing in knee deep muck with skinned up shins does little to restore confidence in your abilities.
But, Loyd and Brad had gotten much smarter from theit first two rapids, and so on the third rapid they walked (slipped, tripped and floundered) their canoe down the stream side. We would have gone back to the car at this point if we could have, but the river was high, the banks were covered with thick brush, and manhandling the canoes upstream was out of the question. We had told everybody that we might not be back until Monday, and onward was the only alterntive. The first half of the first day Brad and Loyd either walked their canoe down every rapid, or submerged trying to run it. But, on the positive side, they were getting much quicker at unpacking and repacking their sodden gear from a water filled canoe.
By now, Loyds canoe had become known as the plastic pig because of the way it wallowed through the rapids. Brad and Loyds attack on a rapid started to fall into a predictable pattern. Loyd, in the back of the canoe, with his feet planted firmly, and the whites of his eyes showing, would be shouting "slower! slower! not so fast!" and backpaddling as hard as possible. Yes, by this time Loyd had, with great relief, discovered the technique of backpaddling. Brad, in the front, would be screaming "sooooeee!" in deference to Loyds boat, the plastic pig, and paddling forward as hard as he could. At least if they plowed into some glistening half submerged boulder, they could each point an accusing finger at the other.
Very soon we had no idea where we were. At every river bend, Loyd, being the cautious and meticulous fellow that he is, would shuffle back and forth through the stack of topo maps trying in vain to pick out some recognizable landmark. Eventually Brad, being more impetuous and impatient, would manager to badger Loyd into abandoning his efforts and continuing onward. We developed a method of attack. I would enter the rapid and then signal them whether to walk it or attempt to run it, and their skills started to improve. Things were looking up. Then we encountered some backpackers who informed us that we hadn't even made it off the first page of our topo map yet - very discouraging. We paddled till dark that night. The scenery was beautiful. We passed by many rocky side streams, high distant plateaus, reed filled marshy river banks, hairpin flows forced around massive rock outcroppings; but none of it ever quite matched our topos, and we spent most of our time peering into the murky swift water where hidden boulders lay just beneath the surface waiting to overturn an unwary canoeist.
About dusk we were passing a sandy beach with adjoining grassy meadow area when Loyd and Brad managed to snag one of these lurking boulders. During the ensuing frantic flurry of heated accusations their canoe quickly turned broadside, and then, admidst much yelling and waving, in slow motion, was rolled over, dumping them once more into the river. By now, with the evening shadows stretching across the valley, the water seemed ten degrees colder, their last rollover had caught them completely by surprise, and so this became our camp for the night. As we pulled our boats up onto the sandy beach, fatigue set in. We had gotten one hour of sleep the night before. The day had been continuous and harrowing. Brad had no dry clothes except some Fruit of the Looms. Loyds food had all turned in to soup and was still mostly contained within the many zippered pockets of his pack. From the looks on Brads and Loyds faces, I realized that neither had the desire to prepare a meal. I summoned up the energy reserves, prepared a meal, we ate and crashed. I had made the mistake of storing my doubly trash bag wrapped sleeping bag in their canoe. During the excitement of the day somebody had managed to punch their fingers through both trash bags (I think it was revenge), and now my sleeping bag was wringing water. I slept in my nylon ground cloth that night - luckily it wasn't cold.
The next day we were 'up and at em', and discovered we were much better canoers. That first day Brad and Loyd had gotten caught on some nasty rock and Loyd developed an extreme fear of them. Rocks were to be avoided at any cost. But, on the second day, we encountered strainers (those branchy trees that hang out across the river and try to strain you out of your boat), and the terror or rocks faded into insignificance. Brad and Loyd were hilarious. No matter how much they tried to avoid those strainers, it was like a magnetic attraction. Paddling furiously, Brad (in the front of the canoe) would usually managed to squeak by the strainer, but Loyd, in the back would get dragged right through every one of them. Their canoe would dissapear into this mass of leafy branches, then the whole tree would begin to shake wildly with paddles and arms poking out at odd angles, and eventually they might emerge. Loyd got knocked clear out of the canoe a few times. In my minds eye, I can still see Loyd flying through the air, still in the sitting postion, with the white soles of his tennis shoes pointing upwards. Its a wonder he wasn't seriously hurt. As concerned as I was, my sides hurt from laughing so hard. By the end of the day, if there were any trees on the left of the river at all, Loyd would be on the right, no matter how many rocks there were. Also, Loyd got a terrible sunburn on his forehead because after his hat got ripped off by a vicious strainer, he wouldn't put sunblock on his forehead because it would run down into his eyes, blind him, and he would become afraid for his life at tht point.
Loyds canoe was one bent up boat by the end of the trip. But, to its credit, I don't know if another boat would have survived the punishment. Surprisingly to us, we did make Sheep Bridge on Sunday, nobody regretted the trip at all, and we're still talking about it at work.