Salt River Rising

Rain in the desert:the Salt begins to rise.

THE NEXT DAY USHERS in more of the same—a gunmetal gray, wet sky, and an even higher rollicking river. The temperature is in the 40s, sending a damp, penetrating chill into our bodies. We stoke up yesterday’s fire to warm up. There’s driftwood in abundance, but it’s all soaking wet. Still, we manage to rekindle the blaze and soon we’re all under the tarp, the welcoming flames licking just outside.

Our conversation revolves around our predicament, from which there is no clear way out. Our put-in at the U.S. 60 bridge is 13 miles upriver. Perusing the map, Donner suggests that one alternative is to carry whatever we can, cache the boats and the rest of the gear, and retreat back to the bridge along a demanding cross-country route. Having flipped in a hole our first day, and the only one among us without a drysuit, Donner unequivocally says that no way is he getting back in his solo 12-foot-boat with the river running amok.

His point is well taken. A capsize in these pushy waters would mean the paddler and gear-laden canoe might be flushed downstream for miles; a rescue assist can’t be counted on. We conclude that we’ll stay put at least another day; we have ample food and drinking water, and our campsite is still above the rising river. With hundreds of wilderness trips under our collective belts, none of us has ever needed to be rescued, and we don’t want to start now. Still, it is comforting to know that the Forest Service rangers know we’re out here getting hammered.

I throw on a rain parka and take off hiking toward a high ridge a half-mile behind camp. I toss my cell phone into my daypack, just for kicks. I’ve always said telephones have no place in the wilderness, but I didn’t want to leave it in T.K.’s unattended truck.

I’m pretty sure the thing won’t work way out here, but when I reach the top of the rocky escarpment rising 1,000 feet above the river, I power up the phone. Seconds later, I am dumbfounded to see three bars light up. I speed-dial my girlfriend, and, naturally, get a busy signal. I place a call to Laba’s wife. She picks up and, understandably, is shocked to hear my voice. “Where are you? Are you all right?” she asks. She’s been tuning into the news about this latest winter storm system thrashing the region, and has been fretting for our safety. “They’re calling for more rain the next five days,” she informs me. I ask her to make a few calls for us. Then just before we hang up, she makes a request of her own: “Promise me you guys don’t do anything stupid!”

I call the Globe Ranger Station next, and get connected to one of the rangers I met a few days earlier. He, too, is amazed I have cell phone reception, but is relieved to know we’re all right. He confirms that making a run for the Highway 288 bridge is way too dicey given the current river level, which, he reports, is now a whopping 25,000 cfs. I don’t need to be reminded that most guidebooks on the Salt suggest that 3,000 cfs is the upper limit.

Pulling up the local weather forecast as we speak, he says it looks like there’ll be a one-day break in the storms starting this afternoon, then it’s another deluge which will push the river even higher. “A sure bet, which you’ve probably already considered,” he continues, “is to hike back to your put-in, but, of course, you’ll have to leave most of your gear behind.” Another choice, he proposes, is to run the gauntlet through Granite Canyon—a tricky proposition even under optimum conditions—and take out at Gleason Flat, the last place to get off the river before entering the Salt Canyon Wilderness. “It’s up to you,” he concludes, “but if it were me, I’d paddle out while I can.”

We’re about to hang up when he throws one more monkey wrench into the mix. “The dirt road down to Gleason Flat is about 18 miles—unimproved, steep, washed out in places, and very greasy when wet. In fact, with all this precip we’ve been having, the last four miles may be impassable even with four-wheel-drive.”

Scurrying back down to camp, I tell the others about my unexpected contact with the outside world. We quickly come to a consensus. Tomorrow morning we’ll deflate the 12-foot canoe and lay it on the bottom of the 16-footer with gear boxes and dry bags on top. T.K. and I will continue to paddle tandem, while Donner and Laba will pair up in the 14-footer. Short on space, we’ll take whatever gear we can and cache what’s left. Then we’ll trust the fates—and our river skills—to take us safely down to Gleason Flat.

TO OUR GREAT RELIEF, the rain lets up during the night and the morning breaks bright and warm. Even the songbirds flitting around camp and a pair of whitetail deer browsing on the slopes seem to enjoy the change of weather.

Cotton-mouthed and jumpy, we clamber into our newly configured, heavily laden boats, glance at the churning rapid below, and push off into the muddy, racing torrent. T.K. and I go first. Our muscles burn as we struggle to nail a must-make ferry across the river, thereby avoiding the huge, gaping hole that has developed just downstream. We then have to run a sneak route on far river left, make a strong ferry back to river right to avoid Rat Trap’s pourovers, and finally charge through White Rock Rapid, which lies in wait just around a sharp bend.

By the time we catch an eddy below White Rock, our chests are heaving with exertion. Now it’s time to enter Granite Canyon. Under other circumstances, we would be in awe of the gorge’s gleaming white sculptured walls. But at the moment we’ve got more pressing concerns as we swerve and dodge through the tight fissure. Several named rapids, twisting passages, and squirrelly turbulences created by water pulsating off the low canyon walls do all they can to knock us around.

T.K. and I are fighting hard to keep our boat on course when the river spins us 180 degrees without warning, and begins to suck us into a dizzying whirlpool. T.K. curses; I curse back, and both of us work frantically to keep the boat from the hole’s clutches. I’m screaming, “Back paddle! Back paddle!” and T.K., now awash up to his waist in cold and silty water, screams back, “I am, damn you, I am!” After several tense seconds the self-bailing canoe slowly back-ends out of the sucking vortex—our first and last chance to exit in one piece. We crank it around hard and continue on our breathless way, the worst part of the canyon run now blessedly behind us.

Catching up with Laba and Donner, who shot past us in all the drama, we regale them with our harrowing black hole tale. But they’re too wasted to care. The trip has suddenly become 100 percent less hazardous. It’s great to be alive!

Finally able to admire the dazzling gorge that’s now mostly behind us, we ease downriver, carefully scanning the shoreline for our emergency take-out. The wide-open expanse of Gleason Flat appears just in time. Dark, threatening clouds are rolling in, lightning splits the sky. Getting out of here won’t be easy, but we’re so elated to be off the river that we’re confident we’ll find a way. Even if our only option is to hoof it, one mud-soaked step at a time.

Based out of Buena Vista, Colorado, Larry Rice is a contributing editor for Canoe & Kayak magazine. He is already planning another trip to the Salt, in a non-El Niño year.