Surviving the Salt River in Arizona
Story & photos by Lisa Alpine
I was a timid, sickly child who stayed home more than went to school and had not an ounce of athleticism in me. Oddly enough, decades later in the desert southwest, I seem to be blossoming into Amazon Woman: especially in my inflatable kayak.
The longer the trip, the bigger the rapids — the more I say, “yes!” Yes to those wave trains that send me airborne. Yes to dancing around rocks as the whitewater rushes me toward their hard faces. Even yes to the crisp snowmelt waters as they pour over me while I paddle into a big, hungry, boat-eating hole.
A group of friends and I lucked out and won two permits in a lottery slot to run the Salt River in Arizona. We were going to kayak it in late March and have a support oar boat bring our gear and food on this five-day, fifty-four-mile expedition through cactus canyon wilderness lands.
Several friends had run the river the previous year and waxed ecstatic about the beauty of the desert scenery and remoteness of the river, which is runable from February through May.
It is an un-dammed river, so its running season is dependent on the winter snowpack. Fairly continuous Class III and IV+ rapids make it a challenging river. (Class V is gonzo, and VI is certain death as far as ratings go.)
We arrived at the put-in at Mule Hoof Campground after sunset, just as Comet Hale-Bopp arced over the canyon’s rim. As we set up camp beside the river, the moon eclipsed, leaving us stumbling in the dark.
That’s when I noticed the roar of whitewater. Suddenly, I felt nervous. How big was this river I was planning to kayak for the next five days? There was no way of telling till dawn when the sun would shed light on the Salt and I could see my watery highway for the first time.
The next morning, as I was pumping up my two-person kayak, a friendly dog leaped onto the boat and licked my face. He belonged to the Apache police, who were standing behind me in a tight knot eyeing our group.
We were on White Mountain Apache tribal land, and I thought they wanted to collect the permit fee. Instead, they had a request, “When kayaking along the river, could you keep an eye out for this dead guy?” An Indian youth had disappeared the day before after plunging over a waterfall.
The tallest officer said, “If you see him floating, tie him off to something on the river bank and flag him.”
“Flag him?” I asked.
“Mark the body with a bright colored cloth so the helicopter can spot him,” he explained. “When you get to the take-out down river, notify 911 about where you left him.”
The idea of spotting a bloated dead person on our journey did nothing to calm my nerves.
In the frosty morning air, I stood on the bank studying the river. It was wide and fast, and did a slamming turn around the bend, suggesting weight, speed and big rapids. “I’ve done bigger,” went across my brain screen, followed by, “Ha, you’re scared. You haven’t kayaked this season yet,” followed by a realistic, “Breathe.”
My kayak buddy, Serge and I suited up and pushed off together in my double kayak into the roiling red water. We are a team and have kayaked several California and Oregon rivers together. Kayaking with Serge is like dancing; he is agile and powerful, brave and playful. We kick ass on the river.
I felt stiff at first. The bend led us into a huge wave train — harmless enough, yet exciting. The waves crested seven feet above us as we paddled to their peak, spilled over the frothy tongue and charged to the bottom, only to be shot up again. The icy water woke me up, and adrenaline — a great drug — kicked in.
Crashing and weaving through a humongous rapid, we would be up to our chests in bubbling whitewater. When the kayak filled with water, it seemed more like a submarine or a champagne bath. I joked with Serge that we should be wearing snorkels and masks.
I had to adjust my eyesight to differentiate the contours of rock and water; the river was the same red-mud color as the boulders studding it. I was also stunned, and distracted, by the remarkable canyon lands punctuated by marching three-armed saguaros, lipstick pink cactus blooms, and dramatic geological strata of jutting rock walls.
We passed under a ribbon waterfall and noticed the distinct taste of salt on our tongues. Back paddling, we hovered under it, mouths open, delighted with the saline flavor. We had discovered the reason the river is called the Salt. Up until 1940, Indians gathered salt here, and the site continues to have spiritual meaning for the Apaches.
I was still spooked at the thought of finding that bloated body, so whenever the rapids calmed down and the water surface flattened (which was rarely), I turned my attention skyward. That was how I spotted the ancient cliff dwellings and petroglyphs that populated the area near the salt waterfalls. I also observed bald eagles, which the Apaches call “planks in the sky,” circling slowly in the air thermals high above us in the vibrant aqua sky.
By the third day, I was getting cocky and my Mighty Mouse attitude arose. That approach got dashed when we flipped in a snarling hole of seething whitewater I should have avoided. The next moment, I was somersaulting through what river runners fondly refer to as the “rinse cycle” in the “white room of doom.” One, two, three, four, five… Phew. I got spit out only to find myself under the kayak. At the surface, I gasped for air. The frigid water sucked the energy out of me so quickly I barely had the strength to pull myself and Serge into the kayak.
Before we could catch our breath, the churning waters angrily carved their way through another boulder-strewn sheer canyon wall.
I didn’t realize Serge was on the edge of hypothermia from the recent flip until he insisted we run the next Class IV+ rapid we encountered. Not a good idea considering how fatigued we already were. Reason had left him and he was irritable. I knew we should portage and carry the kayak around this section where the river careened around some huge boulders and then did a five-foot drop.
I prevailed and we hauled out at the next shallow landing where I fed him a Power Bar, and got him into some warm clothes. Later, he thanked me profusely.
Testosterone isn’t needed to be extreme.
Coda
A year later, I ran the Salt again, but this time, it was snowing and so bone-chilling that I suffered from extreme hypothermia when I flipped my kayak twice in one day.
My fellow kayakers did a rope rescue from a rock ledge I’d been clinging to for an hour. They stripped off my clothes, surrounded me with body warmth and poured some very potent white lightening down my throat.
That night I could not sleep. Dancing and drinking around the campfire, I was ecstatic to be alive. My exhausted companions wanted to stuff me in a sack as I kept them awake all night with joyous, wolf-like howls.
