It’s not often that a wilderness-seeking boater can pull off a perfectly linked three-river trip, but in February-March 2008, some paddling buds and I did just that—in the unlikely, usually dry, sun-blanched expanse of southeast Arizona and southwest New Mexico.
First out of the gates was our mid-February run down Arizona’s Verde River. Located about halfway between Flagstaff and Phoenix, the Verde tumbles southward over 1,000 feet through three national forests and Arizona’s largest wilderness area. With a backdrop of lonely hills, towering cliffs, and the harsh Sonoran Desert, the Verde offers 60 miles of playful Class I-III rapids, predictably followed by deep, calm pools.
This February, however, the Verde’s water levels couldn’t have been more different. When Bob Donner and I, joined by four friends, assembled at the put-in, we saw a normally low-volume stream on steroids due to recent and rare torrential rains. A phone call to the closest U.S. Forest Service ranger station confirmed our suspicions. “Right now it’s at 2,100 cfs, and steadily rising,” we were told. “Exercise extreme caution.”
We contemplated postponing our departure, but only for a minute. Our band of three women and three men were all competent, experienced wilderness boaters.
Though we basked in rapturous blue skies and 60- to 70-degree weather, that first day gave us a cold slap in the face. Careening past narrow, vertical-walled side canyons, scrubby hillsides, and cacti-covered bluffs, we faced miles of virtual non-stop pushy whitewater, complicated by countless blind channels with brush and tree strainers lurking behind every bend.
When we finally crossed the finish line eight days after setting out, we were absolutely elated to have completed this trip with only a single capsize. Especially when a phone call to the same ranger station informed us that the Verde was now over 3,000 cfs.
With another two weeks remaining on our southwest sojourn, we stopped at a small-town library to surf the net for current water levels and weather forecasts, trying to determine what rivers we’d sample next. The Salt, another ephemerally flowing desert river, was closest to the Verde, but advance Forest Service permits are required for this popular whitewater run. There was that, and the fact that Donner, Larry Laba, and I—half our present party—had a go at the Salt in late February a couple of years earlier, only to have our butts totally spanked. On the second day of a planned six-day trip, a flash flood skyrocketed the river level from 2,000 cfs to 25,000 cfs overnight (most guide books suggest that 3,000 cfs is the upper limit for this run). Still stung by that experience, which required a complicated emergency exit, we weren’t in the mood to tackle this demanding river again when there was even a chance of history repeating itself.
Farther away, about 45 miles north of Silver City, New Mexico, but still reachable by a half-day’s drive, was the Upper Gila River’s “Wilderness Run.” However, there was no thought of running it now because the Gila’s upper, mountainous reaches were still firmly locked in ice and snow.
That left us with another appealing, almost always runnable section of the Gila—the Gila Box, sitting at a lower, snow-free elevation much closer to our present location. And then we hoped to paddle the enigmatic San Francisco River, the true wildcard of our trip. Donner, Laba, and I had dreamed about boating this wilderness gem for more than a decade. However, Laba would have to continue dreaming. As the owner of SOAR inflatable canoes, the poor guy had to head back to work in northern California.
After only one evening to clean up and re-supply, Fran, Judy, Jane, Bob, and I set out on a four-day leisurely float down a 23-mile stretch of the Gila protected as part of the 23,000-acre Gila Box Riparian National Conservation Area. Located about 15 to 20 miles northeast of Safford, Arizona, this perennial waterway, with its diverse terrain and wildlife and Sonoran and Chihuahuan desert vegetation, follows the meanders of a stunning multicolored canyon with 500-foot sheer cliff walls and dramatic geologic features. Our relaxed paddle, with a few easy Class II rapids to spice things up, was exactly what we needed between the adrenaline-packed Verde and the untried San Francisco. By throwing in a layover day, we had time to hike, look for birds, and prowl the abandoned stone and wooden home sites dating as far back as the 1890s.
Most intriguing from a logistical standpoint, however, was the fact that the San Francisco, a major tributary of the Gila, emptied into the Box only a few hours’ paddle from our put-in. We pulled ashore at the confluence of these two desert streams and were encouraged by what we saw. Hedged in by high, dark escarpments and lined with strands of sycamores, cottonwoods, and willows, the sparkling-clear San Francisco was low, running at a mere 207 cfs. But even at this level we were optimistic there’d be enough water to float our boats at our put-in many miles upstream.
The same day we pulled off the Gila, we headed northeast to the San Francisco River, located between the towns of Pleasanton, New Mexico (elevation, 4,555 feet), and Clifton, Arizona (elevation 3,435 feet), for the last leg of our Southwest Trifecta. It was mid-afternoon under a warm, sunny blue sky, when the remaining four of us (Fran had left for Tucson to lead a bicycle tour) eased our boats onto what looked more like a gently flowing creek rather than a Class II-III river.
For beta, we were armed with only a set of topographic maps and a brief, 15-year-old guidebook mention, suggesting that “anyone attempting this trip should have strong wilderness boating skills.” Good advice, because ahead lay a 42-mile nearly roadless stretch within the Gila and Apache National Forests, where paddlers would be completely on their own in case of a problem.
Almost immediately we discovered that combat boating skills are a prerequisite to safely run this extremely remote canyon. Swift currents, boulder-garden rapids, snowmelt-cold water, possible flash floods, and a lack of access are only part of the reason. What required all our attention, all the time, was the threat of strainers and downed trees often completing blocking the tight channel. Scouting and must-make moves—ducking under or “vaulting” over rogue limbs and logs—were essential as the chasm closed in, especially around the frequent sharp, blind turns. More than once we were forced to use small, folding handsaws to cut fallen trees that spanned the river. Luckily, we avoided wraps. However, by the time we pulled into camp each day, we all looked like we had been in a bar brawl—scratched, bloodied, and dirty, with leaves and twigs festooning our bodies and boats.
The only suggestion of river traffic came below Mule Creek, where the whitewater became more challenging, and wood hazards were even more of a problem. Downstream of a rocky drop we came upon a sobering sight: an abandoned Dagger Legend 15, one of the most versatile canoes of all time. Torn in two from what surely had been a terminal pin, half of the red Royalex craft was leaning sideways against a tree, the other half stuck on the bank. We could only guess at the fate of the canoe’s unfortunate owner, up the creek without a boat in this land of high mountains, rugged canyons, and stark ridges.
After five days of exceptional, if wood-choked, paddling, we pulled out in Clifton, a small, unappealing mining town that's barely hanging on to life. High fiving each other as some questionable locals looked on, we were proud of our accomplishments, even if we did look like hell. The past 21 days of non-stop boating and traveling had been physically demanding at times. But we all agreed that was an enthralling trip, one we would do again if we could.

Based out of Buena Vista, Colorado, Larry Rice has paddled a canoe on all seven continents and is a frequent contributor to paddling magazines.