Disaster on the Gila

CANOEING GILA FRESH WATER Abomination

"CAN YOU BELIEVE AN EARLY EXPLORER CALLED THE GILA RIVER THAT FRESH WATER ABOMINATION?" I asked Bernadette Heath and Peter Villa Verde. We were packing our 17-foot wooden canoe for a 28-mile trip down the Gila from Kelvin to the Diversion Dam at Florence. The river resembled a paradise more than an abomination.Bernadette, a photographer, thought this trip would make a good "adventure" story and convinced Peter to come along for the excitement. All of us are on the mature side of life and should have known better. By the time we arrived in Florence, almost 12 hours later, we'd had more adventure than we wanted.

CANOEING ON THE GILA

Below Kelvin, vegetation along the Gila was lush, the stream serene. The greenish water reflected the shore, a jungle of cottonwoods, tamarisks, and paloverdes. Peter predicted a peaceful day, claiming he had dreamed “we would be one with the river.” Although this was my first time in a canoe, we weren't completely inexperienced. Bernadette was a veteran of Minnesota lakes, and Peter had read a canoeing book and practiced for two hours. I had come prepared with a nifty pair of “water shoes” and a Scarlett O'Hara straw hat with a white chiffon bow tied saucily under my chin. I had an inflatable swim ring decorated with smiling blue dolphins to sit on. Bernadette and Peter manned the paddles and instructed me to sit on the floor of the boat and hold still. I could handle that. I situated my dolphin ring, straightened my hat, and stepped in. With a shout, we were off - sideways. We had worried there wouldn't be enough water to float our boat, but a release from Coolidge Dam for irrigation in Florence gave the placid Gila a nasty set of currents. Bernadette and Peter madly flailed their paddles in the water as we turned backward and sideways until we finally headed downstream. In about 30 minutes, we learned the Gila's interpretation of Peter's dream. The swift current sent the canoe rocking and rocketing into a tree root sticking out from the bank. Over we went, dunking us and our supplies in the water. Peter's prophecy was fulfilled: We were “one with the river.” Jesse Aldridge, a local rancher, broke through the bushes to see what the commotion was about. He helped us get the canoe on shore. There we stood, teeth chattering in the slight breeze. I looked like a cat fished out of an irrigation ditch. The current had sucked off one of my shoes and sent it careening downstream. My Scarlett hat, now stretched andsoggy, slipped farther down on my head, pushing my glasses to the end of my nose and bending my ears outward. Because we had rescued most of our supplies, by the time we quit shivering we were laughing about the dunking and ready to face the river again. I received my first important job. Bernadette instructed me to lean to the opposite side when I felt the boat tipping. Full of importance now, I settled onto my dolphin ring, and we shoved off. In less than one minute, the Gila gave us another lesson in humility. I leaned, but we still ended up in the river. We knew the procedure: Dump the water out of the canoe, push it to shore, reload. Our waterproof bags had leaked, soaking Bernadette's expensive camera. This adventure wasn't going as planned.

Suddenly Peter yelled, “Oh, no!” Reaching into the waistband of his pants, he pulled out a sodden white mass. “My toilet paper is wet,” he cried. My toilet paper suffered the same fate. Bernadette gleefully drew some from her pocket, nice and dry in a plastic bag. “You have to share,” we demanded. She quickly stuffed it back into her pocket. You sure find out who your true friends are on the Gila. Back on the river. As we glided along, herons, owls, ducks, and other feathered creatures flew over our heads. Bernadette and Peter happily identified bird species while I wished I knew more than “red bird” or “black bird.” Finally they saw a bird they didn't recognize. Bernadette thought it was a loon, but Peter doubted loons along the Gila. For once I was the expert. I knew there were loons along this river because three of them were sitting in this canoe. Wary of another dunking, we portaged around rapids we weren't sure we could handle. Bernadette and Peter carried the 100-pound canoe upside down over their heads until we reached calm water. I hauled bags, limping along with my dolphin ring balanced over the brim of my hat. Near a spot called The Spine, the mountains reached the water's edge, so we couldn't portage. We stopped to survey the best route through the narrow passage, and Bernadette assigned me my second important job: prayer.

With Bernadette shouting “Paddle!” at Peter and “Pray!” at me, we swooshed through the “funnel,” our confidence building. The scenery was splendid, I think. What with all the leaning and praying, I was too busy to take much notice. Besides, I was now using my roller-coaster technique: When we shot through the rapids, I clutched the sides of the canoe, squished my eyes shut, and screamed. I missed scenery, but I did flush out a lot of birds for Bernadette and Peter to enjoy.

(PRECEDING PANEL, PAGES 16 AND 17) Cottonwood and tamarisk trees present an idyllic scene, luring the unwary into the moody Gila River's clutches. (ABOVE) Spurred by irrigation releases from Coolidge Dam, the Gila pushes into normally dry areas, turning trees into canoeing hazards. (RIGHT) As our intrepid canoers plunged along, the Gila got more and more fitful and finally became life-threatening.

CANOEING ON THE GILA

We reached a spot where the Gila channeled between a huge rock and a tree hanging into the water. We made it past the rock only to have the current slam us toward the tree. Too late we noticed a four-inch limb sticking out. Bernadette quickly leaned backward, preventing decapitation, as Peter and I hurled ourselves into the water.

Here there was no reassuring bottom, and the current grabbed my remaining shoe. In my life jacket, I swept downstream with Bernadette and Peter right behind me, holding onto the overturned canoe. After about a quarter-mile, the Gila deposited us in shallow water, and we stumbled to shore.

Portaging became a problem. Bernadette's extra socks provided protection from the hot sand, but the cockleburs and sharp rocks made my bare feet a mass of bruises. Where we could, we now "walked" the canoe. Holding strings tied to the front and back of the boat, Peter and Bernadette held it close to the bank as we passed the rapids. Enthroned on my dolphin ring like a bedraggled Cleopatra on her barge, I felt guilty riding while they walked.

Our clothes were almost dry, and we were all back in the canoe when, suddenly, the infernal Gila dumped us again. With no rapids, bad current, or rocks to blame, we now knew the Gila hated us.

Soaked and cold again, our sense of humor vanished - until I tried to climb back into the canoe. Sunk almost to my knees in black muck, I was stuck like a cow in a bog. Peter and Bernadette whooped and hollered as I struggled. My legs finally came free with a loud sucking sound, and I collapsed into the canoe, smelling of the rotting slime.

We floated along, nervously awaiting the Gila's next whim, until we spotted a rubber raft pulled onto the shore. We stopped to see if someone besides us was in trouble. When no one answered our shouts, we wondered why they had abandoned the raft, still full of supplies.

Back on the river, we quickly solved the mystery. The rapids ahead were longer and swifter than any we had encountered. To go on would be life-threatening. The Gila had won.

We carried the canoe back to the abandoned raft and left it there to retrieve later, then we packed our supplies about a hundred yards to the railroad tracks. I'd thought cockleburs were hard on my feet,

We weren't lost, but we were at least 20 miles from Florence. Suddenly Bernadette shouted, "The train's coming!"

but they were nothing compared to the sandburs I now experienced. Except for a strip of green along the river, we were in the middle of a burn area. The charred desert appeared as bleak as our situation.

We weren't lost, but we figured we were at least 20 miles from Florence, a hike my feet couldn't handle. We didn't know when a train would be by, so at 4:30 P.M., Peter started walking the tracks to find help.

Bernadette and I planned on spending the night on the desert. We laid our soggy jerky out to dry and found a package of cheese and crackers still dry in its original plastic wrapper. When we opened our soggy trail mix, the fermented smell told us we were well on our way to Trail Mix Wine.

We piled wood in the middle of a sandy road near the tracks, a spot where, at least, I could walk. The partially burned pieces covered us with dirty soot. Suddenly Bernadette shouted, "The train's coming! Flag it down!"

I hobbled as fast as I could across the sandburs and planted myself squarely in the middle of the tracks. I waved my Scarlett hat frantically until the train started to slow. The long train, pulling ore and freight from the mines near Kearny, lumbered to a stop and a young engineer came out of the cab. He said, "Do you have a problem, lady?"

I knew what I looked like. My hair, stiff with mud and sweat, stuck out. My face, arms, and clothes were covered with black soot from the firewood, my Scarlett hat was ripped, my dirty socks torn. Over the sound of the engine, I shouted "Canoe!" "Rapids!" "No shoes!" and pointed at Bernadette frantically gathering up our soggy jerky and Trail Mix Wine. But the engineer looked confused.

Another engineer joined the first one, and they stared, deciding if we were sane or not. Finally, seeing that our health, wel-fare, and very existence were threatened, they agreed to violate company policy and government regulations and transport us to safety. They seemed confident that Copper Basin Railway Manager Jake Jacobs would understand the emergency condi-tions and decided to let us ride as far as the Diversion Dam at Florence. Gratefully we clambered on board before they changed their minds.

I sat on a step at the front of the engine near the part once called the cowcatcher. I was the bug catcher. Little gnats committed suicide on my glasses and got lost in my nose, and I loved it. Anything to get away from the Gila River.

After about 30 minutes, our two rescuers, Doug Ashby and Hector Dunn from Kearny, stopped to pick up Peter, still bravely trudging along. Our group back together, we settled down to enjoy the ride. This was luxury. The train provided a beautiful view of the rugged country. As we passed South Butte, the sunset reflected a soft golden glow off the granite slabs.

When that lovely train let us off, I took one last look at the now tranquil Gila River, and said, "Good-bye, and good riddance, you 'fresh water abomination,' you."

Janet Farnsworth lives in Snowflake. This was her "first and last" experience with canoeing. She also wrote the "Back Road Adventure" in this issue.

Chandler Heights-based photographer Bernadette Heath says that this story did not end as it was planned, although the plan did stipulate "adventure."