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During the winter of 1979-1980-not long after the previous outing-the Gulf of Alaska turbo-charged the Pacific fronts invading Arizona. A continuous and terrible keening and weeping of the firmaments pummeled the Mogollon Rim. The Verde River surged to over 100,000 cfs and kept rising. Its waters lapped highway bridges, threatening to sweep them out. Roads were closed. Communities evacuated. Trailer parks annihilated, with double-wide's floating downstream like icebergs. Niagara, Iguazu, Victoria…none held a candle to the torrent over silted-up Sullivan Dam, at the Verde's source-at the time invisible for the sheer volume and force of the water, itself also nearly invisible for the blinding drisk enveloping everything.

"Let's run the Verde right from its source..." declared Chuck.

"…all the way to its confluence with the Salt River," I finished, adding, "We'll get Kathy(my girlfriend) to run shuttle for us."

"Hmm..." he responded noncommittally-a sign he had something up his sleeve, something he was reluctant to disclose just then.

We immediately began preparations, starting with a shuttle arrangement. I'd just acquired a used, first-generation, roto-molded (aka, "Tupperware") kayak made by Holloform. Virtually indestructible and requiring no emergency repair kit, it was-in that respect-incomparably superior to fiberglass boats. Chuck, however, stuck to his tried-and-true, thoroughly patched Lettman Mark IV and carried fiberglass resin, accelerator and cloth, along with the tools for repair. We both used one piece, over-sized, then-state-of-the-art, flat, Iliad paddles. We'd have to go light, 'dirt bagging' it-fires for cooking, plastic sheets for shelter, and minimal clothing and gear. Chuck wouldn't even take a sleeping bag, planning to sleep in his wet suit, bundled in all his additional clothing over buried hot coals, an example he insisted I follow (to no avail). And, finally, food: peanut butter, top-ramen, and Vienna sausages for me; peanut butter, tortillas and canned beans for Chuck-a strategy that, unlike mine, required no cooking pot.

It was when planning how much food to take (based on how long we'd be out) that Chuck revealed his cards. He declared that we were running only to Horseshoe Dam, the Verde's upper, free-flowing section. He had no intention of running on down to Bartlett Dam, much less to the Verde's confluence with the Salt. And he brooked no opposition. Moreover, he was bound and determined to keep me from going beyond Horseshoe Dam, his position vaguely based on the "buddy principle", the idea that, for safety reasons, wilderness outings ought never to be undertaken alone.

Though I've never met anyone as willfully obstinate and subtly manipulative as Chuck, he challenged my premises, and I rather enjoyed matching wits with him. Since Kathy had agreed to pick us up-and since she was my girlfriend-I didn't argue how far we'd go. After all, if he chose to leave at Horseshoe Dam, that was his business-even though Horseshoe Dam was only accessible over a long, traffic-free dirt road, over which he'd have a difficult time hitchhiking out with a kayak.