We were making such good time on the super-charged current that by now it was obvious we'd reach Horseshoe Dam by mid-day on the third day, foiling whatever remnants of Chuck's delaying plot he still had in reserves.

At the dam's take-out point we both made one last appeal to convince each other of his point of view-again, to no avail. I left him sitting by his kayak, a forlorn figure in the endless Sonoran desert-now blooming in the early spring rains-looking down the road, vigilant for any improbable potential ride, determined to have his way, come what may.

Meanwhile, I was having my own way dragging my Tupperware boat the half-mile around the dam, to re-launch at its base. Turning the dam's corner I was met by an eerie silence that didn't fully register until I was near streambed level. Then it struck me, and I confirmed it: Horseshoe Dam was releasing no water.

How could that be? The biggest floods in years and…no water? After the trip I checked the Salt River Project (SRP) gauge measurements near the dam's outflow. They reported, I think, 62 CFS-natural leakage from the structure. Apparently, SRP, relying on its meteorological forecasts predicting a dry spell, was maximizing its storage capacity. Downstream Bartlett Reservoir, one of the state's premier outdoor recreation areas, is usually kept full; Horseshoe Reservoir, its homely next-door neighbor, is its spare tank, and it wasn't quite full.

I wasn't about to give up-or drag the loaded boat back uphill and an additional half-mile to the road-head, much less give Chuck some sort of schadenfreude satisfaction. It was only about 7 miles to Bartlett, with intermittent pools, and 62 CFS of flow, which-with a little luck, might be enhanced by ephemeral springs, inconsequential enduring run-off, and wishful thinking.

I launched upon a puddle, paddling and knuckling my way forward like a Victorian amputee on a roller-board begging for alms. My fatuous strategy soon paid off. Before long I was paddling happily in continuous water. But the day had taken its toll, my mileage was minimal, and I decided to camp on one of Bartlett's beautiful developed campsites.

The next day, after portaging Bartlett Dam, ditto: no water was being released. With 26 miles left to the Verde's confluence with the Salt River, I went for broke. But this time there was no waiting reservoir downstream, no noticeable dam leakage, and no standing water anywhere. Still, I persevered, dragging the old Holloform in a fruitless search for draft.

It was not to be. The stream bed was dry as bone and the rocky channel resembled a field of skulls. About 9 miles later and late in the day, I saw a house. I'd entered the outer verges of North Scottsdale. Swallowing my pride and girding my meager social skills, I approached the house and asked to use their phone. A couple of hours later Kathy was shuttling me back home to Prescott.

Chuck's attempt at begging a ride out of Horseshoe didn't pay off right away. Without so much as one vehicle passing by, he had to spend the night next to the dirt road. But the following day, after a succession of rides, he made it back to Prescott. When I related my experience to him, all he said was, "Hmm..."

Epilogue

Not much later, Chuck Carpenter became the first person to kayak the Apurimac River, headwaters of the Amazon.