On day one, I set a personal record for packraft abuse. Some sections of “river” (can you call 20 cfs a river?) were idyllic fairy-lands of flowing clear water and green grass. Other spots were cattail Hell. Genus Typha; a.k.a. cattail, bulrush, or my personal favorite, from the Australians—cumbungi. They filled the riverbed. Sometimes I could paddle through. More often I was forced to wade.

And when there was no channel whatsoever, usually due to a beaver’s handiwork, I dragged around. This is where the packraft abuse really broke new ground. Still, I was positive about my progress, until checking the map at the end of an exhausting day one. I was supposed to make 10 miles. I’d made 5.

And so, I walked. Cow trails, game trails, no trails, it all worked. I reached the “W” bend where I planned to camp on night one by early afternoon—of day two. The typha diminished. The hiking got old. The boat came back out. Fun mini-pinball rapids sluiced beneath cliffs of Redwall Limestone. An otter poked its head out. A blackhawk swooped.

At Perkinsville, Honeybee watched over frolicking children. I frolicked too, because riverbed springs juiced the flow to a robust 40 cfs. A thread of current now carried my momentum even when I stopped paddling. Miraculous.

Bright Redwall cliffs and blocky ledges of the Supai formation created a colorful palette over the tiny river in its ribbon of green. More springs entered. I filled up at a small stream issuing from beneath a walnut tree, and paddled into early evening, pulling onto a pink sand beach where Sycamore Creek enters the Verde. The upper canyons were behind me. Verde Valley lay ahead.