About 10 miles below Sycamore Canyon, water began coming out of the river. Not that it had much to spare at 70 cfs. Nonetheless, the first siphon ditch came near the first settlement of the Valley, sucking a noticeable stream out of the warming, algae-fying river.

Fortunately, the Verde constantly rejuvenates itself with springs. I filled my water bottle at one just upstream from the TAPCO river access, and again below Tuzigoot. The little river repeats this process of injury and repair throughout its namesake valley.

Near Deadhorse Ranch State Park, the Verde is a celebrated resource. People paddle it, hike along it, sit and meditate to its soothing flow. Several miles below, this reverence seems to be traded for dismissive indifference. Flood battered private property signs survive among tangles of tamarisk.

Oak Creek is another rejuvenator. It arrives with alacrity, clear and cool and half as big as the Verde.

At Interstate 17, the river is again at a low point. Brown foam floats on a meager flow.

Still, the magic of rivers is not lost for those who seek it. Soon after dark, a light came bouncing through the night. I lit my campfire to show my presence. The light stopped 30 yards away. “Hello,” I said. “Ola,” they replied. Some giggles, some quiet conversation; they sounded like young women. After several minutes, I went over to introduce myself. It was Trady and Kenli, native gals who lived nearby. They had a stick for a fishing pole. They puffed on their vapes. I offered them both a beer. “We usually sit by your camp to hear the river,” Trady told me. “Yes,” I agreed, “that’s why I camped there, to hear the sound of the current.” They shared their desire to inner-tube from Cottonwood down here. I encouraged the plot. “Just make sure you have a lifejacket on,” my only admonishment. I left them to their peace. Sometime later, they were gone without my noticing.