The Arizona Republic
Oct. 3, 2008 07:18 PM
FORT APACHE RESERVATION - It begins late in the day, when the sun has dropped and shadows grow long. The stream's braided riffles unravel and flow into deep pools. High canyon walls close in, dark and polished by centuries of floodwater.
Heads bobbing, legs kicking, we swim into the inky light, shoulder our dripping packs and walk on to the next pool. Our guide, Gregg Henry, has told us we have just 1 mile to go, but it will feel like 5. He's not kidding.
There was a time you could go through Cibecue Canyon without a tribal guide. Experienced canyoneers remember those days fondly. But a few people abused the privilege. The tribe considered closing the canyon but instead arranged for guided treks.
Our gear is sealed tight in dry bags or plastic, which keeps it from getting wet and helps our packs stay afloat. After we have crossed four pools, cliffs come into view and we push toward them, rolling into camp when the sun is down and the horizon red.
The campsite is on a rock ledge that overlooks a waterfall. In the morning we will rappel about 75 feet down this ledge. Some of us try not to think too much about that.
None of us has much climbing experience. We are walkers, backpackers, scramblers when terrain demands it. Tom once thrashed and dangled from an improperly tied harness. Keith has climbed, but has had his fill of high places. The rest of us range from first-timers to what climbing magazines call Gumbies.
We pitch tents, throw down sleeping bags. A few dry bags have leaked, and damp clothes are hung over rocks and branches. There is laughter, talk, the roar of camp stoves and, always, the sound of the waterfall. Moonlight hits far canyon walls.
We think of the day behind us. For most of the afternoon, we were in and out of the stream. Henry shared bits and pieces of Apache history and culture as we moved down the canyon, the site of a notable skirmish during the Apache wars of the late 1800s. The sun shone, and a black hawk cried from a tree. Just before the narrows, Henry set up a practice rappel to allow us to get the feel of rock and rope. We came off the ledge with our skulls intact, our legs unbroken, then walked, wobbled and swam the last mile into camp.
We relax, eat and talk for hours, watching the sky. Eventually we get tired and crawl into our bags, falling asleep to the sound of the waterfall.
In the morning we sit around camp until it is time to move on. Henry sets the rope, and one by one we go over the edge.
It is difficult to describe the feeling of leaning back into air, of moving backward down a vertical wall without falling. Your first thought is that what you are about to do is insane. But it is safe, if done properly.
The descent is controlled with a belay device that keeps the rope from moving too fast or burning your hand. The rope slides through your hand when you relax your grip. It stops when you tighten your grip and pull the rope behind you, engaging the brake.
The rappel starts above the falls, along a wall of sheer rock. Before long the waterfall gets louder, and we can see white spray to the left, the mossy rock turning wet. When we get to the bottom, we plunge into the water and swim to a cobble beach on the other side of the canyon.
Packs are lowered as we descend, until Jason rappels and Henry follows. He has tied a knot that allows him to free the rope by pulling it a few times. He shows Eddie how to coil the rope, and we move downstream.
The canyon opens, the stream widens. Once again, a black hawk cries, this one soaring and showing the white band on its tail. A mockingbird calls in the trees. After a mile, the canyon tightens again.
We toss our packs into a pool of water and jump in after them. The sun is burning, and packs are heavy. It is a good day for a swim.
We sit and have lunch, the sound of another waterfall spilling below us, and Henry rigs up the next descent, a zip line, or guided rappel, down the falls. There is much preparation. We watch Henry set the line while we goof off and climb into our harnesses. At last, we are ready.
The rope sags and the waterfall pummels Keith and Jason. After a minor adjustment to tighten the line, the sailing is smooth. Packs are lowered. Tom and Eddie come down smiling. Henry comes down last, once again retrieving the rope with a few tugs.
We stand before a narrow chute. Henry talks above the waterfall, the five of us huddled around like a football team gathered around the coach. We must swim about 20 yards downstream, where the canyon tightens even more. It's only about 6 feet across, and we must stem our way through.
Stemming looks intuitive but can feel awkward at first. Hands on one wall, feet on the other, we spider-walk through this passage until it is time to place a foot on each wall, tuck and drop into the water.
The current is fast, and Henry places himself in position to keep us from tumbling over rocks while he instructs us how to move down.
We slip through the chute, then walk another mile to the last waterfall, which empties into a deep pool. (If you hike upstream from Salt River Canyon for about a mile, you will come to this waterfall. You cannot go upstream from this point without a tribal guide.)
We are almost done. Henry sets the rope short for the last rappel; we move down the rock and drop into the pool. We gather our packs and walk downstream to Salt River Canyon, where rafting season is winding down and the guides are celebrating. The sun is falling, and shadows grow long. For most of the day, we have focused on rope and rock, braking and stemming and swimming our way through the canyon.
"Nothing is easy, but everything is fun," Eddie said at one point, as we moved from one task to the next.
But it is not about thrills or a life on the edge. It is about the quiet moments in between. It is about the canyon.
There is just enough time to look around, to breathe deeply, feel the wind and the sun and allow the water to seep into our skin, the soul of this land into our bones. We walk away knowing we have been to one of the most beautiful places in the world.
Reach the reporter at ron.dungan@arizonarepublic.com or 602-444-4847.
Heads bobbing, legs kicking, we swim into the inky light, shoulder our dripping packs and walk on to the next pool. Our guide, Gregg Henry, has told us we have just 1 mile to go, but it will feel like 5. He's not kidding.
There was a time you could go through Cibecue Canyon without a tribal guide. Experienced canyoneers remember those days fondly. But a few people abused the privilege. The tribe considered closing the canyon but instead arranged for guided treks.
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Our gear is sealed tight in dry bags or plastic, which keeps it from getting wet and helps our packs stay afloat. After we have crossed four pools, cliffs come into view and we push toward them, rolling into camp when the sun is down and the horizon red.
The campsite is on a rock ledge that overlooks a waterfall. In the morning we will rappel about 75 feet down this ledge. Some of us try not to think too much about that.
None of us has much climbing experience. We are walkers, backpackers, scramblers when terrain demands it. Tom once thrashed and dangled from an improperly tied harness. Keith has climbed, but has had his fill of high places. The rest of us range from first-timers to what climbing magazines call Gumbies.
We pitch tents, throw down sleeping bags. A few dry bags have leaked, and damp clothes are hung over rocks and branches. There is laughter, talk, the roar of camp stoves and, always, the sound of the waterfall. Moonlight hits far canyon walls.
We think of the day behind us. For most of the afternoon, we were in and out of the stream. Henry shared bits and pieces of Apache history and culture as we moved down the canyon, the site of a notable skirmish during the Apache wars of the late 1800s. The sun shone, and a black hawk cried from a tree. Just before the narrows, Henry set up a practice rappel to allow us to get the feel of rock and rope. We came off the ledge with our skulls intact, our legs unbroken, then walked, wobbled and swam the last mile into camp.
We relax, eat and talk for hours, watching the sky. Eventually we get tired and crawl into our bags, falling asleep to the sound of the waterfall.
In the morning we sit around camp until it is time to move on. Henry sets the rope, and one by one we go over the edge.
It is difficult to describe the feeling of leaning back into air, of moving backward down a vertical wall without falling. Your first thought is that what you are about to do is insane. But it is safe, if done properly.
The descent is controlled with a belay device that keeps the rope from moving too fast or burning your hand. The rope slides through your hand when you relax your grip. It stops when you tighten your grip and pull the rope behind you, engaging the brake.
The rappel starts above the falls, along a wall of sheer rock. Before long the waterfall gets louder, and we can see white spray to the left, the mossy rock turning wet. When we get to the bottom, we plunge into the water and swim to a cobble beach on the other side of the canyon.
Packs are lowered as we descend, until Jason rappels and Henry follows. He has tied a knot that allows him to free the rope by pulling it a few times. He shows Eddie how to coil the rope, and we move downstream.
The canyon opens, the stream widens. Once again, a black hawk cries, this one soaring and showing the white band on its tail. A mockingbird calls in the trees. After a mile, the canyon tightens again.
We toss our packs into a pool of water and jump in after them. The sun is burning, and packs are heavy. It is a good day for a swim.
We sit and have lunch, the sound of another waterfall spilling below us, and Henry rigs up the next descent, a zip line, or guided rappel, down the falls. There is much preparation. We watch Henry set the line while we goof off and climb into our harnesses. At last, we are ready.
The rope sags and the waterfall pummels Keith and Jason. After a minor adjustment to tighten the line, the sailing is smooth. Packs are lowered. Tom and Eddie come down smiling. Henry comes down last, once again retrieving the rope with a few tugs.
We stand before a narrow chute. Henry talks above the waterfall, the five of us huddled around like a football team gathered around the coach. We must swim about 20 yards downstream, where the canyon tightens even more. It's only about 6 feet across, and we must stem our way through.
Stemming looks intuitive but can feel awkward at first. Hands on one wall, feet on the other, we spider-walk through this passage until it is time to place a foot on each wall, tuck and drop into the water.
The current is fast, and Henry places himself in position to keep us from tumbling over rocks while he instructs us how to move down.
We slip through the chute, then walk another mile to the last waterfall, which empties into a deep pool. (If you hike upstream from Salt River Canyon for about a mile, you will come to this waterfall. You cannot go upstream from this point without a tribal guide.)
We are almost done. Henry sets the rope short for the last rappel; we move down the rock and drop into the pool. We gather our packs and walk downstream to Salt River Canyon, where rafting season is winding down and the guides are celebrating. The sun is falling, and shadows grow long. For most of the day, we have focused on rope and rock, braking and stemming and swimming our way through the canyon.
"Nothing is easy, but everything is fun," Eddie said at one point, as we moved from one task to the next.
But it is not about thrills or a life on the edge. It is about the quiet moments in between. It is about the canyon.
There is just enough time to look around, to breathe deeply, feel the wind and the sun and allow the water to seep into our skin, the soul of this land into our bones. We walk away knowing we have been to one of the most beautiful places in the world.
Reach the reporter at ron.dungan@arizonarepublic.com or 602-444-4847.
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