Salt River Excursion

Yesterday, Tom and I bundled Miracle into the car and headed out with grand plans to explore far more than we ultimately did. Our real mission, though, was to scout access points along the Salt River so we can return with the RV, boondock, and hopefully photograph the wild horses. We skipped Phoenix and took the back way through Peyton, feeling both practical and pleasantly off grid.

Our first stop was Saguaro Lake. During our visit last October, we discovered where the Salt River flows into the lake, and I had been itching to explore that spot more closely. But every trail leading down was a steep, rocky chute—clearly washed out by recent rains and seemingly designed with mountain goats in mind. If I'd attempted one, I’d have skidded down on my behind and needed an extraction team to get back up. So, with dignity and knees intact, I stuck to the rim.

At the far end of the trail, everything suddenly changed. The path widened, smoothed out, and looked like it had been designed by someone wanting people to use it. Halfway down, I spotted Tom at the river’s edge, standing perfectly still, patiently waiting for a bird to appear—as if he'd sent one a formal invitation.

I took plenty of photos to capture the mood. The water in that quiet stretch looked raised and glassy, thick as old honey in the soft light.

While standing by the river, something half-buried in the mud caught my eye. No… it couldn’t be. I bent down—just as I often do on our golf course—and pulled out a golf ball. Truly unbelievable. We were nowhere near a place where a golf ball should reasonably exist, which somehow made it even funnier. I’m still shaking my head.

Last night I soaked the muddy little wanderer in soapy water. It cleaned up beautifully: no cracks, perfectly smooth. But this is one ball I won’t be adding to the collection we return to local golfers. This one has earned special status.

Since the Salt River begins in the White Mountains as the White and Black Rivers, then meets the Verde before joining the Gila, I can’t help imagining its journey. Maybe there’s a golf course tucked along one of those upper rivers. Maybe this ball set off on the adventure of its lifetime. Whatever its story, it somehow ended up waiting for me as a small muddy, unexpected souvenir delivered by the river itself.