The Spirit of the Tatshenshini

     "Is that a river in China?" my colleague asked when I announced my plan to raft the Tatshenshini, a river as exotic as its name suggests.

     Declares a British Columbia provincial park in June 1993, the Tatshenshini-Alsek watershed area  is likely to be named a UNESCO  World Heritage Site. If so, the prestigious designation will be well deserved.

     Located in the northwestern corner of B.C., the park comprises North America's highest mountains, the St. Elias range, with 20 peaks above 4,200 meters, and thew world's largest nonpolar ice cap. More than 350 glaciers feed the Tatshenshini basin. Crucible of two of the largest earthquakes on record, the area is also one of the Earth's least stable land masses.

     The biological superlatives are equally impressive. The region is home to one of the world's  densest grizzly populations; the world's largest subspecies of moose, the Kenai; and rare Glacier bears, a blue variety of the black bear. In total, "the Tat" is prime habitat for 50 mammalian and 180 bird species.

     Despite its latitude of almost 60°N., the park is favored with lush, varied vegetation. Dense mountain forests of aspen, spruce and hemlock open on to alpine meadows splashed with vivid fireweed, mountain aven, columbine and lupine.

     From Whitehorse, Yukon, we traveled by bus through Kluane National Park to our put in point at Dalton Post. Here, that Tat is little more than a creek. On Day 1 afloat, an hour's easy drift downstream introduced us to the gentle joys of rafting.

     Day 2 presented the trip's most challenging white water. On the international scale of white-water difficulty, where the maximum rating is 6, our passage through The Canyon rated a 4.

     A crash course on "How to Survive If You Fall In" provided cold comfort. If your raftmates can't retrieve you immediately, we were told, float supine, feet downstream, and carom off rocks. If you meet a log jam, flip over and heave yourself atop it. Aim diagonally for shore. At all costs, avoid the undercurrent, which will deactivate your permanently. If you survive the 8° cold and make it to shore, wait - however long - for rescue. And pray there are no grizzlies. (So much for raftings gently joys).

     Our adrenaline soared and our grips tightened as we hit the white water. Reeling crazily, our rafts spun like corks in a hurricane. After a few terrifying minutes, we resigned ourselves to our fate. Rafts, we discovered, have a near-magical ability to absorb impact. Forty-five minutes later, we emerged from the maelstrom white-knuckled and drenched, but unscathed, elated and in awe of our skilled oarsmen.

     That evening, as our stomachs welcomed steak and wine, a 72-year-old Scottish spinster who had come especially for this trip said it all: "I don't know why I'm happy; I only know what I am."

     On Day 3, the river meandered through a wide valley, The sibilant water, the gently vibrating raft and the balmy sunshine vanquished the cares of civilization. The spirit of the Tatshenshini took hold. In the elemental domain of the grizzly and the bald eagle, our tiny craft seemed insanely audacious and insignificant.

     A layover at Sediments Creek, a tributary of the Tat, allowed us a closer look at the St. Elias range. After a half-day's slogging through aspens and shoulder-high fireweed and over treacherous scree, we reached an alpine meadow - the epicenter of a grand panorama. Seventeen hundred meters below, our creekside campsite appeared microscopic, as did a grizzly on the distant alluvial plain.

     As we climbed, we'd seen much evidence of bears. Several aspens bore ominous scratches; adjacent to the trail, patches of fireweed had been flattened into nap sites. On the trail, steaming bear scat had our guides reaching for their cans of mace, which is said to repel bears at 10 meters. Fortunately, we never had to test that claim.

     Our next campsite, Windy City, saw us battle rock flour, a fine dust created by the grinding of ice on rock. In this exposed location, tent zippers, cameras and contact lenses became casualties of the ubiquitous abrasive. The grit gives the river its characteristics greyness, which is visible 15 kilometers offshore where the river enters the Pacific. It also dispenses with the need for toothpaste. As one rafter observed, it makes the water "too thick to drink, too thin to plough".

     As we voyaged, the nature of the landscape changed, incredibly, for the better. Glaciers appeared, a few at first, then too many to count. The peaks were higher, the plants greener, the river wider. Each campsite surpassed the one before; every meal outshone the last. Each night, the waxing moon seemed to glow brighter. We awaited an inevitable climax.

     Beyond the confluence of the Tatshenshini and Alsek rivers, we entered Alaska. There, a few kilometer downstream from Walker Glacier, we pitched our tents on Purple Haze, a small plain awash with fireweed. To the north, across the river, stretched massive Novatak Glacier; to the south, more than 100 kilometers away yet dwarfing its neighbors, stood Mount Fairweather, B.C.'s tallest peak, at 4, 663 meters. To the east the St. Elias range reigned; to the west the granite-and-ice Brabazon range fed the landscape. In phrases like "360 degrees of 'wow'!" and "scenic overload", we tried to describe the ultimate visual experience.

     Two days and many rolls of film later, we reluctantly broke camp. We arrived at Gateway Knob, a hilly island that obscured the entrance to a backwater called Alsek Lake. Rounding the Knob, we confronted masses of ice of every size, shape and texture. In the distance, two mammoth glaciers spilled the lake in a breathtaking, Ice Age spectacle.

     Alsek Lake is a calving ground for icebergs. As we negotiated the potentially lethal maze of floating ice, rumblings from the Alsek and Grand Plateau glaciers warned us to keep our distance. On a strip of shoreline strewn with contorted driftwood, we camped before a stunning view of the lake, glaciers, icebergs and Mount Fairweather.

     We watched the calving of icebergs, which toppled as if in slow motion, accompanied by a thunderous roar and shower of spray and ice. The impact produced waves that spread across the five-kilometer-wide lake and washed several meters on shore. Icebergs already afloat would convulse, and the entire mass of forms would come to life for a few moments.

     In the lunar landscape off Grand Plateau Glacier, we discovered an obsidian pond. Undaunted by fresh grizzly tracks, a few rafters stripped off their clothes and took a plunge, creating a surreal image as pale skin broke the stillness of the deep, dark pool.

     That night, a rolling thunderclap jolted me awake. I listened for rain - none- then remembered where I was. The glacier was spawning noisily. Fascinated, I felt the earth fumble with each explosion . I wondered whether, at daybreak, the amassed ice would hinder our exit from the lake. Saddened at the prospect of leaving this place, I pulled my sleeping bad around my ears and dozed.

     That morning, the weather broke. Like our moods, all was grey and wet. The atmosphere was eerie, the setting supernatural. Negotiating a course around the now-ghostly icebergs, I recalled The Rhyme of the Ancient Marnier: 

                   The ice was here, the ice was there,
                   The ice was all around;
                   It cracked and growled and roared and howled
                   Like noises in the swound.

     Hours later, still in drenching rain, we rediscovered civilization at Dry Bay, a fishing community on the Alaskan coast.

     Flying back to Whitehorse, I reflected that our journey had been more than a photographic adventure. Despite the layers of grime on my body, I felt refreshed, almost purified. The Tatshenshini wilderness inspires, humbles and awes. To enter it is to embrace the spiritual affair.

Andre Farquhar
Kelowna, B.C.