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descent of the Tatshenshini. For that expedition, Glave and Dalton enlisted the help of a Native American named Shank, a Tlingit medicine man and guide. Under his leadership, Glave documented the existence of the Neska Ta Heen and Klukshu villages, which were inhabited by the Gunean, Stick and Nua Quas tribes. It wasn't long after Glave's return to New York that the people and their villages vanished-casualties of smallpox and tribal relocation programs. Although numerous Native American fishing villages were located along the Tatshenshini and Alsek Rivers, today only tiny Klukshu, Yukon, is still used during summer months. Concerted archaeological studies of the area have only just begun. After we pass through a canyon, the river slows to a canter. It alters its course from year to year, hiving off enormous chunks of shore. The lO-mile-per- hour current pulls the land out from under the trees, which lean into the river forming "sweepers" that can take out an eye or puncture a raft. But what the river takes from one bank it gives to another. Fresh new sandbars appear where last year there were none. We stop at one that is literally covered with tracks: grizzly, black bear, wolf and trumpeter swan. First off the boat, I add the prints of my boots to the wild stampede. A spectacle of eagles gathers on shore. Twenty bald eagles in all. After a few rninutes of observation it becomes clear that unlike the . mythologized mascot of a nation-the powerful hunter, the respected predator-out here bald eagles are pariahs. It has much to do with their conniving ways. In addition to dining on ca rrion , bald eagles have a reputation for stealing food from other, more industrious birds. They are constantly harassed by arctic terns, gulls and ravens. These smaller birds chase, dive-bomb and nip at the white tail feathers until the intruder is forced to flee. After lunch, the sun slips behind a veil of cloud and the Tat flows languidly into the afternoon and into British Columbia. I see dozens of stumps floating by. Unlike watersheds in Southern BC-where generations of unsustainable logging practices have taken their toll on rivers, streams and lakes-the only loggers here are beavers and they've been working overtime. There's something satisfying about throwing a chunk of wood on the fire that has teeth marks at both ends. Suddenly, someone shouts in the lead raft and breaks the morning calm. He mimes antlers growing wild out of the sides of his head. We turn to see a gangly moose cow and calf run along shore and duck into the thick undergrowth. Soon after, someone else jumps up, paws ra ised, silently clawing the air. We float past a black bear sow and her yea rling cub. They prick up their ears and gawk in disbelief at the brightly colored creatures floating by. When the river gets lazy, our guide Dave Reid lets me take over the oars. He kicks back and tells us about the proposal for a mine back in the early 1990s. Ironically, it was the reason this park came into being. Windy Craggy, the mountain in contention, contains an estimated 300 million tons of copper-one percent of the world's reserves. It would have become the largest open pit copper mine in Canada. Although the mountain itself cannot be seen from here, Dave points out where the road would have cut through the valley and where the bridge would cast its shadow over the river. I try, and fail, to picture it in my mind. Acid mine drainage, the leachate of sulfuric acid (a by-product of copper mining), has already killed 4,000 miles of river in the US alone. The proposed tai lings pond for the Windy Craggy copper mine would have been built not far from this spot, in the middle of the most active earthquake zone in North America. More than 50 conservation groups and countless individuals from both sides of the border banded together to stop the mine from ever leaving the drawing board, among them: Canadian environmentalist Ric Careless, Johnny Mikes (owner of Canadian River Expeditions), US Senator Robert Kennedy Jr and then US Senator AI Gore. The internationa l outcry was enough to force the government of BC to reconsider. In the end, the road was never cut, the bridge never built. The mountain still holds its riches. We take a layover day at a place called Sediments Creek. Here a green rnountain comes to a dramatic end at a crag, then crumbles down as rock and sand into the creek below. From there it is carried to the valley where it fans out in a giant alluvial plain. This mountain is coming apart the natural way. We hike across the wide expanse of gravel and mud to the gate of the forest trail where the smooth skin of several quaking aspen has been scarred by grizzlies. The claw marks read like a Who's Who of the valley's heavyweight contenders. We power past the tree line, past cool blue forget-me-nots and orange columbine, dark chocolate li lies and arctic violets, pink wild rose and bluebells. We rest at the blowing hem of alpine. In the distance, we spy mountain goats panting in the sun. At the top our altimeter reads 4,960 feet- over 3,500 feet above the river. We watch a golden eagle dive on a plump grouse. The aeria l battle is played out against the pool-blue sky, popcorn clouds and peaks of slate and 34