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snow. Drunk with scenery, we hike back down to camp and sober up with a plunge in the icy river. Day Five. Somewhere along the way we seem to have jettisoned words like "Tuesday" and "June" in favor of a new calendar: one that began the day we hit the water. The Tat braids and spreads itself thin across the land. As we approach the confluence, I can see for miles across river, rock and scrub. We are surrounded on all sides by cold serrated peaks and shoulders of tender new green. In this wide-open valley, the Tatshenshini, along with an assortment of lesser rivers and streams, leaves maiden names behind . Here all become the Alsek. We make our camp on the point of a tiny island . On shore, we find bear tracks as wide as my two feet put together. The claws reach three inches beyond the toes. Nearby is fresh, almost steaming scat. I sit down with a high- powered scope and decide that I'm not getting up until I see a grizzly. Half an hour later I spot an adolescent male, about half a mile away, on the shore of another island. "Grizzly!" I shout. At that moment, he dashes over the sandbar and is gone leaving my discovery unconfirmed. My associates offer their considered opinions. " It was log, " says one. "Heat shimmer," another. It takes half an hour, but vindication comes when my grizzly steps back into the open. Everyone takes a turn at the scope as he lazily roams the shore. In the morning, we cast off in the lead raft and head straight for the bear's island. We get in close and, sure enough, the same grizzly we saw the night before is there, munching on a salmon . He looks at us out of one eye, then the other, then stands up eight feet tall . Barrel-chested, claws hanging down, he sniffs the air before trotting into the trees. We land the rafts and proceed in a tight group along the shore. We see a small clear pool where the river has stranded a single salmon. It swims back and forth awaiting the inevitable. When we round the corner, the grizzly is there. He stands his ground about 100 feet away. He lowers his head, moves it slowly from side to side, then starts ambling in our direction. En masse, we slowly back up the way we came, jump in our rafts, and leave him to fish in peace. We've drifted across an invisible frontier from British Columbia into Southeast Alaska. After traveling some 114 miles-and picking up countless tributaries along the way-the river has swollen to ten times its former size. At this point, we're just 38 miles from the sea. On shore, yellow Indian paintbrush, pink river beauty and purple vetch are bright sparks of color against dunes of silt. We tie up our rafts and walk though this unexpected desert. Over the last rise we run straight into a panorama of giants-15,OOO- foot Mt Fairweather and associates. Together they form a nearly unbroken chain of 8,OOO-foot and higher peaks, many of them unnamed and unclimbed. Flowing down from the mountains are four glaciers, each several miles wide. They end in Alsek Lake where sapphire, white and dirty brown bergs sail imperceptibly across the jade-gray water. To complete the sensory overload, there are sharp reports from the crumbling glaciers, like blasts of TNT. As we squeeze between the smaller bergs, they roll over and show their bellies to the sun, then collapse with the sound of wind through crystal chandeliers. We camp at a ta ll island aptly called The Knob. Around the campfire, our guides explain that glaciers move like frozen rivers with rapids, 36 braids, eddies and falls. The proof is written out plainly behind us. As if on cue, the largest iceberg in the lake calves off a four-story chunk and sends the others bobbing and shifting in its wake. In the midnight twilight, as I slip into my sleeping bag, I overhear the serenade of a superb flautist-the hermit thrush. His lilting air arrests me with its beauty. I can't imagine its effect on the intended audience. I discover later that naturalist John Burroughs also marveled at the call of this bird. He wrote, "Listening to this strain on a lone mountain, with the full moon just rounded on the horizon, the pomp of your cities and the pride of your civilization seems trivial and cheap." We're running out of river. Around the bend is the delta and the vast expanse of sea. We spend the day walking among pools of drifting bergs and settling silt. As I wade into the surprisingly warm water it dawns on me: all we need now is a skimboard. We collect sheets of plywood from the rafts and run for the beach. Six of us, guests and guides alike, stand on the shore. A quick game of Rock Scissors Paper decides who will be the first to. go. One of our young guides justly wins the honor. He jogs along, jumps on his board and deftly glides into history. IF YOU GO: June through August is the best time to raft the Tat. Private rafting • groups can get permits for US$125 through Alaska's Glacier Bay National Park (907-784-3370, the river information line, or 907-784- 3295 for more information). Be sure to book early, there is a limited number of permits issued to commercial operators and private groups each season. Outfitters Who Raft the Tat: Canadian River Expeditions (Whistler, BC), 800-898-7238, www.canriver.com.12days.US$2.550. Tatshenshini Expeditions (Whitehorse, Yukon), 867-633-2742, www.tatshenshiniyukon.com.lOdays. US$1.700. Colorado River & Trail Expeditions (Salt Lake City, Utah), 800-253- 7328, www.crateinc.com.lOdays.US$2.495. Chilkat Guides (Haines, Alaska), 907-966-2491, www.raftalaska.com. 10 days, US$1,975. For flight information to Whitehorse, contact Canadian Airlines International. www.cdnair.ca.Call800-665-1177 in Canada or 800-426-7000 in the US.