By William R. Newcott, National Geographic Editorial Staff
In a land without roads, only the rivers run. Moose and raptors make up the local communities. Grizzlies that have never encountered a fisherman hunch over swift waters, awaiting a rosy flash of salmon.
Such is the remote glory of British Columbia's new Tatshenshini-Alsek Wilderness Park. At 2.4 million acres it is twice the size of Grand Canyon National Park. More significantly, it completes a 24-million-acre expanse that includes Alaska's Glacier Bay and Wrangell-St. Elias National Parks and the Yukon's Kluane National Park Reserve.
This international patchwork of parks, larger than the state of Maine, is close by one of the world's highest concentrations of bald eagles. Each fall some 2,500 keep watch over the Alaska Chilkat Bald Eagle Preserve, on the Chilkat River. Most move into the river valley from farther south on the Alaska Panhandle, although 200 stay year-round.
At their annual population peak, the area's eagles far outnumber human visitors to Tatshenshini-Alsek. Yet for a place seen by fewer than 1,200 outsiders a year, the area has been the subject of a surprisingly fierce tug-of-war between conservationists who want to preserve its untouched state and developers who want to exploit its natural resources. Meanwhile local native peoples claim ancient rights to the parkland.
By Restful Waters
"It was 80 degrees out, and the brightness of the sun and snow made the water look cold and inviting," explains Jane Woodland of Victoria, British Columbia, who sought chilling relief in the glacier-fed Tatshenshini during a ten-day raft trip.
In 1984 just 326 people floated the Tatshenshini and Alsek Rivers, putting in at Dalton Post in the Yukon and ending at Alaska's Dry Bay. More than triple that number now make the voyage during the summer. Along the way they brave canyon rapids, explore braided channels, maneuver around icebergs, and hike on a glacier. They may even spot a glacier bear, a rare type of black bear.
One of the world's most densely populated grizzly areas follows along Tats Creek, which rushes into the Tatshenshini at a campsite where Woodland and her fellow rafters spent one night. "I looked around," she recalls, "and thought, everybody needs to do a trip like this."
Trouble is, more and more people want to. At pull-outs along the rivers, groups pitch tents and set up camp. Human waste must be buried or carried out. Yet rafters, commercial and private, find increasing evidence of the humans who preceded them, prompting authorities to consider limiting the number of raft trips on the rivers.
Claims to traditional lands being pursued by native Champagne and Aishihik Indian bands may also have an impact. They hope to develop a historical center at the Dalton Post put-in--a cultural site they call Shawshe--and earn a share of the two million dollars visitors spend on the rivers each year.
More important will be the outcome of negotiations as the Canadian government prepares to return ancient lands to the bands. Says Ethan Askey, who has studied river use for the provincial government, "Any new river management decisions will be made with the Champagne and Aishihik."
Mountain of Copper
Twenty-foot winter snows nearly toppled a shed of core samples on Windy Craggy Mountain, relic of a planned copper mine that was killed by political pressure from environmentalists.
"Feelings are still running high on both sides of the issue," declares
geologist Jay Timmerman, examining a core sample while cataloging area mineral resources for British Columbia's government.
A mining firm proposed slicing the top off Windy Craggy. Like an open treasure chest, the mountain was expected to yield eight billion pounds of copper, 1.8 million pounds of silver, and 88,000 pounds of gold. Some 600 new jobs sounded good to many folks in the towns of Haines, Alaska, and Whitehorse in the Yukon.
But when details were made public, an outcry went up from conservationists. A 65-mile road would be cut, much of it along the Tatshenshini River. Soon it would rumble with ore-laden trucks passing every 12 minutes, 24 hours a day. Acidic water from the mine might drain into Tats Creek, damaging salmon and other wildlife.
Years of heated debate divided area neighbors and rang in the halls of government. Finally, last June 22, British Columbia settled the matter, designating the area a wilderness park--off-limits to mining.
Aside from a few buildings near an exploratory shaft, Windy Craggy will remain untouched, yielding its mineral riches only in the rusty residue left by a natural spring.
Coaxing The Land
Reading by kerosene lamp in a cabin she built with her late husband, Josephine Jurgeleit can hear Alaska's tumbling Porcupine Creek, where she's prospected for gold for 43 years. "Some years the mining is good, some years it's a dud," says Jo, 78, who lost a leg to phlebitis several years ago. She winters in Anchorage--but not before her annual October hunt. "I usually get my moose."
On the Yukon's Klukshu River, Kevin Hume gaffs sockeye salmon. More than once he's looked up to see a grizzly on the opposite shore. "I just walk away backwards," he says. "Very, very slowly." Canadian laws prohibit all but native Indians from gaffing fish. Many native people spend summers camping along the rivers, then bring their smoked and canned harvests back to town for the winter. Hooks and lines are permitted for others, including sportfishermen and local folk like Ronald Salmon, who hangs his catch of trout in a Klukshu smokehouse.
Where Glaciers Rule
Cold feet strike even the most intrepid Alsek River rafters when they reach Turnback Canyon: They don backpacks and bypass the rapids on foot, traversing the wide tongue of Tweedsmuir Glacier.
A handful of kayakers have managed to survive Turnback, but only one raft team has ever made it. Rapids hold extra peril--water temperatures hovering just above freezing can kill anyone thrown overboard.
Beyond are the St. Elias Mountains, at up to 19,500 feet some of the highest coastal mountains on earth. Between the peaks, one of the planet's largest nonpolar ice sheets courses through valleys.
Downstream, where the river is a swift but safe highway for rafters, glacier walking is a major attraction at several pull-outs. Atop the seemingly solid ice field, hikers are often surprised to feel rumbling underfoot--the pulse of glacial melt thundering through ice caverns, unseen rivers adding their contributions to the Tatshenshini and Alsek.
Spared development by mining interests, the Tatshenshini-Alsek Wilderness Park seems likely to remain an elusive destination, buffered from the outside world by sheer inaccessibility. Its devotees wouldn't have it any other way.
"Most places in North America, no matter how far you venture into the wilderness, you find signs of humanity--a fire ring on the shore, the sound of a logging operation, a worn footpath," says Bob Herger, a British Columbia photographer. "But here...here I've never even seen a jet contrail. The birds own the sky, and the only footprints come in sets of four. Along the Tatshenshini, if you're a person, you're a foreigner."
Copyright 1994 National Geographic Society. All Rights Reserved.
