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Spirit
of The Wild
by Chip Duncan
The
rain stopped about 4:30 a.m. When the clouds parted an hour
later, Mike Speaks, a legendary Alaskan river guide, was outside
my tent.
"Duncan,
get your butt out of bed if you ever want to see Mt. Fairweather,"
he said.
Wearing
wet wool socks and polar fleece pounded by twelve days of
glacial silt and campfire smoke, I climbed out in a hurry.
My fourth trip down the fabled Tatshenshini-Alsek River system
was about to end with one of nature's greatest spectacles
revealed before my eyes. The towering, snow-capped Mt. Fairweather,
among the highest and most elusive peaks in North America,
had shed the gray cloak it sometimes wears for weeks on end,
the same cloak that had hidden it from me for more than a
decade. On this morning, more than 15,300 feet of snow fields,
hanging glaciers and deep crevasses of ice rose mightily above
Alsek Bay.
Part of the Fairweather Range along Alaska's southeast coast
a short eagle flight north of Glacier Bay, everything I'd
heard about this stunning mountain had still failed to prepare
me for this moment. A few light clouds roamed slowly around
the center of the peak. Early morning sunlight cast shadows
toward the Pacific Ocean to the west. The floating icebergs
of Alsek Bay and the purple tresses of dwarf fireweed along
the sandy shoreline of our rafting camp worked together to
add all the dimension and perspective needed to bring Mt.
Fairweather to life.
What is the spirit of a mountain so rarely seen, I wondered.
How many before me had waited for the same privilege? Had
others felt the spiritual pull of one of nature's most beautiful
creations? I couldn't deny the feeling that I was being rewarded
for the long journey that brought me to this river's edge
on an unusually cold August morning.
I'd first rafted the Tatshenshini River with Speaks and Bart
Henderson in 1991 as the writer-photographer for a public
television adventure documentary featuring the river. Our
film had told the story of a mining controversy on the "Tat"
and environmentalist's efforts to turn the Tatshenshini and
its sister river, the Alsek, into the world's largest pristine
wilderness park.
In 1992, the Canadian mining company lost their bid to dig
for copper in the mountains that bordered the western edge
of the Tatshenshini and the river system became what might
be nature's greatest stronghold in the world today. The Tatshenshini-Alsek
Provincial Park and the adjoining Kluane National Park in
Canada's Yukon Territory comprise more then 2.5 million acres
of relatively untouched wilderness. Grizzly bears, wolverine,
wolf, lynx and eagles roam freely. Indeed, but for the fewer
than 1000 rafters, kayakers and hikers who make the annual
summer pilgrimage to this challenging ecosystem, they virtually
own the place.
A longtime lover of wild places and the spirit they inspire
in me, I'd fallen hard for the Tatshenshini on my first visit.
Within two years I was back to raft the Alsek, a roughly 200
mile journey from the Yukon's Haines Junction to Alaska's
Dry Bay, a sleepy fishing village of fewer than 100 residents
near the Pacific Coast.
I filmed the 1993 trip, then returned again in '96, television
camera in hand. Those two trips down the Alsek became part
of a 2001 PBS special called Rafting Alaska's Wildest Rivers
(the show also featured the Kongakut River inside Alaska's
arctic circle). But somehow, despite three visits and the
compilation of more than 40 hours of footage, I felt I'd still
never grasped the power and pull or the spirit of the wild
lands that surround the Tatshenshini and Alsek rivers. On
previous visits, I'd traveled with additional crew members
and carried several cases of television gear as well as a
gas-powered generator for charging batteries. With my eye
buried in a viewfinder and 18 hour days filming everything
from guides rigging boats and climbing expeditions up unnamed
peaks to the occasional wandering grizzly or moose, I'd experienced
my trips as if I too had watched them on television. I loved
the place. I'd joined the fight to save the place. But something
inside me said I'd never really experienced the place. Then,
in early May 2003, my phone rang.
"What
are you doing in late July?" asked Speaks, his Alabama
drawl infusing the question with charm.
"Working,"
I replied.
"If
that's your answer, then you're doing too much of it,"
said Speaks. "Come on up and hang out in the woods for
a while. We'll climb around on some glaciers."
Speaks, who by now had become a great friend and a colleague
on numerous shooting assignments in Asia, South America and
Africa, was guiding a July Alsek River trip for an outfitter
called Alaska Discovery, one of the premiere river guiding
companies in Alaska.
I had a million reasons to say no, but a little voice kept
saying "life is short, life is short." I packed
my bags, cashed in some frequent flier miles, and returned
to North America's wildest river system for the fourth time
- this time armed with only a notebook and a still camera.
We put in at the Dezadeash Flowage in the Yukon's Kluane National
Park, the headwaters of the Alsek River, in late July. Though
the skies were clear and the temperatures mild, the winds
were howling. Speaks and I were joined by guides Chris Denker
and Jon Hirsh as well as eleven other hearty first-timers
who hailed from San Francisco, Seattle, New Jersey and Chicago.
Denker lives in Haines, Alaska and spends winters working
on research projects in Antarctica. Hirsh is a veteran Grand
Canyon river guide who makes his home in Durango, Colorado
during the off season.
Denker's safety talk and orientation included standard operating
procedures for the turbulent rapids we'd encounter along the
way as well as warnings about the deadly cold water. The Alsek
is fed by some of the world's largest glaciers and water temperatures
range between 33 to 35 degrees Fahrenheit. Anything more than
a short dip is fatal.
Everyone was also encouraged to embrace the somewhat free-form
nature of the trip. We had 12 days to make it to the take
out and other than that, much would be left to whim and chance.
"The
standard program is that there is no standard program,"
said Denker. "I suggest you put your watch away somewhere
deep in your dry bag. We're never 100% sure where we'll be
camping or when, or what nature will throw at us. The one
thing that is for sure is that this river, this whole wilderness
can kick your butt."
Like
the Tatshenshini, the Alsek River builds in force as it moves
westward. Our put in at the Dezadeash was approximately 2000
feet in elevation surrounded by peaks of 5,000 to 7,000 feet.
Within fewer than two hundred miles, the river drops to sea
level and the peaks that line the shores of the river rise
to more than 15,000 feet.
As Speaks put it, "as the river flows down, the mountains
go up. And the climate goes from relatively temperate and
dry to wet and cold. It's like a journey into the ice age."
 Because
of the heavy winds, we made slow progress during the first
two days. Despite the favorable current, we were paddling
against whitecaps. On the third night, we pulled up a few
miles short of our desired camp on Lowell Lake, a 2 mile wide,
5 mile long section of the Alsek that adjoins Lowell Glacier.
We took shelter behind the small ridges to the east of the
glacier in a low spot protected by an alder grove. Shortly
before the late evening sunset, several of us hiked to the
top of the ridge to view Lowell Glacier. As we approached
the top, we were buffeted by winds of nearly 60 miles per
hour. These weren't gusts. They were sustained winds strong
enough to literally hold us in place as we leaned forward
toward the glacier. By now the longest sustained wind I'd
ever experienced, it was hard to believe it could get worse.
We left camp early in hopes of catching a break from the wind.
After rowing about 3 miles down river, we found ourselves
hugging the northeast shoreline of Lowell Lake to avoid what
the guides were now calling "gale force winds."
We pulled over to scout for a campsite with some protection
from the wind and determined that we'd need to row about another
half mile downwind. On a river where raft speeds average 5
to 15 miles per hour, it took us nearly an hour to go just
more than 500 yards. We had to drag the rafts along the shoreline
for the last 100 yards as we fought for the protection of
a small sandy mound that became our home for two more nights.
On two previous visits to Lowell Lake, I'd spent hours filming
in sunny, warm, windless conditions. I'd floated among the
ice bergs that frequently calve from the glacier and I'd hiked
up Goat Herd Mountain that rises more than 4000 feet above
the lake to the east for a vista of Lowell Glacier. From that
vantage point, it's easier to see the vast size of the Lowell
- a 3-5 mile wide ice sheet that extends more than 35 miles
toward Mt. Hubbard to the northwest. I'd even spent a half
day on my '96 trip exploring an ice cave that once carved
its way through the glacier into an icy abyss. But on this
trip, the steady wind forced a much different plan. We did
what we could to enjoy our time as we were perched on a small,
flat moonscape of land roughly two miles long and a half mile
wide. The winds, we all agreed, couldn't end soon enough.
 Hiking
up Goat Herd Mountain was out of the question. The first third
of the climb follows a narrow path up a rock wall that leaves
little room for error or wind gusts. But we did manage to
explore what had become our island. After following their
tracks, we gave wide berth to a blond grizzly and her cub,
watching them from a safe distance through a spotting scope.
And on the far southern end of our spit of land we found an
eerie reminder of the power of the wilderness. Buried in sand
up to its snout, the skull and a single horn of a moose was
locked in a frightening pose, a small alder bush growing through
its skull. How it died we would never know, but it was clearly
trapped in place.
Life is fragile here, even for the heardiest of creatures.
At the same time, he couldn't have picked a more beautiful
place to die, I thought. He was a few feet from the river,
and the ever changing Lowell Glacier stretched toward some
of the world's highest mountains - the St. Elias Range.
 Even
the toughest of conditions have their rewards. An extra day
of layover gave me time to explore  the
small things so often overlooked in such vast, beautiful landscapes.
The shoreline of both the Alsekand Tatshenshini are filled
with wildflowers and a myriad of grasses, sedges, lichens
and moss that lead in to the alder and cottonwood covered
hillsides. Fireweed. Yarrow. Yellow Dryas. Bog orchid. Harebells.Monk's
Hood. Columbine. Indian Paintbrush. Gray skies, rocky mountain
walls and the silt-brown rivers are often framed in rich tones
of violet, yellow, green and various shades of red and rust.
Despite the grizzly threat (and armed with a can of "bear
mace"), I also ventured out alone for a midnight hike
on our second night in camp. The field of sand, rocks, and
boulders left over from the receding glacier was barely illuminated
by the low setting sun to the north. Even in late July, the
sun hovers just below the horizon on a clear night. I sat
and watched the sky to the north for nearly an hour as a wall
of rippled cirrus clouds gently fanned across the afterglow.
By the early morning of day six, Denker, Speaks and Hirsh decided
to make a run for it across the lake in hopes of picking up
the stronger current as the lake funnels back into a river.
We rigged the three rafts together into a "sausage"
and paddled our way westward. Within fewer than two hours, we'd
made the far shore and were soon on our way "down river"
once again.
There
is, to me, a much mistaken idea that nature provides serenity.
Surely, it can and often does. But it's not a given. Living
in the wild, whether for a day or a few weeks, shows the many
faces of the natural world, from the peaceful to the violent.
During the past two decades, I've been fortunate to film in
ecosystems and climates as diverse as the central American
rain forests of Costa Rica and Belize, in the desiccated landscape
of sub-Saharan Africa and the Australian outback, in the humid,
blistering hot plateaus of central Burma, the fog shrouded
peaks of the Peruvian Andes, and during the frigid winter
solstice in Alaska's arctic circle. All have their challenges.
All take their toll on the body and the camera gear in one
way or another. But nothing breaks the spirit quite like a
sustained gale force wind. Five days of constant wind had
made us weary. On this trip, no one was sad to leave Lowell
Lake behind.
We caught the current and as the river narrowed between two
huge mountain ridges, we were blocked from the wind. Progress
came easily and we made our way several miles down river before
arriving at a legendary set of rapids called Lava North. Named
after the treacherous "Lava Falls" on the Colorado
River in the Grand Canyon, Lava North has built a reputation
all its own. For adrenaline junkies it's a full-on class 5
whitewater chute with crashing 12 foot waves. But unlike rapids
on warmer rivers in Chile, Ethiopia, Zambia or the Grand Canyon,
this one can quickly kill a rafter who's flipped into the
frigid waters.
The guides scouted the river and found it was relatively unchanged
from years past. They knew the route well and would avoid
danger if at all possible. During the mid-90s, two women on
a private Alsek River trip were thrown from a boat that flipped
in Lava North. One survived by swimming to a sandbar a mile
below the rapids. The other died. Today, most outfitters provide
rafters with dry suits for the quick passage through the rapids.
By the time we hit Lava North the day was warm and sunny.
For safety reasons, our three boats went through together,
distanced by only about 100 yards. I was in the front of Hirsh's
boat. We were all soaked as giant waves washed over our boats,
but we all made it through safely.
At a lunch stop a few minutes later, everyone was grinning
as we exchanged high fives. Then the wild river, in its usual
unpredictability, gave us yet another surprise. We'd been
in a well known "grizzly corridor" for days and
had spotted more than 15 of the giant bears thus far. Without
warning, we pulled up for lunch on a beachhead near a small
clear stream that funneled into the river. We saw our first
bear roughly 400 yards to our left. He (or she - it was hard
to tell) watched us disembark and remove our dry suits, then
he rambled off into an alder-filled ravine. Everything seemed
fine as I ventured a few hundred yards west in hopes of a
safe but close encounter with the photographic grizzly.
Within minutes, however, I spotted another grizzly wandering
toward our group as they munched away on sandwiches. Known
for their extraordinary sense of smell and their deadly force
in getting what they want, I hurried back quickly and let
Speaks know we were now smack in the middle of two brown bears…both
within fewer than 300 yards. The guides gathered everyone
for a quick exit, leaving him to dine on wild berries and
roots.
Is it possible for something to be both uneventful and extraordinary
at the same time? On the Alsek, yes. Nothing happened that
night. Except serenity. The temperature was perfect. The winds
slowed to a breeze - the perfect breeze for keeping the mosquitoes
and "white socks" (a biting, flying critter that
I can live without) at bay. I set up camp alone on a sandbar
away from the group, a camp accessible only by wading through
the knee deep water of a small tributary. I awoke several
times that night to the meditative sound of the Alsek, a steady
rumbling of water pushing its way toward the Pacific, a sound
punctuated by the constant tumbling stones and the hissing
of glacial silt.
 About
an hour after our late morning departure, we stopped on the
northwest side of the river for a hike up a mountainside filled
with the bloated flowers of Yellow Dryas. In the distance,
we could see the icy walls Mt. Blackadar, named for kayaking
legend Walt Blackadar. The Alsek runs almost straight into
Blackadar, then makes a sharp turn to the right. As the eagle
flies, a short journey to the left would put us on to the
Tatshenshini. It's here, for the first time, that I begin
to get a sense of how the two rivers share this wilderness
like siblings. Their ecosystem is one.
After a few more miles of rowing down river, we made camp
on the northeast side of Mt. Blackadar, a few hundred yards
from a shrine to its namesake. The shrine, a kayak paddle
with an inscription, is one of the only signs of humans found
along the entire route of the Alsek and Tathsenshini rivers.
To the west, the Tweedsmuir Glacier, a giant mass of ice thousands
of feet thick, converges toward the slopes of Mt. Blackadar.
Together, they funnel the Alsek into a raging, almost impenetrable
torrent of white water called Turnback Canyon. Only the most
experienced of kayakers, such as Blackadar (the first to run
it), can make it through the 12 mile stretch of steep terraces,
boulder-filled chutes and fierce, unpredictable waterfalls.
A rafters options are simple: risk sure death, hike a two
day portage across the ice fields of the Tweedsmuir, or do
a half day of de-rigging, a helicopter assisted portage, and
a couple of hours of re-rigging. We'd opted for the chopper.
 The
character of the Alsek changes again as we traveled southwest
from Turnback Canyon. The wide open vistas that surround the
Tweedsmuir and Lowell Glaciers are replaced by the steep mountains
of the Noisy Range to the east and the Icefield Range to the
west. The mountains, as Speaks had predicted, were rising
dramatically. From river's edge to the summit was no longer
a simple hike. Peaks here range from 7,000 to 12,000 thousand
feet.
We re-rigged on a beautiful sand beach where the only signs
of life were occasional patches of Fireweed, Yellow Dryas
and alder and the huge paw prints of yet another grizzly.
The distance between Turnback Canyon and the confluence with
the Tatshenshini River is approximately 30 miles. At the confluence,
the size of the river nearly doubles. What was a tight, raging
funnel of silt-colored ice melt roughly a quarter to three
quarters of a mile wide soon becomes a vast braided corridor.
The channels change constantly in a river that ranges from
1 to 3 miles wide.
We
made camp for two nights on a west-facing table of sand and
gravel at the confluence of the two rivers. It is, to me,
a sacred site where the Alsek and Tatshenshini rivers merge
into one, carrying the name Alsek from this point forward.
Since I was a little kid I've always marveled at photographs
of extraordinary campsites in exotic places such as Kenya,
New Zealand, Mongolia or the boundary waters that separate
Minnesota and Canada.  This
one not only rivaled all I'd ever seen, its 360º view
of cloud-shrouded, ice-covered mountains may have been the
best.
The peaks surrounding the confluence are mostly un-named except
one, which Hirsh jokingly referred to as the "it doesn't
matter horn" because of its resemblance to the icon of
the Swiss Alps. On my first visit to the confluence, we counted
26 hanging glaciers on the peaks within view. On this trip,
from our slightly different vantage point, we estimated about
30. While some of the glaciers (also mostly unnamed) descend
close to the river's edge, most are tucked into the deep valleys
and crevasses high up on the jagged peaks.
What was, perhaps, most noticeable to me was that the glaciers
seemed to be higher up than I'd remembered. According to Speaks,
virtually all of the glaciers throughout this part of British
Columbia and southeast Alaska are shrinking dramatically.
I've seen the same thing happen with the once-grand hanging
glaciers in the Peruvian Andes. In less than a decade, many
have disappeared completely. Whether global warming is a man-made
or natural phenomenon, it's hard to imagine the impact it's
having on the Tatshenshini-Alsek river system. Many of these
remaining hanging glaciers will be gone in my lifetime.
Walking on a glacier is, well, it's like nothing else. And
virtually every rafter who ventures down the Alsek makes a
stop 13 miles below the confluence to spend a few hours hiking
on the Walker Glacier. The Walker, named because of its easy
accessibility to hikers, is also slowly receding. On my first
visit, the glacier had extended to within a hundred yards
of the river. On this trip, we trekked for nearly a mile inland
before the first easy step onto the vast sheet of ice.
The first thing I noticed was the sound. Every step involved
crunching down on thumb-nail sized pinnacles of ice. The surface
of a glacier is like a frozen sponge peppered with small rocks,
pebbles, sand and silt. Then there's the constant sound of water
moving beneath the glacier itself. Several times I had to step
or leap across small streams that carved their way across the
top of the glacier. In some places, it's possible to see through
patches of clear ice to the larger flows of water beneath the
surface, some as wide as 6-8 feet across, as they tumble toward
the river.
From a distance, many glaciers are look like brown fields
or braided channels of dirt. Following the winter snowmelt,
they accumulate a mixture of blowing silt, sand and debris.
The Walker is no different. Its milky white ice twirls are
speckled with a combination of dirt and circular patches of
dark moss. Pretty? Yes. But in an unusual way. More universally
beautiful, perhaps, is the huge wall of blue ice seracs that
rise several stories above the otherwise flat ice sheet. The
shapes change with the seasons, leaving behind an eerie sculpture
of jagged edges and soft, rolling tunnels and chutes carved
by the constant flow of water.
On my first visit to Walker Glacier, Speaks, Bart Henderson
and I had joined a group of mountaineering friends for a long
day of climbing Solstice Peak, a majestic, snow-capped mountain
that rises above Walker Glacier. During the extended daylight
of the summer solstice, we'd made it to within 500 feet of
the summit and back in time for a midnight dinner. Because
of our wind delay toward the start of our trip, there wouldn't
be time this year for anything more than exploring the glacier
itself. Yet it too was a privilege beyond words. As is so
often the case, the vast scope of things in this wilderness
can possess those who visit. It's easy to get captured by
the big vistas. Yet it was the small things, the tinted blues
of the seracs, the discovery of ice worms the size of a tiny
pin living off algae within the glacial ice, the patterns
of moss, the tiny crystals of ice, the sounds of the constantly
flowing water, all these things brought Walker Glacier to
life.
Low
hanging clouds hugged the river at dawn. I'd slept on a cut
bank about fifteen feet above the water's edge. About 30 yards
to the east, the fast melting runoff from Walker Glacier carved
a rushing stream that added its might to the already powerful
Alsek.
It was dreary and cold as we navigated our way through the
braids and shallow channels of a river bordered by rocky peaks
and a charcoal gray sky. I'd become accustomed to the vastness
of this landscape so it didn't seem unusual when the skies
opened up more than 15 miles to the northwest, illuminating
the Novatak Glacier. What was unusual, however, was that the
opening in the clouds seemed locked into one place for hours.
Speaks and Hirsh guided their rafts nearly a mile behind us,
their boats almost silhouetted by the cool, white surface
of the glacier.
After rowing for about 4 hours, the river begins to narrow
as it approaches Alsek Bay. We stopped for lunch on the southeastern
side of the river,
then set out on a trek overland toward the bay. Like Lowell
Lake, Alsek Bay was formed by the convergence of three glaciers
that empty directly into a basin. Our first glimpse came on
foot as we arrived at its northern shore. Piles of driftwood,
discarded against the beach like a child's pick up sticks,
framed a sea of blue-white floating ice bergs calved from
the glaciers.
I remembered the first time I saw Alsek Bay. It was, and is,
the eeriest place I've ever been. It has the character of
an old soul, yet it's in a constant state of change. Nothing
is permanent. It is a place of creation and death, where the
forces of nature build and destroy on a moment by moment basis.
Snow, wind, sleet, rain, and the blistering heat of June's
24 hour sun demonstrate nature's profound ability to give
and to take.
Alsek Bay reaffirms my belief in the healing power of wilderness
and the need to preserve wild places. For while the glaciers
here are slowly dying, they leave behind them an extraordinary
gift of life, a gift I believe can be appreciated not just
by humans, but by all the living things that call this place
home. Beauty. The cycle of life and death. However fleeting,
Alsek Bay holds in its frigid waters the pristine sculptures
of ice calved from the glaciers and molded by the timeless
current of the Alsek. Its waters feed salmon, bear, lynx,
wolf, eagle and wolverine, then pass slowly to the Pacific,
and beyond. Alsek Bay is a place for exploring the uplifting
force of the natural world as well as the intricacies of the
human soul. It is the heart of the Tatshenshini-Alsek wilderness.
We returned to our rafts for the final hour of rowing our
way into the bay. As we drifted slowly down river, a lynx
sat majestically on a boulder just three feet above the river's
edge. It was the first time I'd ever seen one in the wild.
She showed no fear, and watched casually as each raft drifted
slowly passed. As we entered Alsek Bay, I looked to the southeast.
The low curtain of clouds rested just 1,000 feet above the
water. As it had been on my previous visits, Mt. Fairweather
was hidden high above the clouds.
A few minutes later, we were setting up camp in the rain. What
had been planned as a festive farewell evening was, instead,
a rushed dinner and a late hike bundled in heavy rain gear.
The thunder of calving glaciers echoed our way every few minutes,
sometimes sending along small waves from the crashing walls
of ice. The ice bergs themselves danced to their own music,
toppling occasionally as if shifting their balance from side
to side. A few flipped completely as the tenuous muscle strands
of ice beneath the surface gave way to persistent currents of
water.
When the rain took a brief pause around 10 p.m., I remember
thinking how still everything was. As if in the eye of a storm,
the wind had died. The rushing Alsek had fanned itself out
across several miles of the bay and its sound was barely discernible.
Even the birds seemed to be hiding. It was just another mood
of this incredible place, I thought. Just another mood in
what may be earth's most diverse and pristine wilderness,
a place untouched by development and only rarely visited by
a few privileged adventurers. Yet it is a place everyone deserves
to witness, a place that can nurture within all of us the
power, pull and inspiration of the natural world.
Twenty
four hours later I'd flown south in a small bush plane with
Speaks and Hirsh and was back in Haines, Alaska for a final
night before the long flight home. Haines is the jewel of
southeast Alaska, a tight knit community that captures the
adventurous, independent spirit of Alaskans. Situated on the
Lynn Canal, Haines still has a frontier atmosphere. It's the
final stop before crossing the bridge between the world and
pure wilderness.
We joined a group of old friends and dined on fresh salmon
we'd carried back from the river. We caught up on the news
and were reminded, sadly, of so many challenges facing the
world. We headed out to listen to a bluegrass band, laughed
over a few beers, and then, at about 10:30, nature gave us
a final send off. The northern lights. From Juneau north to
Skagway, the sky became a dark pallet for an impressionist
whose brushstrokes were fleeting fields of energy. We watched
for nearly an hour as the dancing fabric of green, purple
and yellow moved across the sky with its own beautiful anarchy.
It was the spirit of the wild.
#####
Chip
Duncan is an EMMY award-winning documentary filmmaker who
presently resides in Wisconsin. Most of the articles that
appear on this site were originally printed in Sunday editions
of the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel between 2001 and 2005. To
contact Chip Duncan, please click here: Chip@DuncanEntertainment.com.
Your comments are welcomed.
If
you'd like more information on the Arctic National Wildlife
Refuge, please consider purchasing Rafting
Alaska's Wildest Rivers from the Company
Store. This one hour show includes extensive footage and
interviews related to ANWR.
Click here to read "Is ANWR Worth Saving?" by Chip
Duncan
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