The permit is for a takeout date, allowing you to run either river, and I decided on the Upper Alsek\u2013the beefier, logistically nightmarish older brother to the Tat. I used a few one-liners to convince some friends to come along, \u201cIt\u2019s the trip of a lifetime,\u201d and \u201cWe\u2019ll never<\/em> pull this permit again.\u201d Then I rented boats and arranged a shuttle to the Dezadesh River in Yukon Territory. From there we\u2019d float into British Columbia, take a helicopter portage over Turnback Canyon, then continue past the confluence with the Tat to Dry Bay, Southeast Alaska, where our rented boats would fly back to Juneau and we\u2019d fly to Yakutat.<\/p>\n Our crew was mostly guides or former guides, some of whom I\u2019ve worked with for years on the Salmon. It seems improbable, like it crept up on us, but we\u2019ve known each other for so long we\u2019re old friends. We\u2019ve worked together, sure, but we\u2019ve also built up the days of mountain biking, private boating, and traveling in foreign countries. We\u2019ve seen each other fall in and out of love, change jobs, make a mess of life, and clean it up again. We\u2019re all in or approaching our thirties, and those of us that still guide are eyeing the other side of the fence.<\/p>\n Our first night on the river, we can\u2019t find a camp. Or rather, we can\u2019t find the kind of camps we\u2019re used to. There\u2019s no trace of human impact, no worn ground or footpaths. We pull over on a sandy spit above the confluence with the Kaskawulsh, the official start of the Upper Alsek. It\u2019s Hannah\u2019s birthday, and she picks the beach, a mile of cracked sand littered with twisted old trees. In my head, I call it the Burning Man Camp<\/em>, the Playa<\/em>, though we\u2019re settled in a river valley haloed by green and gray mountains.<\/p>\n Hunter and I study the topo on our phones. \u201cI think there\u2019s clear water on river left above that slough,\u201d I say. He looks at his own phone.<\/p>\n \u201cYou mean down here?\u201d He asks, pointing to a different spot on the GPS. We argue for a bit, until Zoe walks by.<\/p>\n \u201cDo either of you even know what a slough is?\u201d she asks.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s like a big crevasse-y thing,.\u201d I say. Hunter stares at me.<\/p>\n \u201cNo, I think it\u2019s a debris fan,\u201d he responds. Zoe snorts with laughter.<\/p>\n \u201cYou guys!! A slough is a back-eddy behind a peninsula.\u201d Hunter and I stare at each other for a minute then burst into laughter.<\/p>\n \u201cI totally thought I knew what a slough was!\u201d I gasp out between the belly laughs. \u201cA slough,\u201d I chuckle, wiping tears from my eyes.<\/p>\n \u201cBless you,\u201d Zoe says, like I\u2019ve sneezed. \u201cNow, what did you say?\u201d<\/p>\n By day three, we\u2019ve given up on finding any established camps, hikes, or stops. It wakes up a part of me that had grown stagnant in the predictability of the rivers I\u2019ve worked on for years, of knowing the pace of the miles, of what interp I\u2019ll ramble about at every turn. This river feels like ours alone, like we\u2019re explorers on a first descent. Every bend brings a new unknown. We make up names for things, cavorting about how \u201cAlexander Dezedeash\u201d and \u201cKatie Kaskawulsh\u201d once wandered these mountains.<\/p>\n We pull over above Lowell Lake, under the looming base of Goatherd Mountain. The mountain is a balustrade, sheltering us from some unknown, its flat top leaking waterfalls at regular intervals. I grab a few water jugs and walk towards the base of the mountain, heading for the catchment of a waterfall. I wander down a fence line of shrubs until I find a gap, a recently used passage. Other river runners must stop here, I think. As I step through the shrubs and onto the sandy wash below the waterfall, I look down. There is a set of grizzly tracks wandering away from the passage\u2014not river runners, after all.<\/p>\n I look around, suddenly on edge, and see the girls coming up behind me with more water jugs and bear spray. Safety in numbers established, we sashay up and down the wash, gasping with each new set of tracks. \u201cWoof!\u201d shouts Hannah when she sees a wolf track. Then, wistfully, \u201cI wanna see a woof.\u201d While Caroline and I fill jugs, Zoe and Hannah find lynx tracks, which we all gather around, eyes wide.<\/p>\n I feel spun up in the place, utterly captured by the stories whispered through the prints. I want to spend the day grasping for an understanding of the animals that have passed through here, chasing the wonder of a new set. But the structure of a commercial trip is burned so deeply into all of us that next thing I know we\u2019re heading back to the boats, bound for camp.<\/p>\n The day we run Lava North is my first day rowing whitewater on the Upper Alsek. I begin the day cautiously, hugging inside corners hard. After a few miles, I realize that it\u2019s just another river, albeit a massive one, and begin to relax.<\/p>\n As we hike down to the scout for Lava North, I study the entrance. The beta we\u2019d been given was the left sneak was likely in. The river is cold and massive, and sneakalicious sounds pretty good to me. As we approach the rapid, a series of rocks on the left shore close out an easy entrance. The right side of the river is gated by a hole the size of a whale. I\u2019ve never seen anything like it. It\u2019s so big it doesn\u2019t bother to surge fast, instead slowly coiling in on itself, leisurely spitting droplets of water out as it eats its own head. More center, there\u2019s a rooster tail wave, about 14\u2019 tall.<\/p>\n On the left, the alleged sneak, there\u2019s a medium but runnable hole leading into a series of smaller ledge holes. Most of the water is shooting straight into the rooster tail. Further left, where the entrance is friendlier, all the water leads into a fence of nasty pin rocks. It is much, much less sneaky than I would prefer.<\/p>\n We pace up and down the rapid, alternately discussing, whooping, and staring, tight-lipped. We consider the center line, a highway between the rooster tail and whale hole, but there\u2019s no markers, just a swath of open river and the hope that you line it up right. I wonder if this is what Grand Canyon rapids would\u2019ve looked like on big water years, before the dam. Finally Hannah says, \u201cOk, that\u2019s enough. We gotta run it.\u201d We\u2019ve been at the scout for over an hour.<\/p>\n I go first, setting up to move left above the medium hole. \u201cYou got this Mia,\u201d Caroline says, posture straight, eyes downstream. The water grabs us, shooting the boat forward, the course set, no fighting against this kind of volume. I\u2019m slightly more left than intended, fear having got the better of me. We run over the top of some rocks I\u2019d meant to be to the right of, but the current has us in its throes, and I can barely tell before we\u2019re hitting the ledge hole with left momentum. I eye the rooster tail, spittle flying up as it froths angrily at us, but we\u2019re through, safe. Exhilaration begins in my belly and works its way to my mouth, and I\u2019m screaming and cheering as we turn around to watch the next two boats. I pump my fist, laughing, as my friends style their lines.<\/p>\n Several days later, we camp just above the confluence with the Tat, and meander downstream to see it. We\u2019re a loud circus as we traipse along, looking at wildflowers and blubbering over grizzly tracks bigger than a dinner plate. The confluence is a mile wide, braided, a wending merging of rivers. We linger for a while then continue our trek up the Tat, laughing and telling stories. Suddenly Jack stops, binos raised. \u201cI think there\u2019s people over there.\u201d The mood changes instantly, a tribalistic challenge springing up. \u201cWhat!\u201d I gasp. \u201cWhere?\u201d<\/p>\n We huddle, peering at what seems to be two groups camped on the Tat. We haven\u2019t seen other river runners in a week, hardly even traces of humanity, and I\u2019d forgotten that the river doesn\u2019t belong to us. Eventually they notice us, but the distance is such that we discover this when we see one of them peering at us through their own set of binos. I feel edgy, protective. We head back to our camp.<\/p>\n We party at the confluence, the sun lingering as we dance with shadows, cut mullets and play games. I have no idea what time it is when I stumble back to my tent. I\u2019m too wired to sleep, but I settle into my bed and let my mind wander. When I hear the roar, I understand, suddenly and primally, what it is. In the silence that follows, laying preternaturally still inside my tent, my mind tries to talk my body out of what it knows. That was not a grizzly bear. It could\u2019ve been anything<\/em>.<\/p>\n The second roar freezes the thoughts for a few seconds, but they pick back up. That could\u2019ve been a moose. It\u2019s Hunter snoring. Maybe Jack farted, maybe\u2026<\/em>the third roar sounds the same distance away. I start counting in my head, ticking away the seconds until the next roar comes. Eventually, they fade, and I roll onto my stomach and fall asleep. We end up camping next to the group from the Tat later in the trip. They went for a hike that morning and watched as three grizzlies circled our camp.<\/p>\n When we arrive at the scout for entering Alsek Lake, the final camp before takeout, we\u2019re hungry and grumpy. We\u2019ve let go of structured days, perhaps a little too much. We make lunch and discussions about the \u201cgates\u201d begin. We\u2019ve been told the entrance to Alsek Lake has three pathways through, which should be scouted for icebergs. Following the scout is a somewhat heated discussion, but finally we decide to go through Gate 1, to the left of a large peninsula, through a gap in the ‘bergs, and out into the lake. The risk feels acceptable given what we can see.<\/p>\n I push across the slowing water, the brown river silt gradually giving way to the cloudy turquoise of the lake. I\u2019m rowing towards two battleship-sized icebergs split by a field of open water. Though the way between the bergs is clear now, only hope can stop them from rolling, and I fear that unknown monster crawling up from below the lake into the light of day. And so, I am quiet, the omnipotent ice gluing my tongue to the roof of my mouth.<\/p>\n My sensory world is overwhelmed by a bazaar, offering shades of blue previously unknown to my imagination. Beginning with the transparents, here we have deep indigo, and stacked on top of it, ice kissed cobalt. Over there is a selection of opaques, snowy with cerulean highlights, complimented by crystalline azure. And throughout, the cobalt accents of gravel clawing through the bergs, twisting and flowing. The texture is as variable as the color, and it\u2019s all I can do to row, and to keep checking the water lapping at the edges of the bergs, looking for signs of motions. I push out into the lake, then turn and watch my friends row through, caught and held, as I was, in the present moment.<\/p>\n That night, we bask in the aftereffects of our heightened state of awareness. The feeling of marvel lingers, a bone-deep awe. This river has fascinated me, threading a joy and appreciation into my heart that had gone stale in my guiding career. Anticipation had quickened my pulse before every corner, every natural feature tangling my brain, each turn more beautiful, more enticing, than the last. I\u2019d been drunk on wonder, the novelty making me remember what it is like to be new to rivers.<\/p>\n As my era of full-time guiding reaches its frayed end, as I try to untangle myself from the identity of a guide, this trip has made me realize that a love of rivers still saturates my blood. Woven in with it is a love for these people, this community that rivers have gifted me. Regardless of whether we\u2019re guiding or not, we\u2019ll still have adventure, have each other, have rivers new and known to travel down. As we walk to our tents for bed, the clouds part for just a few minutes. Mt. Fairweather cuts into the skyline, reflecting pink, the river giving us one last gift before we part.<\/p>\n ***<\/p>\n Guest Contributor Mia Clyatt is a professional river guide, biologist, and freelance writer. Her writing centers around the outdoors, adventure travel, and sustainability. She is an advocate for wilderness and loves to play in the high country, be it skiing, hunting, mountain biking, or dirtbiking. She is the co-founder of Big Water Babes<\/a>, an organization dedicated to educating and empowering women in whitewater. Learn more at miaclyatt.com<\/a>\u00a0or @montanatinyhouse.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I\u2019m rowing someone else\u2019s boat on Lava Day. Although I\u2019m technically the trip leader, I decided this was the \u201cpeople\u2019s trip,\u201d and didn\u2019t give myself…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":47981,"featured_media":39091,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[336],"tags":[371,478,819,316,32,120],"class_list":["post-38816","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-explore","tag-adventure-travel","tag-alaska","tag-alsek-river","tag-rafting","tag-whitewater","tag-women-boaters","post-grid"],"yoast_head":"\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/d2kl15j267vxtq.cloudfront.net\/duct-tape\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/03\/20114916\/DTD_Alesk_MClyatt_3x2_9-1000x667.jpg\")
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