t's hard to fathom the region's richness: the immense northern moose, thousands of elk, mule deer, and white-tailed deer, woodland caribou, and mountain goats that inhabit this forest paradise. In addition to the incredible abundance of ungulates, there is also a full array of associated predators, whose needs are tied directly to those diverse herds: wolves, wolverines, lynx, and even an occasional mountain lion, here near its northernmost range. Other predators -- marten (a relative of the weasel), fishers (a tree-climbing carnivore), and black bears -- roam the forests and mountains too.

Hunting, particularly for the Stone sheep, one of hunters' most coveted quarries, generates big money for British Columbia -- about $300 million. Certainly, hunting doesn't have the same monetary value as the oil and gas (mostly natural gas) that are known to underlie the mountains in twisted caverns at great depth, and which, by one estimate earned the province $1.2 billion in 2002. Nor does it rival the hidden vaults of copper, silver, diamonds, palladium, and gold that are likewise said to rest beneath the surface. But the hunting and outfitting business is sustainable; the elk and caribou, sheep, moose, and deer keep coming back year after year, if properly managed. And the eco-tourism potential of Peck's lease and those of other outfitters like him has not nearly been tapped to its fullest.

As Peck and I ride through lanes and tunnels of rattling gold aspen, he points out ivory bark tattered with the hieroglyphics of claw marks, the remnant scars of black bears who shimmied up the trunks to nip at the fresh springtime buds. The bark is latticed, too, with the square-toothed calligraphy of elk and moose that have gnawed at it during harsh winters. Though the morning sun is brilliant, the northern air is still bracing. The wide, gravelly glacial river, the Tuchodi, which drains off the dragon's eastern shoulder like a garland of flashing jewels, glints to our left, and bald eagles line the giant riverside cottonwoods. The spectacular snowcapped peaks of the Rockies loom upriver, seeming larger than the sky itself. All around us, down in the aspen forest, we hear high, eerie violin-squeals and fiddle-sawings, the wild bugling of bull elk. We ride back and forth across the turquoise river, with panorama after panorama unfolding before us. The views are so stunning as to seem at times like a caricature of beauty, a wildly romantic version of heaven you reach after passing through the stony gates of many lower canyons. The river's strong current shudders against our horses' legs, splashes cold against their bellies and our stirrups, and we draw our knees up.

This country is still perfect -- or as perfect as any forest-and-mountain wilderness can be on this continent, in this century.