BEHIND THICKET FILMS

Follow The Drone

Mon, 22 Jun 2009 23:58:03 +0100

As I slammed the car door, the welcoming interior light flickered off and the night crashed in on me. Below my feet the chalky ground of the car park seemed to fluoresce with a milky half-light. I stood motionless, adjusting to the unfamiliar shapes and sounds of the heath. In the distance, a faint thrumming beat -like a ruler snapped on the edge of a table- droned above the buzz of insects and the distant roar of passing cars.

The sheer overwhelming power of this strange new location, the dark and the distant drone caused me to lose my balance so that, for a split second, the glowing ground seemed to rush towards me. My heart started racing and I flicked on the torch, relishing the crisp white light which coursed through the humid night, simultaneously concealing and revealing. Beyond the edges of the sharply delineated beam; nothing... a world without colour or composition, just the soft edges of trees outlined against the sky. Within its brutal glare, shadows swayed from side to side with the movement of my body, making the tall grasses at the edge of the heathland look like paper cut-outs.

Without any knowledge of the site, I had no option but to follow my nose, and, walking across the road by which I had arrived at this mysterious location, I searched the tall grasses for the break that might help bring me closer to the source of the drone.

Without any obvious path, I was forced to walk straight into the shoulder-high grass stalks which harboured small clouds of flying, biting insects, released by the brush of a stray finger. Beneath me were lumpy mounds of grass which squeaked as they were ground under my feet. It suddenly occurred to me that this would be an ideal place to look for snakes. Moments after, I realised that, in the cold night air, these same snakes would be loathe to escape my crunching, squeaking steps, and a swift nip to the ankle from an adder might be just one careless step away.

THIS IS A PLACEHOLDER BLOG. EXPECT MORE FROM THICKETFILMS IN THE NEAR FUTURE.

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Trailer

Sat, 3 Jan 2009 17:43:03 +0000

Here is the trailer for my forthcoming programme; ‘At The Edge Of Everything’:

MORE PHOTOS CAN BE SEEN AT THE BLOG PAGE OF www.thicketfilms.comHere is

To see it in higher quality, please visit the YouTube page and click on ‘watch in high quality’.

Bizarre Beasts and Icy Fire

Fri, 24 Oct 2008 00:33:01 +0100

In late September, I was contacted by a crew from the BBC Natural History Unit who wished to film Polar Bears at the whale bone pile. This led to me delaying my flights home by three weeks (as much as my 90-day visa would allow), and an incredibly anxious month during which winter arrived early and it looked as if the bears would be long-gone before the BBC would arrive. However, as in all good stories, everything eventually came together for a few days which I will remember for the rest of my life.

MONDAY

Excitedly spilling out of the plane like schoolchildren at lunchbreak, the 6 members of my BBC crew arrived in Kaktovik. Here to film two half-hour shows for children’s tv, they got to work immediately, recording the presenter’s descent from the air-conditioned aircraft into the freezing temperatures that I have grown to love over the past few weeks.
“My bogeys are freezing up!” exclaimed Rosie, whose break into television involved a somewhat bizarre incident in which a heron ate a moorhen in the middle of London. The whole team concurred that their bogeys were indeed freezing up; an unfortunate side effect of the extreme temperature.

The crew couldn’t have asked for a better first day; clouds hovered around the edge of the horizon, framing a perfect blue sky in relatively mild temperatures (for Kaktovik). It was agreed that, despite only 2 hours’ sleep, they would set to work immediately, making the most of the delicious lighting. After a short trip back to the hotel - which was regarded as ‘lovely’ by most of the crew, despite its outwardly ramshackle appearance - we set off down to the bone pile, cameras at the ready.

Down at the bones, the only sign of life were the Arctic foxes, which were still very obliging, allowing Steve (the presenter) to get so close that he could have reached out and stroked one. I explained the basics of the whale hunt, trying my hardest not to make it sound like a massacre, and including something of the history of Kaktovik.

After a few hours of foxes, the initial excitement began to wear off and the team started to lament the lack of bears. The sole reason that they had travelled to Kaktovik was to film at least one presenter piece-to-camera with bears in the background, and, with the hotel costing each person $225 per night, plus $400 per day for a native guide and $400 per day to hire their two trucks, the team couldn’t afford to go home empty handed. People began scanning the horizon with binoculars, desperate for a glimpse of the animals. They seemed to have run out of luck, however; three helicopters from US Fish and Wildlife (the government agency) were out tracking and darting the bears in order to take tissue samples, and so the animals had developed a healthy caution, bordering on paranoia towards anything vaguely human.

After a while, Rosie pointed at a black dot on the horizon, and asked us what it was. Assuming it was just another young Arctic fox, I casually picked up my binoculars and held them to my watering eyes. What with the strong wind and the condition of my eyes, identifying anything was going to be a problem. My immediate impression of the black dot was that it appeared to be an anteater. However, as I hadn’t seen an ant in three months (alongside other, more logical reasons), I thought this was unlikely. Looking again, the anteater turned into a tiny black bear; again, this was unlikely as we were at least several hundred miles from the nearest black bear. It was then that I remembered the photograph of a wolverine which was attached to the wall in the hotel’s lounge. Most Alaskans are lucky if they see one wolverine their entire lives; the animals are incredibly secretive, and rightly so, as they are regularly shot for their warm fur. However, there was nothing else that this bizarre creature more closely resembled, and so I shouted out to the group; ‘WOLVERINE!’. To be perfectly honest, at this stage, the black lump could have been anything - I thought however, that, should I be correct, the identification might make me look like an expert, whereas a misidentification could be cast off with a simple ‘my binoculars must have been shaking too much’.

As it turned out, my identification was accurate, and the group jumped into gear, moving back towards the vehicles and pulling out all the stops, zooming in on the distant creature and presenting to camera, while simultaneously crossing all our fingers that the creature would come closer. Wolverine are an extremely dangerous animal - the size of a badger, but able to take down prey larger than a horse - so I was slightly less enthusiastic about the idea of the animal coming to visit. Paying no attention to the wishes of either the BBC crew or myself, the wolverine wandered around, playing with the Arctic Foxes at about 100 yards distance, before standing up on its hind legs - enabling us to get a full view of this bear-badger-anteater curiosity - then strolling casually back off towards the Eastern end of Barter island, across the ice.

TUESDAY (12:53AM)

I roll over in bed, desperately trying to get some sleep before my alarm goes off again at 1:30AM - I’ve been lying around for 53 minutes in my snow boots, which occasionally crashed against the metal frame of my bed. For the previous 5 hours, I had been venturing outside for five minutes every half an hour, in order to check if the Northern lights were ready to make their presence known to the BBC. The rest of the crew had crashed out in bed, exhausted from a combination of jet lag, very little sleep the previous night, and the tiring effect of the cold weather. Having suggested myself, that I keep an eye out for the lights, the others were incredibly grateful, but the idea seemed to become progressively less intelligent as the night dragged on and an early start the following day drew ever nearer. At 7pm, the lights had started to show - like the faint glow of clouds above a distant town at night, but ever since then, they had evidently decided to turn in for bed themselves, and were completely invisible to the naked eye.

I muttered an expletive, and decided that, rather than wait another half hour, I would cut my losses and check outside now - the lights were bound to be out, and I would then be able to get a few hours sleep before the morning. Stamping towards the front door, I thought longingly about the sleep ahead of me, and wished fervently that the sky would be dark above the Arctic Circle. I stepped through the front door, and let my eyes adjust to the streetlights and resultant glare from the snow beneath my feet. Stepping a few yards away from the house, I turned around and looked up.

I muttered another expletive.

Above the house, a snaking line of iridescent green, winked and spun across the horizon, mocking me from afar. I raced across the road and then crunched over the snowy tundra towards the hotel, beyond caring about falling over. As I ran, I glanced back and the sky exploded - brilliant flames of half-light flickered over me like icy fire and behind them, strong waves of emerald danced hand in hand from the far stretches of the icy arctic sea to the towering mountains, 65 miles south.

I crashed through the hotel door and raced up the steps of the front porch, haring towards the bedrooms of the BBC. It took another 15 minutes before the crew were up and ready; some of them stared out the windows at the incredible sight, having never seen it before in years of working across the globe. 6 of us crammed into a truck designed to carry four, and camera equipment was wedged onto knees and under feet. As our vehicle set off down the dirt road towards the runway (the best place to the see the Northern Lights due to the lack of light pollution), the others told me how grateful they were that I had stayed up so late. I grunted a tired reply, hoping for a late start the following day.

On arriving at the runway, the lights had begun to fade, and we struggled to film them with equipment not designed for filming such a weakly lit subject. As the crew began to pack up, I explained to Steve that the best way to see the lights was to lie on your back and gaze up at the sky. Everyone else derided this idea as ridiculous due to the icy road beneath their feet and the freezing temperatures. Just as the crew decided to call it a night, I looked up and saw the beginnings of an explosion. It was as if somebody had lit a match in the far corner of a room - a distant region of the lights began to glow more intensely. Within seconds, the sky was invaded by armies of green, marching and twirling in from every direction. I shouted; ‘LOOK UP!’, but everyone already had. Looking around, it was as if an unseen gust of wind had passed me by - 5 people were lying around my feet, flat on their backs, staring up into the green eye of the arctic night.

SUNDAY

I wake up, drunk from lack of sleep, and wipe the condensation from the inside of our caravan window. Outside, flocks of sheep and whole forests of trees spread out to the horizon. The ground is yellow-green with a lush carpet of grass - a stark contrast to the gleaming white with which I have become familiar. Distant rainclouds rear up and gallop across the sky before crashing down with the power of a million fat drops of rain, across the roof above me. All of this seems strange, but, at the same time, strangely familiar. Red kites and buzzards hang motionless in the valley below, feathers flickering in the gusty breeze which carries the humid, hot smell of fresh autumn rain through the gaps in the leaky windows.

A caravan trip to Wales has never sounded so appealing.

I am home.

IF YOU WISH TO BE INFORMED WHEN MY VIDEO IS COMPLETED, SO THAT YOU CAN WATCH A TRAILER ON YOUTUBE, PLEASE SEND AN EMAIL WITH THE SUBJECT ‘ Inform Me’ TO chris@thicketfilms.com *

This blog is dedicated to Ted Oakes, and all of the Deadly 60 team, without whom I would never have accomplished this much.

NB: A brief CV (résumé) is now available on the ‘cv’ page of this website (www.thicketfilms.com); simply click on the relevant link in the link bar at the top of any page.

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The End... Nearly

Wed, 22 Oct 2008 05:42:30 +0100

This is going to be my last blog from inside Alaska. I’m currently so busy with work and last minute packing that I’ve only had time to cut a short movie from my little backup camera. I’ve been working as an assistant with a crew from the BBC Natural History Unit; they’re incredibly friendly and I persuaded their presenter to do a piece to camera for me (and the kids at my Dad’s school). I’ll post another blog as soon as I’m back, about what it’s like to work behind the scenes, but for now I’ll just let Steve do the talking...

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Fantastic Mr. Fox

Thu, 16 Oct 2008 05:09:21 +0100

Lying on my belly, I edge forwards, sliding through the thick snow, propelled by skinny elbows. I look up and into a shining white face whose piercing yellow eyes glare back at me in contempt.

Less than a week until my flight home, and the Arctic foxes have moved into the bonepile, taking advantage of the reduced number of polar bears in order to stock up on vital food reserves. There are more than six of the animals scurrying around the bones - a tourist from New York describes them as ‘a little bigger than the rats from the subway’. One small fox cub is outnumbered by its older, whiter relatives, who rapidly melt into their snowy surroundings.

I struggle to remember a time when I have had more charming subjects filling the frame of my camera. The younger foxes are more tame, and will allow me to approach within three feet of where they are feeding. Preferring the more intimate, eye level photos to those taken from a height, I slither on my front across the snow, in temperatures which hover around -20C. One of the tourists returns to the truck to warm up, after his guide notices that his nose has turned white at the tip - an early sign of frostbite. I snuggle into my warm snow boots - kindly donated by the proprietor of the hotel at which I am staying. Even so, the wind cuts through my thick gloves, and I return again and again to the comparative warmth of the truck, so as to massage life into my fingertips.

In these temperatures, batteries last mere minutes - I discover that the best way to keep a camera battery going is to take it out and suck it every so often. However, as metal freezes to wet skin in less than a second, I take care to avoid touching the terminals with my frozen lips. Sometimes I simply stop recording the images forming before me, preferring to watch the story of the foxes unfold without a lens blurring my enjoyment of the moment.

As the sun grazes the horizon, the polar bears return - a mother and cub cruise across the pack ice, while foxes dance around them at a safe distance. When the bear cub catches sight of a fox, its head sweeps towards the animal, small feet propelling a fat little body across the ice at surprisingly high speeds. As the foxes race to escape, they remind me of newborn lambs; rocking their whole bodies up and down so as to build up speed. However, like Tom and Jerry, the fox is always too fast or too sly for the cub - always jumping out of the way in the nick of time.

The falling sun colours the scene a resplendent orange, painting the fluffy white fur of the foxes and the bears. Reluctantly, I jump back into the truck and return to the hotel, happy at the prospect of another week with these obliging animals.

This blog is dedicated to my parents and sister, currently basking in the warmth of the British autumn.

MORE PHOTOS CAN BE SEEN AT THE BLOG PAGE OF www.thicketfilms.com

A Different Type of Cold

Fri, 10 Oct 2008 07:26:17 +0100

Sitting in my warm bedroom, the cold hard drifts which carpet the village outside seem like a fairytale set in a distant country. It’s often so hard to believe I’m marooned in the arctic circle, that I am forced to edge up to the windows and sneak a look at the real world.

I type away on a modern laptop under the glare of fluorescent lights, carpet under my feet, a modern bathroom suite across the corridor and blinds at the windows. Make no mistake, however; life is not easy in arctic Alaska. Outside, temperatures drop to -5C in the daytime, the sea has frozen for hundreds of metres offshore and just two nights ago, I drove my truck so far into a snowdrift that it took nearly an hour for two other vehicles to pull it out. Walt - the proprietor of the hotel in which I work for room and board - has begun wearing a warmer hat. “It’s my fall hat” he tells me, explaining that he has a thicker, fur-lined model for winter.

A pair of young snowy owls (pictured above) has moved onto Barter Island in preparation for the cold and dark months ahead. On November 21st, the sun will set on Kaktovik, and two months of perpetual dark will begin. In the depths of winter, temperatures drop so low that you can throw water into the air and watch it freeze before it crashes to the ground. Winds may reach 100mph or more - the winds which battered Kaktovik for two days this week were only 30mph, and yet ripped apart the windsock which flies above the runway. Snow drifts in a Kaktovik winter can reach the top of two-storey buildings. It is hard to believe that, for thousands of years, people survived in shelters made entirely from snow through just this type of weather. In the deep midwinter, venturing outside requires a full face mask in order to prevent frostbite, which can occur literally in seconds.

The native people of the North Slope of Alaska not only survived in this environment - they thrived in the cold, using it to their advantage; storing food in the permafrost, hunting and fishing from the ice and creating well-insulated temporary homes from the snow. In the summer, sod houses were hacked from the frozen ground, and provided ideal protection from the whistling Arctic winds.

Some of the more senior native residents of the North Slope are understandably reticent in giving up the old ways. Just last week, an 88 year old man, who had lived on his own in the wilderness for the previous two months, crashed through the ice on his skidoo while crossing a frozen river. Unfazed by the accident, he pulled himself out of the water and ploughed on towards a hunting camp. However, in a terrible twist of fate, the cold water on his clothes became his downfall, and he was later found frozen to death out on the tundra. His determination and tragic passing mean he will be remembered for many years to come, in a society where death is regularly caused by extremes of weather.

Sat in my truck at the bonepile, I reflected on the death of a noble hunter, whose life was the embodiment of his cultural traditions.

My breath fogged the inside of the truck windows as I scanned the sea ice, waiting for polar bears to approach close enough to film. In the distance, two cubs played in the snow, rolling over one another then breaking through into the sea beneath them, splashing through the water then running for their mother, who nursed them in the lee of a snow drift. Pure golden sunlight pierced through the omnipresent clouds, lighting up a perfect scene of family bliss. On three sides of my vehicle, brilliant white snow stretched off towards the horizon, the sea only visible as a notch of deep blue just below the sky. I gazed out, taking in the distant cliffs, softened by snow drifts, the bleached whale bones scattered under puffy clouds the colour of wet slate. My toes were steadily turning into blocks of ice, but I ignored the cold and just sat and soaked in the spirit of this land on the edge of the world.

I leave in 12 days.

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Shuffling Through Snowdrifts

Sun, 5 Oct 2008 05:17:15 +0100

The weak winter sun floats amongst wispy clouds just above the horizon, casting long shadows across the snowy tundra. Around it, the sky is an impossible shade of yellow, fading upwards to a brilliant blue. White clouds drift above me on a light wind, which carries the cold straight through my clothes.

Much has changed since the previous week’s substantial snowfall. At first, the snow wouldn’t stop coming; fat flakes falling from an angry grey sky, driven by powerful winds. After this came yet stronger winds, carving the white carpet into sharp edges and soft piles. The consistent wind direction created drifts which stretched out like long white shadows from every building in the village. Previously-safe roads became deadly as temperatures see-sawed around zero degrees; thawing then re-freezing the white carpet with slick patches of ice.

Having never experienced such deep snow before, I became entranced by the way in which drifts crept up to buildings, then formed sheer faces just inches away, as the wind carried the powder up and over the roofs like smoke, coating rooftops with a foot-thick layer of insulation. The incredible curves and edges fascinated me - many times I reached out to touch the pinnacle of a drift, excited to explore its brutal shape with bare fingers.

Walking to work became a problem - the 50 or so metres between the hotel and my house consists mainly of a swathe of tundra, on which drifts up to thigh height have gradually formed. This morning I crashed through a solid drift which filled my wellies with the cold, wet snow I had displaced. Cursing my misfortune, I hobbled the rest of the way with soggy socks, emptying out a pint of snow from each boot in the porch at the hotel. Outside, drifts lean against the thin plywood walls - each day I’ve watched them grow, until, over a week after the first snowfall, they have outgrown even me.

Getting out onto the tundra has become less an escape from work, more of a chore in itself. Furthermore, with the small ponds - and even the large reservoir - covered by drifts up to three feet thick, it is downright dangerous to plough a path through the virgin snow. Despite (or maybe because of) this, I took it upon myself to explore the wilderness beyond the village earlier today. I chose to walk out towards the reservoir on a road which had been in regular use only a few days previously. Now though, even this track is deep in drifts; people have no reason to travel out in such conditions on a road to nowhere. However, I discovered that, with ski pants worn over the tops of wellies, I could safely enter snow up to waist deep without worrying about soggy socks.

Once I had reached the end of the road (itself almost unrecognisable due to the drifts), I ploughed on across the tundra. Here, I found the tracks of a vole, which had ventured up from its network of tunnels beneath the snow, only to disappear seconds later into a hole. Scattered randomly across the tundra, I could see these blue holes, marking the entrances and exits to the labyrinth which lay beneath me. A few days previously, I watched as a dark vole ran across the white carpet just yards from a hunting short-eared owl (see photo, right). The owl was caught unawares, and missed its prey - a relief for the rodent (and myself), but a costly mistake for the predator, which had ventured right into the heart of the village in search of its prey.

Keeping to the edge of the reservoir, I knew that no ponds lay in my way, and so I was able to plunge deep into drifts, safe in the knowledge that a watery demise did not lie beneath. At points, I came across snow too deep to walk through - here, the only way to carry on was to shuffle along on my knees, using my tripod as a blind man uses his cane. After 20 minutes more walking, I reached the end of the reservoir and continued on towards the dump on the east side of the island.

Crossing a lone snowmachine track, I plunged forward too fast and, before I even had time to think where I was going, my left foot crashed through a foot of snow and dropped a further foot into icy cold water. Panicking, I thrust my right foot down - this also crashed through the thin ice covering the pond and sunk to the bottom. Backing slowly out, I chose, unwisely, to continue across the low-lying plain between the reservoir and the dump. Within 20 seconds I had again hit a pond, and, as black water seeped into my white footprints, I reconsidered my path. From walking across the tundra during the previous two months, I knew that at least one lake lay ahead - this one would be more than a metre deep, and I would not be likely to escape without breaking through into freezing, stagnant water. Preferring to return to the UK in an airline seat than a cargo hold, I decided to head back the way I had come.

As I walked back through the snow, glass-like ice crystals across the tundra caught the sun and twinkled like a galaxy of tiny stars. Out here in the Arctic Circle, the light changes dramatically from second to second, minute to minute; revealing subtle nuances in a landscape of white, before cloaking them again just as swiftly. I returned home, surrounded by a blaze of crisp orange light, as the dying sun neared the horizon.

This blog is dedicated to Kate Macdonald; thanks for the support!

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Big White Wild

Sat, 27 Sep 2008 06:06:49 +0100

The snow is still drifting down from dark grey skies, settling onto a four-inch thick carpet of glistening white which stretches from horizon to horizon.

Winter has arrived at last. Some premature flushes of snow blew through in the past few weeks, but the white season has now truly caught a hold of this land on the edge of the Arctic Ocean. Down at the whalebone pile, drifts of snow coat the skulls and bones of animals not long dead. Tourists flock like vultures to watch a lone, skinny polar bear struggle to survive in the white-out.

The arctic fox - which had appeared somewhat ridiculous, attempting to hide its bright white coat inamongst the rufous, dying grasses - is now reaping the rewards of his early change of clothes. He leaps and bounds across the ground, chasing his tail and sniffing at a landscape of brilliant white. I walk up onto the tundra and follow the tracks of a single fox; wedges sliced into the fresh snow. As I twist and turn, tracing the ghost of a fox long-gone, I become disorientated. I look up suddenly, surprised to see a light out at sea, only to discover that the village has spun across the horizon, and I’m chasing my own tail. The fox’s steps crisscross the tundra in what seems like huge circles, and yet they never cross over. Eventually the trail turns towards the sea and is lost in a vast conglomeration of prints - perhaps a family groups ekes out a living here in this harsh land.

Walking out of my porch this morning, I felt like I had been transported to another country. Landmarks which had become comfortingly familiar over the previous two months had been transformed almost unrecognisably. The barrier islands - those dark brown smears on the horizon - had been coated with snow, like icing on a cake, and now looked like a distant ice sheet floating towards land. Having finally summed up the courage to drive the canary yellow tour bus (an old school bus) just days earlier, I now had to cope with a whole new challenge. Of course, it turned out that, like most things up here, my fears were unfounded - driving on snow was much easier (particularly using 4x4s) than it first sounded. My first job was to drive a tourist down to the bonepile - a five-minute drive along mostly flat (dirt) roads. At the bones, the seagulls seemed to have been drained of all colour and, in flight, ghostlike, their only visible features were scarlet feet and bright yellow beaks. Feet and beaks glided silently over us, strangely devoid of their bodies, which were only revealed as the birds passed over the sea.

Back on the tundra, walking in snow was a whole new experience. At first it was exhilarating, but then the wind raised its ugly head and beat down upon me, the snow began clinging to my fleece and headscarf. After an hour, ice laced through my hair and froze any exposed clothing into a stiffened white lump. I had assumed that polar explorers would be bothered by the snow and ice upon their clothes, but even a thin layer formed a substantial protection against the wind, rather than melting and seeping down to my skin. By now, all landmarks had disappeared, and navigation depended on monitoring the wind direction, for the sun was obscured, every direction looked the same, and the village was hidden from view by the thickly falling snow. I felt like Ranulph Fiennes as I ploughed through thick drifts in my sodden walking boots. My bootlaces became steadily iced together in a lump which swung back and forth like a pendulum.

After two hours on the tundra, the village came back into view to the North and I headed for the beach, so as to make for easier walking. Keeping a keen eye out for any grizzlies and polar bears, I slid down the low cliffs and onto the icy white beach. Waves ground up against the edge of the snow, trimming it to shape; an effort which will cease only when the ocean itself succumbs to the freezing grip of winter. Clustered along the edge of the cliffs were huge icicles, stalactite-like in scale and form. they hung like strange tree roots from the eroded edge of the tundra, stretching down towards the sea. As I climbed up the cliffs to get a closer look, my foot slipped on the icy mud and I plunged back down the steep slope, clutching at passing rocks with naked fingers. After sliding a few metres, I got a purchase on a slab of mud, my fingernails jarring against the rock-hard handhold. Chastened, I slid the rest of the way down on my arse and continued my walk along the beach, searching for another icicle I might be able to get my hands on.

NB: I’ll now be in Kaktovik until the 22nd of October, flying home from Fairbanks the following day. I have secured a job as a runner (lackey) for a BBC film crew who are coming up to make a children’s TV show about dangerous animals (like the polar bear). Unfortunately, the earliest they could arrive was the 20th October, so I had to delay my flights home. As such, I won’t be stewarding at the Wildscreen Festival in Bristol.

MORE PHOTOS CAN BE SEEN AT THE BLOG PAGE OF www.thicketfilms.com

Dance of the Demon Sky

Wed, 17 Sep 2008 08:53:22 +0100

It was a dangerous game of cat and mouse in surreal circumstances, which paid off with spectacular results.

It was two nights ago.

Having discovered that the BBC might be interested in hiring me as a runner (lackey) on a shoot here in Kaktovik, I was impatiently waiting on an opportune moment to phone the researcher who was planning the trip. The moment arrived on Sunday night, just after midnight, on the village library’s steps - the sole vestige of wireless internet in the technological no-mans’-land that is Kaktovik. Having stalked across town, my laptop in one hand, a can of bear spray in the other, I reached the library and phoned out to the UK (9 hours ahead) via Skype. An office worker told me to phone back in 20 minutes time. Frustrated, I hung up, and aimlessly browsed the internet, glancing up occasionally to ensure a bear attack wasn’t imminent.

At around half midnight, I looked up again to check for bears, and noticed an eerie green glow lighting up the sky above the village. The clouds had cleared and the whole sky was unveiled - a vast canvas, spread with stars and lit by a searing white full moon. Wondering at the cause of the green glow, I set my computer down and walked down from the library steps, shielding my eyes from the light of the moon. Before me, the ramshackle village tumbled down the slope towards the sea, echoing with the howling of countless dogs. Above me, the green glow faltered, before returning anew, stronger this time, shifting sinuously across the sky.

I was in awe at this fantastic sight, and it was a while before I remembered the phone call. Rushing back to my laptop, I typed in the phone number and hit return. Within seconds, the office worker’s voice was again crackling in my ears, drowning out the neighbourhood dogs. “Could you phone back in another 10 minutes?” she asked, apologising for the delay. “No problem” I replied, then, caught up in the moment, I added “I’m watching the Northern Lights right now, so I’m quite happy waiting around”. Inevitably, my remark was lost in the time delay, as both of us had begun talking at the same time - the resulting explanation somewhat detracted from the exciting nature of my observation.

On completing the phone call (at 1am), I walked impatiently back through the village and burst through my door. Grabbing yet another can of bear spray, my camera, video camera and a tripod, I burst back through the door before remembering to check for bears in the porch. Thankfully the bears were elsewhere, enjoying a whale burger, perhaps, or sitting back and watching the northern lights. I should add at this point that, due to my somewhat defunct accent, any time I use the phrase ‘Aurora’, people look at me in absolute confusion (it comes out as something like ‘aw-wawh’); hence sticking to ‘Northern Lights’.

As I walked up towards the reservoir, I noticed that, though a full-moon is perfect lighting for a midnight stroll, it is rather less useful when attempting to distinguish piles of wood from prowling bears. At one point, I spent a full minute staring at, and walking towards, a piece of junk metal, absolutely convinced that it was a (moving) Arctic Fox. Therefore, on arriving at the reservoir, my nerves were shot to pieces, from suddenly noticing suspicious looking clumps of grass. It was a while before I was calm enough to appreciate what was unfolding before me.

As the wind crashed past, unsettling my tripod and camera, I stared up through streaming eyes at a sight which made my stomach sink and my heart leap. Up until that point, I had thought that the lights which I had seen on TV were time lapse - sped up to make them more visually interesting. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Over the reservoir, smoky green waves of light flickered, spat and swam, reflected in the rippling waters beneath. Sometimes they moved slowly, exploring the sky with tendrils of colour, licking the dark corners of the night. Sometimes they moved quickly, this vast cosmic fantasy flicking from right to left, top to bottom, front to back, side to side - at once both flat and 3-dimensional; stretching like a fat snake from horizon to horizon. Like the pictures in clouds, the lights occasionally took on familiar shapes - shortly after I arrived at the reservoir, a vast neon question mark hovered above the horizon (pictured above right).

The following night, I was drawn back to the lights; this time I drove the truck up to the reservoir, and sat, kneeled, lay on my back and stared up at this shining example of natural beauty. This time, pinks and reds bled through the glowing green - a sure sign that winter was on its way. Shortly before I left, when the lights had begun to die away, a truck pulled up, driven by a (Inupiat) local guy, with his girlfriend in the passenger’s seat. After a brief conversation, he told me that, if I wanted the lights to come on stronger, I just had to whistle. Without another word, he stuck four fingers in his mouth and out came an ear splitting shriek which split the dark night in two before being carried off on the violent wind. Within a minute, the lights were back; as strong as ever, dancing through the perfect night.

I may be in Kaktovik for a month longer than I expected, should the BBC job come through. I look forward to spending many more nights beneath the lights; much more of this and I won’t ever want to come home.

Skulls and Cygnets

Fri, 12 Sep 2008 05:03:39 +0100

The wind softly whistles its mournful song in my ear as it whips up the cotton grass into a fluffy frenzy. I stumble forward across squishy lumps and soggy ditches, making slow headway across the tundra.

Glancing over my shoulder, I am annoyed to notice that the sprawling village of Kaktovik still lurks on the horizon. An hour in to my walk, and the signs of human life are omnipresent - not only the village, but also miniature oil slicks, old drinks cans and rusting oil drums. Even on the desolate tundra, it is impossible to escape the trappings of ‘civilisation’.

However, within a few minutes, the land dips down towards the western coast of Barter island, and the village drops out of sight. I am alone, just myself and a hundred miles of tundra ahead of me. Spying an irregular, white shape, out of place in the dying brown grasses, I walk over to investigate. A caribou skull, complete with antlers, rests on the dry ground before me (see photo, top). Bending down, I lift the skull up, to examine the teeth and empty eye sockets, smoothing my fingers over the silky white bones. The sticky, green deposit on the teeth (algae or somesuch) suggests that the bones have been resting here for a long while. Perhaps decades even.

Putting the skull back in its resting place, I plough on through the dying grassland which stretches across the roof of the world. Winter is almost here - two days previously, I awoke to a symphony of white snowflakes, drifting peaceably past my window. The snow had not settled - the weather was too mild - but more snow is forecast for the weekend, and many villagers say that by the time I leave, the village will have acquired a permanent silver frosting.

Back on the tundra, the dead grasses scrunch beneath my feet, and I look down, noticing the dwarf willow which spreads spiderweb-like across the sodden ground (photo, above right). As a child, I read about dwarf willow in a kids’ book of facts - they are the shortest living tree. Back then, I imagined tiny forests growing up around eskimos’ ankles. My romantic idea of dwarf willow was brought to a crushing anticlimax when I discovered that these plants are merely a collection of root-like branches, woven through the peaty soil, with a collection of leaves growing straight from the roots. It is, however, somewhat entertaining to walk over these and know that you are standing on the tops of the tallest trees for many miles around.

On reaching the ocean, the tundra changes, flattening into a low coastal plain, complete with short, bristly grasses. Here, high tides may inundate the land; lines of bleached-white driftwood mark the highest. The wood is worn smooth by its ocean odyssey, ending in bulbous lumps where the roots of branches once flourished. The piles of wood look like stacks of leg bones from some massive prehistoric creature (photo, right).

Glancing sideways, checking for bears, my eye falls upon a pair of cygnets (young swans) gliding across one of the many pools of water which speckle the shoreline. I hasten towards them, moving gently and low to the ground, holding my video camera so that the reflective silver sides don’t flash in the low arctic sunlight. The cygnets look nervous, paddling to the far end of their pool and flapping their wings in agitation (photo, right). However, within minutes, they are at ease, and allow me to walk to within a few metres of the spot in which they are feeding.

These young birds seem naively curious, and take little notice of me, glancing up only in response to my imitation of their calls. They honk softly to one another and slip smoothly from land and back into the water. I am taken by the gentle way in which they interact, nuzzling each other and swimming close together - when one bird moves away, the other is quick to follow (photo, right). My camera clicks away, before I remember my priorities and prepare to video their behaviour. I become entranced by their soft, gentle movements, failing to notice, or even care, as murky water seeps into my clothes from the soggy shoreline.

Eventually, the birds slide away from me, and out into deeper water. Not without regret, I stand up and walk away, shocked by the cold water which has soaked through my clothes. Without a doubt, these birds are the most obliging I have encountered in my month in the Arctic Circle. I am becoming familiar with Alaskan life, and am beginning to truly enjoy my stay here; resenting, rather than welcoming the passage of time, which will lead to my flight home at the beginning of October. For now, I will immerse myself in the dying tundra, before it’s too late.

This blog was written for Ariane.