For My Father, One Year Gone

As I reflect on the past year since my father, Robert Ptacek, passed away suddenly of a presumed heart attack at the age of 66, I feel compelled to honor his memory in some way.  

I have noticed recently that although the piercing pain of loss has somewhat dulled, and the waves of grief now come with less frequency, my memories of him also seem to have faded or blurred in some way.  The picture of him in my minds eye begins to lose focus; the sound of his voice seems more distant.

A friend who also lost her father prematurely warned me of this, and told me to write everything down - going as far as giving me a journal to do just that.  Sadly, I have found myself too preoccupied to write; the pages sit empty at my bedside.  Perhaps I am just avoiding the sadness I know it would invoke.

I’m not sure if or when I ever will pick up that pen, so it is with that in mind that I would like to share this, the eulogy I wrote for his celebration of life held last May, in the hopes that it will help me, his friends, and family remember him today and in the future.

 A Eulogy for My Father

When I think of my dad, one of the first things I think about is the kerosene lamp on our sailboat, Europa.  I can vividly recall the pungent scent of the kerosene, the feeling of warmth and safety below deck, the boat rocking gently, the sound of waves lapping on the fiberglass hull.  The lamp had a gimbal mount, so no matter how far the boat leaned to one side, it would always stay upright.  I used to sit and watch it sway back and forth while my dad was at the helm, above deck.  On overnight sailing trips up to Door County, it was a light shining in the darkness, anchoring our little boat in a universe of endless stars in the sky above, and their mirror reflection in the lake below.

My father was born just days after the winter solstice, when the dark, winter world begins to get lighter every day.  I find this to be a fitting analogy for his warm, generous spirit.  He truly believed in the greater good, and he lived it every day, selflessly caring for the people all around him, no matter the need, and no matter who they were.

This was evident when he trained and hired Hmong refugees to be press operators at Insty Prints.  They were some of his finest employees.  He provided just a few jobs, but more importantly, he provided the skills and confidence to survive and settle in what was certainly a frightening new home, and supported an entire community in the process.  It was his way of saying, “welcome - you belong here”.

Another moment I distinctly recall happened during a business trip to Minneapolis for a printing convention.  As was often the case, he brought the whole family.  After dinner at a fancy restaurant downtown, he asked for a box for our leftovers and walked the alleys around our hotel until he found someone who was hungry.  It was acts such as these - big and small - that defined my father’s relationship with the world around him.  He always had time for everyone, and he always wanted to help.

Food was his love language.  He loved hosting friends new and old for dinner or small gatherings, and went out of his way to make sure everyone felt included in the conversation.  He made the most amazing meals from scratch, often from random ingredients in the pantry, a practice I still follow to this day.  He taught me that good cooking comes down to a few complimentary flavors and good sense of timing, and that food tasted best when shared with other people.

His love of travel and culture was unparalleled - whether exploring new places here in the United States, or halfway around the world.  He also seemed to find a truly authentic experience, like the time he spent the Y2K New Year on a vodka-soaked, three-day boar hunt deep in the winter forest in Russia, unsure if there would even be a modern world to return to when he got home.

Some of my earliest memories are from our month in Spain visiting Aunt Sandy, Uncle Jose, and our cousins Sarah and Andrea.  We explored castles and caves and spent halcyon, sun kissed days on an island in the Mediterranean.  Later on, in high school, he brought Nick and I to Europe to become more acquainted with our German and Czech ancestry.  We took the train from Amsterdam to Berlin and finally to Prague, where we ate and drank our way through that ancient fairytale city of towering castles and cathedrals under the cold, steel-gray skies of November, forging a deeper bond than ever before among the three of us.

But my favorite memories are from our annual canoe trips down the Wisconsin River every Memorial Day Weekend with our dear family friends, Jeff, Jerry, and Gavin Ladewig, and usually a few other well-selected friends to round out the crew.  Without fail, it always rained.  But it didn’t matter - that was half the fun of living outside for a few days.

When the sun did shine, I remember my father in his straw hat, wearing aviator sunglasses and chomping on a cigar as we floated down the lazy river.  My dad and Jeff drank beer, my brother, Gavin, and I drank Capri Sun.  Each night we’d camp on sandbars and cook dinner on a Coleman two-burner stove.  Mac and cheese was my favorite.  Sometimes we’d find old beer cans on the river’s edge, or newer cans scattered around our camp in the morning, and my dad and Jeff had us convinced that it was the work of the Beer Drinking Ghost.

Looking back, these short trips were pretty tame, but they instilled in me a deep love for canoeing, and more importantly, for the environment around us - leading me to pursue a career in film and photography for the environmentally-progressive outdoor clothing company Patagonia, and to return to the water each year for annual canoe trip, from the wilds of the Boundary Waters and northwest Ontario to month-long expeditions in the far north of Arctic Alaska.

Whether it was on those canoe trips as a kid, simple walks in the forest around my grandparent’s house, or sailing on Lake Michigan, my father taught me many lessons about the need to respect and protect our natural world.  It was where he found peace, and even spirituality.  I distinctly remember a walk in the woods where he explained to Nick and I that even though he didn’t go to church with us on Sundays, he still went, but just in a different way - the forest was his church.

While struggling to find words for today, I read through some old letters and emails between my dad and my grandmother, and found this passage from an email on December 26, 2005.  They had been discussing a poem she was working on, and my father was attempting to explain the moments in which he finds peace:

“When sailing through a thunderstorm at night with lightning flashing everywhere to the horizon, strangely, I find a sort of peace.  High stimulation somehow focuses me, and the cacophony of my scattered random thoughts go away.  It is then that I let go, and focus solely on the immediacy of the situation, and knowing that I can only do so much about it, I am infused with a clarity of thought.  I become physically calm, and my mind opens to the enormity of the universe, and I seem to then be able to make contact with the cosmos.  Awed and respectful, I then take my place in that vast realm of peaceful spirituality, and for only a while, I escape my tortured mind, and I realize that I am made of the cosmos.  I possess it and it possesses me.  Maybe in a moment like this, mankind came up with the concept of god, as a primitive and incomplete explanation of an experience like this.”

This passage resonated deeply for me, for it so eloquently articulates my very own views on spirituality and man’s relationship with the cosmos.  I too have had those moments of clarity in the chaos, of connection to something greater amidst the raging storm, and I only find them when I am deep in the natural world.  I take these sojourns into the wilderness with great reverence and respect.  They are the most important thing I do each year.

Living out in California the past eight years, I don’t get back home very often, especially for quality time with my family, so when my dad asked me to take him on a canoe trip to the Boundary Waters last year, I knew I needed to make it happen.  I had already dedicated my time off to a larger expedition on the Brightsand and Kopka Rivers in Ontario, and pressing needs at work made it difficult to take any more, but I was able to pull some strings and get a few days in September, just before the weather turns and the cold winds of autumn that mark the end of travel by canoe for the season.

It was unseasonably warm as we embarked on our trip, and we followed one of my favorite routes from my time as an outfitter along the Minnesota-Canadian border: Lake Saganaga to Esther and Hanson, down to the South Arm of Knife Lake, then back home via Ogishkemuncie, Alpine, and Seagull Lakes.

I hadn’t been in a canoe with my dad since high school, and it felt strange to realize how I was now leading the way on our trip - explaining the nuances of how to travel by canoe, and serving as guide, navigator, sherpa, and camp chef.  When I found that he could not lift our heavy packs, I sent him ahead at each portage with a light daypack and a paddle, while I triple portaged the packs and canoe, usually before he got to the other side.

The trip was short but sweet, and very eventful, including a close encounter with a hungry bear who tried to steal our food pack on a portage, and riding out torrential downpours each night in our cramped and wet tent.  On our last night in the wilderness, we camped at my favorite site on Seagull Lake and shared chili, rum-lemonade, and laughs in the warm glow of a lantern under a tarp.  In the morning, we climbed to the top of the Palisades, a cliff-top lookout with expansive views of the the wilderness, and took in one of my favorite views on the planet.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that trip would be my last moments with him.  I don’t think I’d have it any other way.

So here I am.  Here we are.  Suddenly and without warning, he’s gone.

These last few months have been the hardest of my life.  I’ve struggled amidst the chaos of it all.  I’ve broken down and cried more than a few times.  I’ve felt lost, alone, and afraid.  I’ve needed guidance.  I’ve wanted to call my dad and ask what I should do.  After all, what is the role of a father, but to guide us through life?  I think that is the  hardest part about all of this - the thought that my father is no longer there to guide me, and I’m on my own.

Except I’m not on my own.

Something happened the other morning that helped give me a new perspective.  As I made my way to LAX in the early morning fog of Los Angeles, my Lyft driver was listening to an interview with the Buddhist monk and peace activist Thich Nhat Hanh.  He spoke of advocating for peace and non-violence, mindfulness, and deep listening in our communications with others.  As we approached the terminal, the interview was also drawing to a close, and the last thing he spoke of was death and dying.

He likened someone no longer being with us to a cloud in the sky.  When a cloud is no longer in the sky, it doesn’t mean that the cloud is gone.  It simply takes on different forms - rain, snow, hail, and eventually lakes, rivers, and oceans.  It is impossible for the cloud to pass into non-being - it is always here, just in a different form.  So we shouldn’t be sad when the cloud is no longer there - we should just try to recognize that it is continued in many new forms - in us, and around us.

He is not gone after all.  He lives on in you, in me, in the memories we share, in the way we interact with each other every day.  He is still here to guide us - we just need to know where to look.

Editing a Documentary Film? Read This First.

There is no shortage of tutorial material on the actual nuts and bolts of editing, but there is a surprising lack of accessible knowledge on how to successfully approach and complete large editing projects, particularly documentaries, which can be unwieldy in their complex workflows, scope, and scale.

I compiled these notes throughout the six month process of prepping and editing the documentary takayna for Patagonia Films.  It was a difficult time for me both personally and professionally, as I was grieving the sudden and premature loss of my father and working through his estate matters while simultaneously editing my first major documentary film and handling day-to-day media asset management for Patagonia’s global video needs.

During this period I worked incredibly long hours (and weeks), was in the worst physical and mental health of my life, and made a lot of mistakes along the way.  But I learned a lot, finished the film, and made sure to take notes.  This is a compilation of what I learned during this project and my previous ten years as an editor and media asset manager at Patagonia and as a freelance filmmaker focusing on brand, product, and environmental documentary work.  This advice will apply well for anyone looking to edit a long documentary film or work with a brand in any capacity.

Everything Is In Its Right Place

•“Mise en place!”  This goes for your physical, digital, and mental space.  Tidy your office, desk, computer desk top, and file structure regularly; ideally at the start of every day.  Have supplies, snacks, and drinks at hand.  Keep your editing suite well-decorated, clean, and clutter-free for minimum distraction and maximum inspiration.

•“Look good, feel good, play good”.  Dress for success.  Wear comfortable clothes, but don’t be a slob.  By donning presentable attire, you will enter “work mode” much faster, be more apt to go on a quick errand or walk to clear your head, and be ready for drop-in visits from directors or clients.

•Keep distractions to a minimum and protect your time to edit.  Set aside time to check off mundane to-do list items at the start of the day or week.  If new tasks come up when you’re busy, ask for a deadline and add them to a list to revisit later, instead of reacting right away.  If you’re deep in the weeds on a project, set an out-of-office response on your email and don’t check it more than once or twice a day.  Set your phone across the room so incoming texts and notifications don’t distract you.

•It goes without saying that you should back up your footage in at least three places (one offsite).  But also remember to save your working project files periodically.  Save a new version of your project file to the cloud every night, without fail.  Replicate your sequences often. It will save your ass someday.

Be Prepared

•Prep your footage in at least three passes.  The more familiar you are with it, the better your edit will be.  By reviewing the footage multiple times, you will be intimately aware of the overall content available to work with, connections that can be made between characters, scenes, and interview statements, and all the little moments that make a film shine.

•Be incredibly, insufferably detail-oriented and organized.  This allows for the mess of creativity later.  Create bins and sequences to organize footage by scene/location, interview subject, footage type, and quality, following a schema based on the scale and scope of the project. Consistency is key.

•Write your project log line, and come back to it often.  This is the thesis of your film.  It is easy to go down rabbit holes and follow false pathways - avoid this to save time and energy.  Be willing to follow new pathways that present themselves, but always keep in mind the single overarching message of your project.

•Paper edits are your friend.  Especially for the big ideas, early on.  After reviewing your footage a few times, jot down a quick outline and use lots of sticky notes to capture the main moments and concepts you will try to convey in your edit.  Arrange and rearrange them until you begin to connect ideas and main story points together.  Hang a board with these notes on a wall near your desk and revisit it often.  Don’t be afraid to rearrange again, especially after scenes and sections of the film begin to coalesce.  

•Use a transcription service such as Trint to transcribe trimmed and prepped interview sequences.  Often, this is a good way to quickly ascertain the content of your interviews and puzzle through the tougher concepts that need to be conveyed.  If the timecode on your transcript matches the synced interview sequence, you will also be able to word-search your transcripts for a specific phrase or sentence and then quickly find the corresponding footage.

Entering Flow State: The Edit

•Start (and finish) new edits constantly.  Post new work all the time and gauge reaction on social media.  Make stuff, put it out into the world, and move on to something new.  It can be freeing to work on something for fun, free of opinions and deadlines.

•If you want to rapidly improve your editing, cut a bunch of 15 or 30 second shorts.  Or for a real challenge, try creating a 6 second spot.  This exercise will make your editing and storytelling cleaner, tighter, and more efficient.  Sometimes it helps to think of a larger project as a series of shorter edits.  With enough short moments strung together in a logical fashion, suddenly, you have a film.

•If you’re having trouble getting started, go for some low hanging fruit.  Alternatively, it can be good to start with your hardest scene first.  When working on a new section, find your starting point and your ending point, and figure out how to link the two together in the most efficient way.  Avoid extraneous content and dialogue.  Find the cleanest line.

•Show, don’t tell.  Give the audience time to make the connections or interpret a scene in their own way.  Cut in a way that allows for comfortable tracking by the viewer’s eye, both in terms of visuals and how long it takes to absorb a specific shot.  Use this rhythm to your advantage.

•Good editing is instinctual.  You’ll know the exact frame to cut on 99% of the time.  For a good exercise in pacing, watch films on mute and tap your finger each time you think it’s time to cut.  If your pacing instinct is well-honed, more often then not, it will be exactly the moment the editor has chosen.

•Great editing is about what you don’t use.  Less is more.  Don’t use everything that was shot.  Start with the obvious best clips first, rely on the lower grade shots only if need be.  Don’t use unnecessary shots or cuts to build a scene.  A straight cut is better than a dissolve.  The list goes on.  Just keep it simple.

•Timing is everything.  Know when to let it breathe.  Know when to move it along.  It’s all about tension and release, both within a scene and throughout an entire film.  If you have a section with rapid cuts and lots of action, follow it with a slower, more contemplative section that allows your audience to take a break and process what they just saw.  As a project progresses, print out photos of each scene and arrange them on the wall for an at-a-glance look at the overall energy flow and tension/release of your project.

•Sound is half of your edit (and sometimes more!).  Leave some air space for sound design.  Don’t go wall to wall on music or dialogue, especially when you know the audience will need a moment to process what they’ve just seen.  When possible, cut dry and avoid temporary tracks for as long as possible.  When music and sound design is finally added, it will really make the scene shine.

•Details make the difference.  Cut on a specific frame, add subtle soundscapes, use nearly imperceptible changes in color to differentiate scenes.

Sustainability: In it for the Long Haul

•Establish a routine and you will soon learn what time of day your best work is likely to be produced.  Understand this, and use it to your advantage.

•Don’t be a hero.  Avoid burnout, and take breaks - throughout the day, and for longer periods (a few days, or a week) during large projects.  A lunchtime bike ride does wonders to reset your mind. Looking at an edit with fresh eyes can do wonders for your work.

•Know when to stop for the night - creativity hits diminishing returns.  But also know when to keep going.  Momentum is real, and it’s your friend.  Recognize a good thing when you see it.

•You may be tempted to eat unhealthy food and maximize your hours in front of a screen in the hopes of squeezing out one more sequence, but this is counterproductive over the long term.  Fuel yourself well, get plenty of rest, maintain good health, and it will result in good work and high output.  

•Good coffee or tea can help kick start a day or give you a boost in the afternoon.  A beer or two can help late in the day.  Cannabis works for some, but I find it to be a hindrance.  Hangovers are not your friend - so save the big nights for after you wrap on the project.

•An electric-assist standing desk is a very good idea.

Room for Improvement

•Show your work to other filmmakers and editors, friends, family, and mentors.  Watch it with them, and you will watch it through their eyes.  Take their opinions seriously, but also know when to ignore notes.  Remember that you don’t have to let your edit get crushed under the weight of every single note you receive.  Decision by committee will kill your film.

•For rough cut reviews, kindly explain what kind of notes are appropriate and actionable at various stages of the review process and make sure your client keeps the plot.  When working with a hypercritical client, a first rough cut that feels “finished” and clearly shows your vision will stand up better to criticism and provide for a smoother review process overall.  Have a reason for everything in your edit.  Defend that reason if it’s not immediately evident.

•Edit side by side with someone you trust.  Talk through what you’re doing (and why).  It can really help a project come along in short order.

•Iterate, iterate, iterate - and save your sequences.  You might want to go back to a previous version.  Create new copies of sequences every night before shutting down, and periodically before major shifts or forks in the road.  Have options available of different shots that could work for a scene.

•Kill your babies - but don’t kill all of them.  Trim the fat.  Be ruthless in your edits.  Less is more.  Keep it tight.  But not too tight.  Know when it’s finished, and don’t keep tinkering.  Second guessing your work only leads to wasted time, energy, and a weaker final product.

•You will run into technical problems. Chances are someone else has, too. Google is your friend.

Finishing and Delivery

•Delivery is one of the most important stages of making a film.  Attention to detail is everything.  Most editors mess it up in some way.  Review your exports with a fine toothed comb before sending them off.  

•Don’t make assumptions.  Ask your client how they’d like files delivered - file names, codecs, versions (text-free, music-free), split audio stems, media-managed project, etc.  The producer you are working with isn’t always the person with the answers to technical questions.  Deliver everything at the same time unless otherwise requested.  Ideally, all of these details would have been worked out early on, during the contract stage of the project.  But they usually are not. Often it is up to you as editor to ask these questions.

•Deadlines get pushed and compounded, and it always falls on the shoulders of the editor to save the day.  Anticipate this on every project, and work ahead of your deadlines.  Stay calm, do what you can, and help to set expectations for what is and isn’t possible.  Be gracious, and your client will hire you again.  Often times they are under huge pressure as well, and you’ll be a hero if you save the day.

•Clients almost always come back well after project completion for minor changes or forgotten versions.  Know when to do a favor and provide these assets free of charge in a timely fashion.  But also know when to charge for additional time.

•Communicate.  Whether you are handing off a project for color, sound, or score, or shipping a final delivery, be incredibly clear about what you are sending, what stage it is in, instructions, what is coming next, etc.  Be clear and concise.  A little goes a long way.

Late October Rain on Basswood Lake

A quick mood edit of some extra footage from Amy and Dave Freeman's Year in the Wilderness expedition to Save the Boundary Waters.  We heard wolves behind camp the next morning.  If you're waiting for something to happen in this video, it's not going to - just some footage of a rainy day.

Shot on Canon 6D, graded with FilmConvert.

Dear USFS,

Dear United States Forest Service,

When I look at this photo, waves of emotion and warm memories come flooding over me.  

I see myself as a young man, not yet twenty years old, perched high atop a cliff on a hot summer day, completely in awe of the beauty that surrounds me.  Islands dot the horizon, cumulonimbus clouds tower overhead, and ancient pines sway in the breeze.

If you’ve ever been to Seagull Lake in the Boundary Waters, you’ll immediately recognize the spot.  The Palisades have since become a favorite place to visit, but this photo was taken on one of my first trips there, during my inaugural season working as a canoe outfitter on the Gunflint Trail.  Looking back, it was a summer that changed my life.

While scrubbing smoke-blackened pots and pans, I would gaze at the wall-sized map for hours - the blue of lakes and rivers splashed across the landscape like splattered paint.  In my mind, I traced canoe routes I knew, and routes I would come to know - always in awe of the fact that with enough food and supplies, I could leave from my back door and paddle those interconnected waterways all the way to the Atlantic, the Pacific, or the Arctic ocean.

With each passing summer, I returned again and again, continuing my work as an outfitter and growing deeper roots to the place, the people, and the culture I came to know and love so well.  I saw friends come and go, wildfires rage and pass, new growth spring to life, and the changing seasons march ever onward, each with a beauty and peacefulness all it’s own.

After college my work as an outfitter came to an end, but my love affair with the Boundary Waters did not.  It became a place of spiritual renewal, and a respite from the stresses of modern life.  A place where I could reconnect with old friends - and with myself - in a real and honest way.  Eventually I moved west for a job in California, working as a photographer and filmmaker in the outdoor industry.  Crowded and arid, California is a far cry from my beloved north woods, but that gives me all the more reason to return every year, where coming back feels like coming home.

It was on one of these trips that I first learned of a proposal by a foreign company to mine for copper on the edge of the wilderness.  This type of mining - sulfide-ore mining - has a horrendous track record of water pollution, and would create an industrial mining district upstream from many of the local outfitters, camps, and resorts that provide access to the magic of the BWCA for so many people.  Even worse, the pollution would flow downstream into the pristine waters of the BWCA, Quetico, and Voyageurs National Park before making it’s way to Hudson Bay - leaving a path of destruction in it’s wake.

When I first heard about the mining proposals, I was shocked and devastated.  I had always thought that the BWCA was a Wilderness protected forever.  While I had read all about the hard work to protect this special place from dams, logging, and mining by folks like Ernest Oberholtzer, Bud Heinselman, and Sigurd Olson, I never once thought that my generation would face such grave threats of our own.

But here we find ourselves needing to justify the worth of clean water.  Why a healthy wilderness tourism economy makes more sense than a few years of mining, and pollution in perpetuity.  Why a place of wonder and spiritual renewal for so many should be kept just how it is.  Why saving one last corner of our great nation for our children and grandchildren to experience the pure magic of a loon call at dusk is worth more than all the copper in the world.

I’m proud to stand up for this wild and wonderful place I know and love so well.  And I ask you, the wonderful and hard working members of the United States Forest Service, to honor your commitment to our great nation’s legacy of wild places by denying renewal of the expired mineral leases currently held by Twin Metals.

Our clean water and wilderness is far more precious than another copper mine.  Please, don’t let our generation be the one that let it slip away.

Sincerely,

Nate Ptacek

Ventura, CA

Note: If you feel inclined to comment on this issue, please email the USFS by July 20th: TwinMetalsLeaseInput@fs.fed.us

Sony RX100 IV Test

I recently picked up a Sony RX100 IV as a back-up body for my Canon 6D (replacing my aging but beloved 60D).  The idea was to have something fast, light, and capable for both video and stills, but that wouldn't take up much space in the kit during long, remote, canoe expeditions in the far north.  I hemmed and hawed over a few different cameras and finally landed on this little beast after seeing some crisp slow-mo footage.  After a quick test, I'm pretty confident that I made the right decision.

This video was shot completely on the fly (hand held) while grabbing a burrito down at the Ventura Pier.  I primarily wanted to test the 1080p 120fps capabilities, although the camera does also shoot 4K 24p.  This cut was lightly stabilized and graded in Adobe Premier Pro CC.  Needless to say, it's pretty incredible image quality, especially considering this is a sub-$1000 point-and-shoot camera.  I'm excited to test it out on an upcoming shoot in the BWCA and a personal trip to Wabakimi Provincial Park.

Behind the Scenes: A Year in the Wilderness - Heart of Winter Update

Already exhausted after 20 minutes, I come to an abrupt halt and slump against the harness of my overloaded pulk sled - a brief rest from the arduous task of breaking trail through knee-deep fresh snow.  Heart pounding, the deep silence of the winter wilderness echoes in my mind, deafening in it’s sheer nothingness.  Even the sound of my labored breath and the crunch of snow underfoot seem stifled by the sound-deadening pillows of snow plastering the forest.  It’s a strange feeling – one that’s only underscored by the physical and mental fog of the most severe cold I’d had in years.  After pausing long enough to catch my breath and see my partner Matt closing in behind me, I cough a few times, lean into the harness, and trudge onward down the undulating path to Angleworm Lake and the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness.

The heart of winter is certainly one of the most beautiful times to be in the wilderness, but it’s also a major test of skill and determination.  Everything is harder, the stakes are higher, and there is little margin for error.  Processing firewood becomes a daily necessity, gathering water requires an axe, and a lost glove can mean frostbite in the wrong conditions.  All that aside, I knew more than anything else that it would be a tough week to film.  In cold weather like this, exposed fingers quickly numb to the point of uselessness, batteries drain in minutes, and quick changes in temperature (such as entering a heated tent) fog lenses and expose delicate electronics to condensation.  Snapping back into the moment, I heave the dead weight of the pulk sled up and over a small hill, looking up only to find a steeper, longer incline ahead.  As we like to say in Minnesota, “Uffda”.

As I crest the hill, the silence is suddenly broken by sing-song commands and the barking of dogs, and I find myself face to face with a team of three Alaskan Huskies.  In tow (quite literally) are my friends Amy and Dave Freeman, who appear happy, healthy, and well tanned from a winter’s worth of snow-reflected sun.  The Freemans are living out here in the BWCA for an entire year to draw attention to proposed sulfide-ore mines near the wilderness boundary, and we are visiting each season to help film the journey.  Warm greetings are exchanged, and we have a lot to catch up on, but save any real conversation for the woodstove – the temperature is dropping, and we still have a few miles to go before we reach camp.  Onward we go with a quickened pace, thankful for the lightened load as Tina, Tank, and Acorn enthusiastically pick up our slack.

We soon arrive in camp - a low spot just off the lake, sheltered from the wind by an outcropping of granite and wreathed with snowcapped pines.  Amy ties up the dogs and begins boiling water for their evening meal of chopped chicken, dog food, and an extra hunk of lard to keep the inner fires burning until morning.  Dave busies himself processing firewood (we’ll need to collect more before nightfall), while Matt and I unload our camera and camping gear from the pulk sleds.  A stiff breeze sends plumes of spindrift across the frozen lake, heralding a cold snap with projected daily highs barely above zero, and overnight lows plunging well past -20°F for the next week straight.

As I step inside the Freeman’s tent, I’m overcome with a feeling of déjà vu.  Save for the addition of hats and gloves hung near the stovepipe to dry, the tipi-shelter hasn’t changed a bit since our visit last October, more than three months ago.  Sure, the Freemans have moved camp dozens of times since then, but the set-up is instantly familiar to me.  In the very middle is a woodstove with a pot of water ready to boil, directly to the left of the door is a stack of firewood and birch bark, and in the back are the sleeping bags and pads, safe from snowy boots and errant sparks.  The sweet scent of wood smoke permeates the air, and I’m happy to be a visitor in the Freeman’s home once again.

Later that night, we settle in around the stove for a dinner of venison tenderloin, a gift from my friend Andrew.  The warm glow of the lantern illuminates the tent, and our jovial conversation inevitably trends toward all that has passed since our last visit: waiting out a long (and late) freeze up, tales of wolves fishing for spawning cisco, exchanging the canoe for a dog team and toboggans, and New Year’s Eve celebrations with visiting friends.  Now halfway through their Year in the Wilderness, Amy and Dave seem to be doing well, and spirits are high.  And they are especially happy for the added companionship of the dogs, on loan from a local musher named Frank Moe. 

Tina, Tank, and Acorn each have their own unique personalities and strengths, and feel more like part of the team than hired paws.  Acorn, the mother of Tina and Tank, is twelve years old but still a strong leader, even despite an injured tail that has her sharing the tent with us each night until it heals.  The Year in the Wilderness is not her first foray into activism - she was also the lead dog in the 2012 Sled Dogs to Saint Paul, one of the early moments of advocacy around the sulfide-ore mining issue.  Tina can be a bit skittish at first, but opens up after awhile and can pull hard in the harness all day.  And Tank certainly justifies his name - at nearly twice the size of the other dogs, he serves as the anchor to the team, and really puts his weight into the uphill sections.

Eager to run every day, the only thing that really slows the team down is slush.  Seemingly more often than not, perfectly good looking snow betrays us with large puddles hidden beneath the surface.  Despite the bitter cold temperatures, the weight of recent snow has pushed the lake ice downward, displacing a layer of water that seeps up through cracks and settles unfrozen, insulated between the snow and ice.  One moment we’re racing along, and the next, toboggans, skis, and paws alike are trapped in a quagmire of heavy slush that freezes instantly and requires a mandatory stop to scrape, chip, or lick off the ice before we can move on.  But when the going is good, it’s an amazing experience to be cruising along the shoreline in the bright, crisp air of a bluebird winter day.

As the days progress and I find myself settling into life in the wilderness, the gravity of what Amy and Dave are doing out here truly begins to sink in.  I have often thought about them since my last visit, but entering the rhythm and routine of their day-to-day brings me new perspective.  I realize the extent to which I’ve generally taken for granted running water, electricity, and the warm climate of my adopted home in Southern California, while they have been out here the whole time - not only surviving, but thriving through the depths of the Minnesota winter.  I think of all the ice holes chopped and pots of water boiled, the armfuls of wood gathered and processed to stay warm and cook, the many camps set up and taken down.  The challenges are a little more immediate, yet the rewards are ever-present – moving efficiently with the dogs over fast snow, the satisfaction of a stove-cooked meal on a cold day, aurora borealis dancing wildly in the night sky.  Life out here is still life, but it’s been boiled down to it’s very essence.

On the final night of our stay, the mercury plunges even deeper to a bone-chilling -27°F.  In the morning we wake up cold, get the stove going, and boil up a pot of water.  But before settling in for coffee and oatmeal, the four of us head outside for a science experiment.  When it’s this cold outside, it’s said that a pot of boiling water tossed into the air will evaporate before hitting the ground.  3…2…1… BOOM!  An explosion of white steam streams through the air like fireworks, backlit by the first rays of sunshine gracing the frozen expanse of Gun Lake.

A morning like this highlights the beauty of the winter wilderness in all it’s glory, but like our week visiting the Freemans, the moment is fleeting.  The spring thaw is just around the corner, bringing with it new challenges - waiting for open water, freezing spring rains, and hordes of biting black flies and mosquitoes.  But there will also be new growth in the forest, lots of fish to catch, and the warmth of sunshine on bare skin for the first time in months.  And witnessing every single moment of it all will be Amy and Dave - bearing witness to the beauty of the Boundary Waters throughout the year.

Behind the Scenes: A Year in the Wilderness Film

It’s a cold, dreary day along the Minnesota-Canadian border.  With temperatures hovering in the low forties, a brisk northwest wind whisks whitecaps across Basswood Lake.  Rain drums steadily on the walls of the tent; the titanium woodstove groans and creaks with the heat of perfectly split cedar.

Late October is no time for a canoe trip, but this isn’t just any old canoe trip: We’re here filming the story of my dear friends Amy and Dave Freeman, who recently embarked on their Year in the Wilderness expedition to save the Boundary Waters Canoe Area from the threat of dangerous sulfide-ore copper mining proposals just upstream.  Highlighting the unique and wild character of the Boundary Waters, Amy and Dave are using a satellite terminal to share their story as they travel the wilderness by canoe, ski, snowshoe, and dogsled, and we’ll be joining them periodically throughout the year to film the experience.

Dave Freeman: Wilderness guide, environmental activist, bacon flipper extraordinaire.

For right now, the experience is hot bannock and tea.  While the warmth of the stove feels nice, I remember that we have a job to do, and anxiously peer outside; the jagged horizon of spruce and pines on the Canadian shoreline still barely visible through the steady rain.  Despite the dismal weather, it feels good to be back in canoe country.  Now a video editor in southern California, I used to live and work as an outfitter on the Gunflint Trail, and in recent years the BWCA has increasingly come to feel like home to me.  I wish I could spend a whole year out here too, but a week in the rain in late October will have to suffice.

Finally, a small break in the weather.  My partner Matt eagerly dons a hooded wetsuit, gloves, and booties - and on top of all that, Amy’s bright orange drysuit.  An avid alpine climber and outdoor photographer from Washington, this is his first time in the Boundary Waters.  He admits that he’s probably more at home on a snowy peak than on the water - or rather, in the water - but that’s exactly where he’s about to go for some critical underwater footage.

Matt Van Biene dons a hooded R4 Patagonia wetsuit, gloves, booties, and a drysuit - all in the name of getting the shot.

Preparing to head out on Basswood lake.

As we paddle out to our location in a shallow bay around the point, I can tell that Matt is beginning to understand why the BWCA is such a special place.  And I’m enjoying this opportunity to share the nuances of travel by canoe with someone new.  What had once seemed so commonplace to me is suddenly new and wonderful again as I explain the history and ecology of the region.

Stories and memories come flooding back, yet I too am beginning to see this place from a fresh perspective.  It’s been five years since I moved from Minnesota to southern California, and on each trip back, the traffic, sprawl, and drought of my new home contrasts ever more sharply with the abundant wilderness and fresh water we are fighting to protect here in Minnesota.  It’s never been more clear to me exactly what’s at stake.

We soon arrive at our location near a swath of wild rice, and Matt dives in with camera in tow, encased safely in a waterproof housing.  It takes a few tries to get the shot set up, but Amy and Dave graciously oblige our many requests to paddle past the camera “just one more time”.  For a moment it all seems a bit ridiculous - swimming and paddling in circles in a near-freezing wilderness lake in late October - but I know the results will be worth it when the film is finished.

The power of film is unique as a tool for storytelling, allowing the audience to be immersed in the sights and sounds of a place, if only for a moment.  I recognize that not everyone may have the desire or ability to come visit the Boundary Waters, but if they can simply take the time to watch a film, they too may understand what’s at risk and be compelled to protect our nation’s most popular wilderness.  And so with that in mind, we dive back in for yet another take… “just one more time!”.