me how to turn the camera on, and explaining the concept of point-and-shoot.
As I hauled a tripod and camera up the steps of the Capitol with my oversize purse slung over my shoulder, I longed for the golden days of television—just yesterday—when all I had to carry to a story was a pen and notebook.
I had been hoping for a less public arena where my competitors couldn’t witness my inaugural shoot. Instead, Jenny Turrentine from Channel 8, clutching only a reporter’s notebook, passed me effortlessly.
“What’s going on?” She turned a couple of times to see if anyone was behind or in front of me. “Where’s your photographer? Why are you lugging all that stuff?”
I mumbled something about us experimenting with shooting our own video.
“You mean one-man bands?” She rushed to tell the other stations the news. “Hey, everybody, Channel 3 is running one-man bands. Look at Riley Spartz.”
They all looked at me, torn between savoring my disgrace and fearing their own newsrooms might emulate the move. But oneof the other cameramen gave me a reassuring smile and helped me center the camera on my tripod head.
I was spared more razzing when a woman with gray braided hair arrived on the scene, shaking something yellow and pink in front of the cameras.
“Can everybody see this? Who can’t see this?” she called.
We stayed silent and let her rant a couple minutes, waiting to learn where this was leading. I kept my eye glued to the viewfinder, afraid she would walk out of frame and I’d miss something essential.
We’d been called there for a news conference about protecting black bears.
Turns out, like Noreen, Bryce believed animal stories attracted the most viewers. Apparently, a news director manifesto. Unlike my previous boss, Bryce had no pets of his own and no personal love for furry creatures. To him, they were business tools, good for audience share and ratings numbers. And generally, animal features were cheap to produce. So when the assignment desk mentioned a possible bear story, Bryce ordered me out the door.
“My name is Teresa Neuzil.” The woman worked for a nonprofit center for black bear research in northern Minnesota. “Do we want people who can’t see well enough to see this to be shooting guns?” She waved the colorful streamer again.
“What is that thing you’re holding?” I finally asked. I felt more normal asking questions than aiming the lens. The rest of the media pack seemed relieved to cut to the chase.
She walked over to me and held the item in front of my camera lens. The other photographers shifted their gear so they could also get the shot. “This is a bear radio collar. We use it to track research animals.”
Teresa drew our attention to the pink and yellow ribbons attached to the leather collar. “Even from a distance, these ribbons are quite noticeable.” Then she pointed out a dark stain on the collar. “Can anyone tell what this is?”
None of us answered. So she told us. “Blood.”
The word startled me. I found myself hoping news was near, even if an actual bear wasn’t.
Teresa waved a large photo of a black bear in one hand, the collar in the other. Her voice sounded choked up. “This was Ginny. The bear who wore this collar. Now presumed dead by a hunter’s bullet.”
The collar had been left in a mailbox outside the research station. No note. “This creature was one of our windows into the bear world.”
This wasn’t the first time such a misfortune had happened in her line of work. She’d lost five research bears to hunters over the last several years. Yet state wildlife officials refused her pleas to make hunting radio-collared bears illegal.
“That’s why I’ve driven hundreds of miles south to St. Paul to bring this recurring travesty to the attention of our state lawmakers,” Teresa said. “These research bears are not mere trophies. Their worth is more than a bearskin rug. They provide valuable knowledge to schools as well as
As I hauled a tripod and camera up the steps of the Capitol with my oversize purse slung over my shoulder, I longed for the golden days of television—just yesterday—when all I had to carry to a story was a pen and notebook.
I had been hoping for a less public arena where my competitors couldn’t witness my inaugural shoot. Instead, Jenny Turrentine from Channel 8, clutching only a reporter’s notebook, passed me effortlessly.
“What’s going on?” She turned a couple of times to see if anyone was behind or in front of me. “Where’s your photographer? Why are you lugging all that stuff?”
I mumbled something about us experimenting with shooting our own video.
“You mean one-man bands?” She rushed to tell the other stations the news. “Hey, everybody, Channel 3 is running one-man bands. Look at Riley Spartz.”
They all looked at me, torn between savoring my disgrace and fearing their own newsrooms might emulate the move. But oneof the other cameramen gave me a reassuring smile and helped me center the camera on my tripod head.
I was spared more razzing when a woman with gray braided hair arrived on the scene, shaking something yellow and pink in front of the cameras.
“Can everybody see this? Who can’t see this?” she called.
We stayed silent and let her rant a couple minutes, waiting to learn where this was leading. I kept my eye glued to the viewfinder, afraid she would walk out of frame and I’d miss something essential.
We’d been called there for a news conference about protecting black bears.
Turns out, like Noreen, Bryce believed animal stories attracted the most viewers. Apparently, a news director manifesto. Unlike my previous boss, Bryce had no pets of his own and no personal love for furry creatures. To him, they were business tools, good for audience share and ratings numbers. And generally, animal features were cheap to produce. So when the assignment desk mentioned a possible bear story, Bryce ordered me out the door.
“My name is Teresa Neuzil.” The woman worked for a nonprofit center for black bear research in northern Minnesota. “Do we want people who can’t see well enough to see this to be shooting guns?” She waved the colorful streamer again.
“What is that thing you’re holding?” I finally asked. I felt more normal asking questions than aiming the lens. The rest of the media pack seemed relieved to cut to the chase.
She walked over to me and held the item in front of my camera lens. The other photographers shifted their gear so they could also get the shot. “This is a bear radio collar. We use it to track research animals.”
Teresa drew our attention to the pink and yellow ribbons attached to the leather collar. “Even from a distance, these ribbons are quite noticeable.” Then she pointed out a dark stain on the collar. “Can anyone tell what this is?”
None of us answered. So she told us. “Blood.”
The word startled me. I found myself hoping news was near, even if an actual bear wasn’t.
Teresa waved a large photo of a black bear in one hand, the collar in the other. Her voice sounded choked up. “This was Ginny. The bear who wore this collar. Now presumed dead by a hunter’s bullet.”
The collar had been left in a mailbox outside the research station. No note. “This creature was one of our windows into the bear world.”
This wasn’t the first time such a misfortune had happened in her line of work. She’d lost five research bears to hunters over the last several years. Yet state wildlife officials refused her pleas to make hunting radio-collared bears illegal.
“That’s why I’ve driven hundreds of miles south to St. Paul to bring this recurring travesty to the attention of our state lawmakers,” Teresa said. “These research bears are not mere trophies. Their worth is more than a bearskin rug. They provide valuable knowledge to schools as well as
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