anything.”
Derrell, a tall, thin, poker-faced young park ranger, was going to appear in the wildflower segments with Louise and furnish details about the alpine and tundra plants. At the moment, he stood ten paces away and glowered at the clumsy producer. Hawk-eyed and hawk-nosed, he was a botanist and the park’s wildflower expert, and Louise could see he wasn’t going to permit defenseless plants to be ground under the vulgar boot of this East Coast TV big shot. To Derrell, Marty must seem as crude as a Hun to an ancient Roman. The producer, sensing the ranger’s disapproval, glanced crankily at the fellow. “What’s he gonna do, throw me in some little jail carved out of a mountain?” As if reverting to his days growing up in a tough Brooklyn neighborhood, he petulantly added, “Anyway, Icould take him in a fight—no problem.” He muttered the hostile words as he wandered off the path again in search of a perfect place to shoot. But now he stepped gingerly, as if he might encounter eggs in his path instead of plants.
Louise smiled indulgently. Before leaving Washington, D.C., Marty had decided a location shoot out West demanded that he look the part. He had arrived wearing new jeans, shirt, and cowboy hat, and now was left with only the jeans and shirt. He had thrown the crew into a panic when he tripped down the wide steps of the steep mountain path. Amidst shouts and laughter, he rolled fifteen feet or so before it ceased to be funny. The sound man ran to his rescue and helped him back onto his unsteady feet, breathless and gasping. It took the entire crew to soothe his nerves and assure him he wasn’t hurt.
When he fell, his western designer hat had gone sailing off into the clear mountain air. Louise reflected that it might become a bonus for some passing tourist, or might rest in perpetuity in a crevice between two rocks. Now, Marty reached up often and fruitlessly and tried to smooth his hair. The wind was blowing everything, including the sound, straight east to Nebraska.
More practical after five days in the West, Louise was finally acclimatized. She was also wearing proper clothing; her shirt and jeans were broken in now, and she knew enough to secure her cowboy hat with an under-the-chin rawhide strap. Her hair was imprisoned in a sensible ponytail, so it didn’t fly around in the wind like Medusa’s. And she had ditched her tooled boots; her feet were now shod in climbing boots with soles that gripped the rocks and gave her a budding sense of being a western woman.
The producer, one eye on the watchful park ranger, returned to the path and swigged down the last of his coffee. “
Jesus
, what a place!”
“Don’t you love it, Marty? Above treeline, above almosteverything. And look at those mountains.” She grabbed his arm and pointed to the white peaks only a few miles from where they were standing. “They just cry out to you, ‘Climb me!’”
“Climb me, hell,” he grumbled, bending to stuff their coffee cups into a small duffel bag with the thermos. He straightened slowly, panting from the effort, and gave her a weary look. “Gimme a little slack, Louise, a little more time to adjust. How much do I have to suffer for
Gardening with Nature? Hell
, we should call it
Risk-Taking With Nature
. I’ll love it here if we ever get any good footage out of today.”
Derrell came to the rescue, finding the best display of tundra flowers for the fussy producer to use in the shoot. Pete was whistling contentedly, already happy because he had wandered off by himself and gotten some unexpected shots of bighorn sheep. The sound man was as nervous as Marty. He checked his sound mixer, then looked at the producer and shook his head. “Jeez, what a wind! It’s going to be tough getting a good level, even with the wind screen on the shotgun mike.”
“We’ll do the best we can,” said Marty. “Okay, Derrell—heads up. Louise, sweetie, keep the pace even now. This shoot is weird enough as it
Derrell, a tall, thin, poker-faced young park ranger, was going to appear in the wildflower segments with Louise and furnish details about the alpine and tundra plants. At the moment, he stood ten paces away and glowered at the clumsy producer. Hawk-eyed and hawk-nosed, he was a botanist and the park’s wildflower expert, and Louise could see he wasn’t going to permit defenseless plants to be ground under the vulgar boot of this East Coast TV big shot. To Derrell, Marty must seem as crude as a Hun to an ancient Roman. The producer, sensing the ranger’s disapproval, glanced crankily at the fellow. “What’s he gonna do, throw me in some little jail carved out of a mountain?” As if reverting to his days growing up in a tough Brooklyn neighborhood, he petulantly added, “Anyway, Icould take him in a fight—no problem.” He muttered the hostile words as he wandered off the path again in search of a perfect place to shoot. But now he stepped gingerly, as if he might encounter eggs in his path instead of plants.
Louise smiled indulgently. Before leaving Washington, D.C., Marty had decided a location shoot out West demanded that he look the part. He had arrived wearing new jeans, shirt, and cowboy hat, and now was left with only the jeans and shirt. He had thrown the crew into a panic when he tripped down the wide steps of the steep mountain path. Amidst shouts and laughter, he rolled fifteen feet or so before it ceased to be funny. The sound man ran to his rescue and helped him back onto his unsteady feet, breathless and gasping. It took the entire crew to soothe his nerves and assure him he wasn’t hurt.
When he fell, his western designer hat had gone sailing off into the clear mountain air. Louise reflected that it might become a bonus for some passing tourist, or might rest in perpetuity in a crevice between two rocks. Now, Marty reached up often and fruitlessly and tried to smooth his hair. The wind was blowing everything, including the sound, straight east to Nebraska.
More practical after five days in the West, Louise was finally acclimatized. She was also wearing proper clothing; her shirt and jeans were broken in now, and she knew enough to secure her cowboy hat with an under-the-chin rawhide strap. Her hair was imprisoned in a sensible ponytail, so it didn’t fly around in the wind like Medusa’s. And she had ditched her tooled boots; her feet were now shod in climbing boots with soles that gripped the rocks and gave her a budding sense of being a western woman.
The producer, one eye on the watchful park ranger, returned to the path and swigged down the last of his coffee. “
Jesus
, what a place!”
“Don’t you love it, Marty? Above treeline, above almosteverything. And look at those mountains.” She grabbed his arm and pointed to the white peaks only a few miles from where they were standing. “They just cry out to you, ‘Climb me!’”
“Climb me, hell,” he grumbled, bending to stuff their coffee cups into a small duffel bag with the thermos. He straightened slowly, panting from the effort, and gave her a weary look. “Gimme a little slack, Louise, a little more time to adjust. How much do I have to suffer for
Gardening with Nature? Hell
, we should call it
Risk-Taking With Nature
. I’ll love it here if we ever get any good footage out of today.”
Derrell came to the rescue, finding the best display of tundra flowers for the fussy producer to use in the shoot. Pete was whistling contentedly, already happy because he had wandered off by himself and gotten some unexpected shots of bighorn sheep. The sound man was as nervous as Marty. He checked his sound mixer, then looked at the producer and shook his head. “Jeez, what a wind! It’s going to be tough getting a good level, even with the wind screen on the shotgun mike.”
“We’ll do the best we can,” said Marty. “Okay, Derrell—heads up. Louise, sweetie, keep the pace even now. This shoot is weird enough as it
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