Louie, Take a Look at This!

by Luis Fuerte

  We’d talk about how to implement his ideas with the camera shots, what he wanted to shoot first, what he thought was important to cover, and how he wanted to open the episode. I’d go over his shooting ideas to see how I could set up the lighting and sound, and, of course, to see how interesting and creative the shots could look. Then we’d set up and begin shooting.

  From the early days of shooting Videolog, I saw Huell’s gift for interviewing people, but it wasn’t until we were well into shooting California’s Gold that I understood how essential this was to his storytelling success. He was a master at bringing out the best in people. His overwhelming friendliness and folksy demeanor put people at such ease that their stories would just come spilling out. He showed excitement about even the smallest things, and that encouraged people to open up to him and forget about being nervous in front of a camera. They saw that he was genuine and that he was truly fascinated by them.

  Every shooting situation was new to us, so we had nothing to fall back on and nothing to hang our shooting hats on. But there was always one common thread, and that’s what made the process work so well: Huell’s charm and personality. He worked his magic every time. When we left a shoot to go home, we’d be waving goodbye to friends, not just random people we’d just interviewed.

  As I shot each video, I listened intently to the conversation that Huell was having with his interview subject. I used that information to go on after the interview and shoot what’s called the “B roll,” footage that the editor would cut into the story to make it work visually.

  For instance, take the show about farmers’ roadside fruit and vegetable stands in the San Joaquin Valley. Huell and the farmers talked about the quality and seasonality of various fruits and vegetables. After we wrapped the interviews, I walked around and got close-up footage of the beautiful produce. The editor cut to those shots while Huell did the voiceover interview, so you could see the produce they were talking about.

  A somewhat more dramatic example occurred when we were doing the episode about the St. George Reef Lighthouse, twelve miles off the Crescent City coast. We were taken out by helicopter, as that’s the only way to get there. While we were hovering over the lighthouse, I said to Huell, “Let me go down in the basket first, and I’ll get a shot of what it’s like to go down to the lighthouse.” I did my usual monkey-like one-arm hold while I rolled the tape from inside the helicopter’s lowering basket and got the shot as I went down. When I was on the ground, I aimed the camera up to get a shot of Huell coming down in the basket. When you look at the sequence of shots in the show, you see him descending, and as he looks down, it cuts to a view of the ground coming up—what he is “seeing” as he descends. But, of course, it was actually what I was seeing. It made the show look like a bigger-budget two-camera shoot, and the editor got good material to work with.

  Huell being dropped down from a helicopter above St. George Reef Lighthouse.

  I also asked the helicopter pilot to fly us around the island to give the viewers a good look at the rugged, sea-swept rock the lighthouse sat on. I tried to create visual interest with shots like those, so you’d get into the story and experience it through Huell’s eyes. And I knew that those B-roll shots would make the editor deliriously happy.

  Huell’s style of storytelling was simple and straightforward, and that was a blessing for me as a cameraman. He didn’t do anything fancy or outlandishly complicated that would have given me splitting headaches and perhaps cause me to utter foul language. If you really think about it, his storytelling style was remarkably similar to show-and-tell at school—but laced with tremendous and heartfelt enthusiasm.

  That style of shooting may have been Huell’s philosophy in general, but nonetheless, he’d sometimes still get us into tight, harrowing situations. One that stands out is the show from Santa Barbara Island. I was shooting Huell as he walked on a narrow trail perched on the edge of a cliff that plunged hundreds of feet down to the ocean. There I was, hoisting a very heavy camera while trying to keep Huell in the shot and watching where my own feet were going, thinking about what a slip would mean. I also remember following Huell as he talked into his mic while traversing a narrow walkway bordered by two pools of water in the ruins of the old Sutro Baths in San Francisco, as seen in the “California Pools” episode. Thank goodness those tough shots weren’t regular occurrences—most shoots were far less dangerous. And most of the shot setups seemed to present themselves naturally. When we arrived at a new location, I’d quickly get the lay of the land and look for the most interesting spots for Huell and his guest to talk, always looking for how to frame them to best service the story. For instance, having Huell walk among—and gush about—the poppies at the Poppy Reserve (not far from Lancaster) was a natural fit for him and to tell that episode’s story.

  Huell and I also figured out our walking-while-shooting routine pretty early on, and it’s something you see often in the show. Huell was in great physical shape, and he and his guest would typically walk ahead of me (and my very heavy camera) at a strong and fast pace, sometimes leaving me in the dust. He’d glance at me from time to time to see where I was, and when he knew I was out of usable video range—or that I simply couldn’t catch up—he’d stop and wait for me. I kept close track of his audio, and when I’d catch up with him I’d tell him where he was in the dialogue and ask him to pick it up from there. I’d reset the shot, he’d ask if I was ready, I’d get the camera up to speed, and off we’d go again on the walk-and-talk. For longer shots, I’d get far out in front of Huell and the interviewee so you could see them talking as they walked toward the camera, but I wouldn’t record the audio. That way, the editor could seamlessly blend the dialogue and the video.

  Celebrating the California poppy.

  Speaking of which, although it was just Huell and I out in the field, we had essential help back at the studio—the distinctive look of California’s Gold also came from the diligent and creative work of the editors who took my material and put it together to make a show. I always thought of them before I set up to shoot a scene, to give Huell and his editor more choices in assembling the show. I knew that Huell took copious notes before he went into the editing room, and although he walked in with a picture in his head of what he wanted, he gave certain editors leeway—especially the ones who had worked with him for some time and knew his style.

  Another big plus that allowed me to concentrate during shoots was his great production staff. Phil Noyes was Huell’s head producer for almost twenty years, and he and Harry Pallenberg, as well as a few other producers, took care of the logistics. They’d tell me where we were going to shoot, what weather conditions to expect, and what I should pack: boots and warm clothing for a winter show in the Sierra Nevada mountains, for instance, or light clothing and lots of water for a 115-degree shoot in Death Valley.

  Two or three times a year, Huell and I went on ten-day road trips to shoot three shows in the same area of the state, or at locations that might not be very close but were easy to get to by highway. The producers did a great job of scheduling and handling the locations, interview contacts, and all the logistics that helped us get from one shoot to the next without a hitch.

  Similarly, when we flew to our destination, Huell and I didn’t have to concern ourselves with booking flights, car rentals, or hotels, because the producers took care of it. We’d get an itinerary before the travel days that told me what time to be at the airport, which airline we were flying, and when we’d be coming back. My only responsibility was to show up at the airport on time with my gear—the production staff expertly handled all the rest.

  Phil, Harry, and the rest of the production team gave Huell and me the freedom to concentrate our efforts on the show, and I will be forever grateful for their hard work.

  Don’t look down! Luis on the Golden Gate Bridge.

  THE PHYSICAL CHALLENGES

  The camera I carried on most of the California’s Gold shoots was heavy, unlike today’s handheld digital c
ameras that are highly maneuverable and weigh only a few pounds. The twenty-four pounds of metal and glass that I carried on my shoulder were daunting, and I’d often have to hold the camera for hours at a time. I had to move my neck to the side to accommodate it and to be able to look into the viewfinder. Even today, years after retiring, I still have a few aches and pains in my neck and shoulder, but I just consider them reminders of all the work I did—work that, as you’ll see in this section, could get pretty intense!

  Technically, Huell owned the camera and equipment, but I was the one who took care of them. I never let them out of my sight, and I did everything but sleep with it all. When we flew, I didn’t check the camera because I didn’t trust the luggage handlers, so I carried it aboard the airplane, and it usually sat next to me. It was my tool, so if you liken it to a carpenter’s saw, I always kept it sharp and ready to use.

  The specific gear I carried on a shoot pretty much depended on what and where we were going. I’d get a call from one of Huell’s producers (or sometimes the unit manager who worked for KCET), who would give me the basics about the shoot: what it was about, how many people we’d be interviewing at a time, where it was, how long we’d be there, the weather conditions I should expect, travel details, and so forth. I’d plan from there.

  For a whitewater rafting shoot on the Kern River, for example, I got a special cover for the camera that protected it from the water. I shot a lot of the footage from another raft near Huell’s, but some of the shots of him coming down the river in his raft were actually shot by me in the water—yes, while hoisting that heavy camera. I wore trunks in the frigid snowmelt water and held the camera up as I bobbed with the current to get the shots I needed to capture the action. Fortunately, I’m a strong swimmer, so I was able to get some great shots of the rapids while navigating the currents myself.

  Proper lighting was usually pretty simple, as we shot most of the shows in the great outdoors. The sun was the main light source, as you would expect, and I’d set up Huell to take advantage of the direction it was coming from. I’d use the light on the camera only as necessary, perhaps if we were in the deep shade of a tree or building. If the shoot and interviews were taking place indoors, I’d pack soft and direct lights and perhaps reflectors. Sometimes, I had to pack the extra lighting and hike for some distance, but if I felt I needed it to get the job done, then I’d do it.

  Rafting the Kern River.

  When we knew that Huell would be interviewing a few people at once, I’d bring more lavaliers, the small radio microphones we’d pin to their shirts. I’d stuff the battery pack that powered the mic into their back pocket, and we’d get clean, even sound. Huell was an expert with his handheld mic, speaking into it and moving it over to his guest, so his sound was always good.

  In many situations, I’d have to walk backward so I could shoot Huell and a guest walking forward. The idea was to get a front shot of him talking with someone as they walked through a fascinating place—say, the redwoods, or a ghost town. You’d see them moving with the background changing, and I’d capture his reaction to something that he was looking at ahead of him—which meant behind me, so I couldn’t even see what he was talking about. That was a curious feeling, often leaving me somewhat removed from the whole experience. Funny thing was, I was never scared or nervous, and I never thought about falling, I guess because I was so focused on the camera and the sound.

  THE GREAT OUTDOORS

  As all fans of the show know, Huell loved nature, especially Yosemite National Park. The show called “Yosemite Fire Fall” was a particularly trying one. The fire fall was a tradition going back to 1872, when the owner of a hotel at Glacier Point would put out the evening bonfire by kicking the embers off the cliff, inadvertently putting on a show for the people way down below in the valley. It became a tradition, a nightly (in season) spectacular fiery cascade that was occasionally halted for various reasons. Yosemite officials told us that they finally stopped the fire fall for good in 1968 because it was not a natural event, and of course it was terribly dangerous. I would have loved to have seen it.

  The Yosemite mule train getting ready to make the ascent.

  For this episode, we were going up to Glacier Point. It was a heck of a way up, 3,200 feet above the valley floor. We started at dawn, riding sure-footed mules in a train that took almost three-quarters of the day to get to the top. Huell was riding ahead of me so I could shoot him experiencing the trip on the trail.

  That ride up was tortuous and scary, as the edge of the trail often fell sharply hundreds of feet. I was able to aim the camera at Huell while simultaneously (and for no good reason) watching the drop-offs below. The mules had surely made the trip hundreds of times and knew what they were doing, but still….

  I can’t tell you how many times I stopped the mule train on that trail so I could get ahead of Huell and get a shot of him coming up the trail set against a background of Yosemite Valley below. He’d point to something, which was my cue to either point the camera to that same spot or get off the mule and shoot whatever he was pointing to so the editor would have the footage. Huell did a lot of that, and at that altitude, I was working very hard. We shot for only a few hours, and then had to turn around and come back down—and boy, was my butt sore. Unlike Huell, who was at ease in a saddle, I was an amateur at riding.

  That episode included some old film footage of the bonfire setup on Glacier Point and the embers being pushed over, showcasing the spectacular fire fall. It also included some footage that Huell shot with his own camera—you can tell it’s his because the pictures bounce around. He was kind enough to protect my reputation and let his viewers know that he took those shots. In the end, the show looked great, and it was definitely worth the hard work and that scary mule ride. You just can’t beat the beauty of Yosemite.

  I liked to wear shorts on most of the shoots, but we did some winter shoots in the Sierra that demanded that I wear warm clothing. My bulky jacket, heavy pants, and the freezing weather made shooting the show about the Southern Pacific Railroad snow sheds quite difficult—but, as it turned out, a lot of the footage that ended up in the show was archived footage of old steam engines in the snow sheds, so we didn’t have to use all the video I shot. Thank goodness for that! I’m glad I thought of taking camera warmers for that shoot, because the temperature was constantly below freezing. I draped the small battery-powered electric blankets on the camera to keep the mechanisms warm, and I got some welcome heat for my hands, too.

  Sometimes I carried so much gear that I felt like a Sierra pack mule. I guess that’s why my last name is Fuerte—it means strong in Spanish. Usually, Huell carried only his microphone, which was fine by me, at least most of the time. Every now and then, though, the load became a challenge for me. One example was a 1999 shoot at Devil’s Postpile near Mammoth, which tested us both. We were hiking on a long, steep mountain trail leading to Devil’s Postpile, a spectacular volcanic rock formation, and I began falling behind. I was carrying a heavy load, including a bulky tripod I needed to give me a steady base to shoot the grandeur of the monument. I was beat and needed help. I called to Huell and asked if he would take the tripod. Thankfully, he did, and we got back on the trail. Losing that weight didn’t exactly put a spring in my step, but man, I felt as if the weight of the world had been taken off my back.

  After a short time, though, I saw Huell pawn the tripod off on someone who was hiking with us. When we got up to Devil’s Postpile, I teased him about that, and he said the tripod got too heavy for him. You’d think that Mr. Marine would have volunteered to carry us all up the mountain!

  One of the most arduous and trying shoots for me was the one we did on Santa Barbara Island. The challenge was that you can only go up or down on the island, and either way, it’s not an easy journey. I had just turned fifty-three, and it was our fourth year together. We were hiking on a steep trail that pitched up sharply from the beach, and Huell, who was in his physical prime, was interviewing a park ranger who was
pretty young and fit as well. The two men kept up a brisk pace on that slope, perhaps engaged in an unspoken competition to see who was the fittest and who’d be the first to need a break. Huell was absorbed in doing one of his long-form interviews, and the camera and I became invisible to him. I just couldn’t keep up, and I finally shouted for them to stop for a bit because I was so tired. But I had a job to do, so I sucked it up and caught up with (and passed!) them at a good pace to set up for an approach shot. That sure showed them. Oh man, I was so beat by the end of the day—it felt as if I’d been run over by a truck.

  Another physically challenging episode was when we went down deep into the Sixteen to One gold mine in the Sierra gold country. The mine has been worked since the mid-nineteenth century, but now it produces mostly what is called specimen gold. The shoot was a good example of the importance of getting location information from the producers. They warned me that it would likely be difficult and that I’d better prepare for unforeseen circumstances. So I did: I took along an extra set of batteries for the camera, a lot of extra lighting, and more batteries for the lights. Mines are dark, and I didn’t know exactly what I’d need, so I thought it was better to bring everything. I was truly loaded down like a pack mule and pretty much prepared for anything, except perhaps a cave-in.

  Even with the solid advance information, I didn’t realize the full scope of that shoot and how trying it would be. I knew I’d be going deep into a mine—but the long descent thousands of feet into that mine shaft felt as if it would never end, like I was heading into a bottomless pit. I had to lie on my back on a trolley, the camera resting on my chest, while I rolled tape as I rocketed down the dark, narrow shaft. At times, the camera barely cleared the many rock outcroppings—I was terrified that each outcropping would rip the camera from my hands, sending it tumbling into the dark shaft and smashing it to bits. But when the trolley eased to a stop at the bottom, I still had the camera—and, as it turned out, some great images. That episode really put my skills and preparation—not to mention my nerves—to the test.