“Then we’d better get a move on,” she said. “He’ll pay extra for the survival footage.”
Leo’s team was small because trust was expensive. There was Mara, the pilot, who flew a de Havilland Beaver like it was an extension of her nervous system. She’d lost two fingers to frostbite years ago and claimed it improved her stick control. There was Cal, the sound guy, who could hear a herring spawn from a quarter mile and was slowly going deaf from a lifetime of listening too hard. And then there was Jenna, the new one. She wasn’t a fixer. She was a “logistics coordinator” from LA, sent by the collector to make sure Leo didn’t pocket the euro and vanish into the bush. She wore expensive hiking boots with no scuff marks. film fixers in alaska
Cal set up his shotgun mics, pointing them like weapons at the ice. Jenna handled the camera—a RED cinema camera, worth more than the Beaver. Leo watched through binoculars. The face of the glacier was a vertical wall of blue and white, veined with dirt and pressure fractures. Meltwater poured from its surface in waterfalls that never touched rock, just fell into the void. “Then we’d better get a move on,” she said