Wild South cameraman and producer NIGEL ZEGA comes to grips with polar bears at the top end of the world.
At Prudhoe Bay oilfield in Alaska it's blowing minus 43 deg C outside. At these temperatures scales of measurement don't matter. Centigrade and Fahrenheit blend together to make a simple statement - it's cold.
The hairs in your nostrils freeze on each slow intake of breath. The end of your nose goes numb and your speech slows because your mouth stops working.
Everything else is wrapped in layers of polypropylene, fleece and down, and as long as producer and fellow cameraman Max Quinn, soundman Merv Aitchison and I don't face into the wind we are warm enough.
We're lined up with three tripods and six cameras, trying to catch the legendary green flash that's supposed to happen the moment the sun dips below the horizon. We don't hold out much hope, but it's a beautiful night and we're just enjoying being part of it.
It's 2130 and we're standing on the Arctic ocean, which is now solid ice right down to the seabed. This is a world of bright white ice and blowing snow, where polar bears and Arctic foxes are the only land-based mammals that can survive. We wouldn't be here without the mother-ship support of the BP oilwell that is hosting our stay in the high Arctic.
As the night closes in and we turn our attention to the antics of two scavenging foxes, we have the comforting thought that only 50m away there is warmth, light and respite from the anaesthetising wind.
Indoors, Becky the chef is cooking up a storm for the 40 oil workers who will be joining us for a late dinner. They spend their days maintaining the huge industrial plant that helps this region to supply the United States with 20 per cent of its oil.
We spend our days chasing polar bears. We're following researcher Steve Amstrup who is capturing females that have just emerged from their winter dens with their cubs.
Early next morning, after a breakfast of cold-beating cholesterol, we find out for ourselves that capturing bears is no picnic.
It's hard enough for Amstrup, hanging out of a Bell 206 helicopter doing a three-dimensional dance with a running bear. It's even harder for us in the second chopper, trying to keep out of the way while following the turns.
Quinn and I are trying to film while Aitchison records some of the communications. In a complex briefing with pilots and researchers we had agreed what each member of the team would do when we found a bear - but no one briefed the bear. So most of our plans have gone out of the window.
Our pilot is tying himself in knots to give Quinn and me a fair view of the other helicopter, trying to position high and steady over the action. Just below us, Amstrup appears at the window of his helicopter, dart gun to his shoulder. The chopper makes a low pass only a couple of metres above the bear, and Quinn and I both manage to frame the run. But the bear turns at the last second and Amstrup's pilot overshoots. I stay focused on the bear, figuring the chopper will have to fly back into frame. It does, but again the bear eludes the hunters.
Our pilot is doing wonders in holding positions, although every now and again the ice below spins dizzyingly in the viewfinder - it's hard to relocate the white bear on the white background. I'm silently hoping Quinn is doing better than I am.
Then Amstrup's helicopter swings back into range. The bear pauses to look back at her cub, the dart gun jerks, and the job's done.
Both choppers stand off as the bear tries to run away, closely followed by the confused cub. Within a couple of minutes she stops and, as we come in to land, her head goes down.
We're out of the choppers and closing in fast as the cub shelters behind his drugged mother. He's frightened and feisty, but Amstrup's crew has him snared and sedated in seconds. I get the job of wrapping the cub in a blanket to keep him warm before we measure the mother and remove the radio collar that led us to her.
We film what we can while we can. The drug wears off within an hour and you don't want to be around when the mother wakes up. Each claw-tipped limb is a dead weight and the head is frighteningly large with a nightmare set of teeth. But it's a beautiful animal, and we're in awe of its power, even in its drugged state, its long grey tongue lolling out of its mouth.
It's good to see the researchers' respect and care for their subject as they poke and prod, gathering data to help them help the bears.
We help to make the mother comfortable before she starts to come round, and ensure the stirring cub is tucked into her embrace for warmth and comfort. Then we back off. Amstrup will watch until mother and cub are safely moving on before he follows us back to base.
We're already airborne for home, trying to save time on the helicopter hire. The next time we'll all be out on the ice as a team we will be heading overland from the Arctic ocean to the Brooks Range.
We will be on skidoos and sleds, navigating across the windswept tundra and up the frozen Hulahula River where we'll meet Innuit hunters at their camp. Before that, Quinn is going to find himself all alone on the ice with a darted bear that isn't responding to drugs - but that's another story.
* Filming for the Dunedin-based Natural History New Zealand shoot was for Poles Apart, three one-hour documentaries for National Geographic, comparing the Arctic and Antarctic. The series will feature wildlife, weather, people, resources and a look at what the future may hold.
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