Ice Bucket - Part Two
You have to go inside
Well, in usual fashion, I am delayed in continuing the saga. But what with the heat wave, summer projects, and all the rest… It’s been a thing. So, yes, I am renovating a 1969 Shasta Compact trailer for Alexandra, my brilliant and beautiful wife, and that’s taking longer (of course) than expected. So while I’ve been sweating away in a tin can with a nail gun in hand, I’ve been thinking back to the cold, Greenland, that enchanted treeless land of ice and snow and whale meat.
To put a button on the last Sound Report intro - I did bike the Erie Canal with my friend Jake, and we did it in six enduring days. Along the way, we drank many cups of coffee, ate all the pasta in Syracuse, had the worst taco in Rome, and watched several 1980s films, including Rocky 2 & 3, and 48 Hours. Highly recommend the trip. Definitely something I want to do more of.
What else? Sound work continues to be catch as catch can, and it’s not just me, apparently. Everyone seems to be looking for a project. June was mostly corporate work, July was for indie docs. August is looking like a mix.
But… I’m co-developing a video podcast that should launch early next year - details to come. Very exciting project that combines the two worlds I find most compelling - filmmaking and advanced technology. Stay tuned.
Now, we travel back to Greenland!
Project: Zaria
Cast of Characters:
Gabe - Director
Zaria - Herself
Jared - Zaria’s Husband
Ziggy - Zaria and Jared’s daughter
Derek - DP
April 9, 2025
Fish Factory Ahoy
The night unfolded with an unsatisfactory cadence. After a prolonged late-night session, punctuated by the indulgence of beer, sleep became a delicate, tenuous thing—like trying to balance a spinning plate on a stick. My dreams played out in relentless succession, reminiscent of flickering television shows on an antiquated VHF set from the 1980s, the kind where the channels shift without warning. One vignette persists in my memory: my grandmother materializing at the entrance of my current dwelling, arms outstretched, her voice a repetitive loop requesting "cake," a longstanding euphemism for kisses. I complied, enfolding her in my embrace, astonished by her newfound heft. Oh Greenland, what peculiar transformations are you orchestrating within me?
After a ritualistic dance with caffeine and the delicate art of layering—an act that seemed to require the strategic precision of a chess grandmaster—I peered through the window. The bay, once a canvas of frosty whites, had transformed into a vast expanse of deep, unblemished blue, as if the sea itself had taken a deep breath and exhaled warmth. The icebergs, those monumental sculptures carved by nature's indifferent hand, had either shifted their positions in a quiet, stately ballet or vanished entirely, as if they had never existed, leaving only the memory of their grandeur. Gabe, in his own corner of the world, sent a text that echoed my observations, as if we were both part of some cosmic joke. The sun, an indifferent observer of human folly, shone brightly, suggesting with a casual inevitability that it was time to move forward, to embrace whatever absurdities the day had in store.
At Zaria's place, the air buzzed with anticipation as the boat ride was locked in—finally, a tangible yes amidst the sea of tentative plans. Derek and I captured boats on the bay, our eyes wide, as if witnessing the world dissolving in fast-forward. Everything around us seemed to liquefy, the edges of the landscape blurring in a surreal dance of light and warmth…
I embarked on my quest to capture the elusive soundscapes beyond the mountain, a venture that seemed both profound and slightly absurd, as if I were documenting the whispers of a forgotten world. The path led me back beyond the familiar territory we had traversed with the family the previous day. The snow, now in retreat, revealed markings on the rocks like cryptic messages from the earth itself. It was here that I encountered a Japanese man, conspicuously absent of footwear, a curious spectacle that bordered on the comical. He warned me with an air of solemnity, advising that I tread only where others had gone before. His cautionary tale was marked by the unfortunate misadventure of snow invading his boots, rendering his socks a sodden mess—a detail both trivial and profound in its absurdity. Silently, I labeled him an amateur and pressed on, my pace brisk as I aimed for the first cairn on the ridge, a beacon ahead in the landscape of shifting snow and silence.
Once I crested the ridge, the next cairn appeared on the opposite side of a valley, which seemed to cradle a lodge of sorts. Could this be the legendary "sandwich place" whispered about on the trail? I pondered, opting to pause somewhere before reaching it, my steps meandering toward the water like a deliberate dance with the landscape. Upon selecting a spot, I began to set up, only to be swiftly confronted with the harsh reality that a quality stereo recording was but a mirage. A rogue cable had transformed my aspirations into static-laden disappointment, the noise floor soaring, punctuated by erratic pops that mocked my efforts. My patience was tested, and after a futile session of cable gymnastics and swaps, I surrendered. Curse you, Gotham Sound! I had entrusted you with repairs, only to be thrust into the field with a malfunctioning weapon. Yet, the march continues. I vow to return, equipped with my reliable rig, to capture this symphony of nature in resplendent mono. Later, we shall conjure the missing dimensions through careful sound design... I can envision it now: vast and opulent. And I repeated my Stoic mantra: All is well with the commander.
The silver lining, if one can be found in such chaotic orchestration, was that I managed to return in time for the meeting with Christian, the ever-enthusiastic helicopter pilot, to meticulously sift through the labyrinthine complexities of the next day’s flight plan. The scene unfolded with an air of delightful absurdity; everyone except Gabe—whose head seemed to be on the verge of a most vivid implosion—found amusement in Zaria's decision to let Ziggy, with her unpredictable flair, chart the course of our endeavor. Once this peculiar delegation of authority was resolved, we concocted a real strategy whereby Ziggy and Jared would embark on a compact round trip, eventually swapping places with Derek. Alas, my own presence was to be but a phantom, but a Jedi cares not. Instead, I am to be the unseen hand, ensuring the coms are deftly wired, capturing the essence of sound, even in my absence. Again: All is well with the commander.
After meticulously agreeing on the plan, the goals, the route, and making calls to both the airport and, in a theatrical sense, the lord god himself, we clambered into taxis. The procession wound its way through the labyrinthine streets, heading toward that peculiar spot opposite the "fish factory," a moniker that conjures both the literal and the absurd. It was here, in this oddly industrial setting, that the long-anticipated boat ride awaited us. The moment had arrived, finally, to embrace the sea.
The ride was a frenetic ballet of chaos and wonder. Almost immediately upon departure, the sky transformed as clouds rolled in with an eerie luminescence, a visual symphony that bordered on the surreal. The biting cold followed swiftly, prompting a silent lament for my forgotten insulated bib. It was a curious sensation, the way the chill seemed to gnaw at the edges of our resolve. Derek and I positioned ourselves on the bow alongside Zaria and Ziggy, as Zaria embarked on her relentless ship-to-shore telephoto marathon, a performance both methodical and frenzied. The small icebergs gradually surrendered to colossal leviathans, and with each passing behemoth, our perception of scale seemed to unravel into abstraction. The boat's hull assaulted the floating ice with a cacophony reminiscent of metal trash cans clanging against a loading dock—an absurd symphony of the Arctic.
Despite our unintentional obstruction of the pilot's view, Zaria insisted on venturing as close and far as the realm of possibility would allow. She was enveloped in a peculiar trance, impervious to the elements, cocooned in her Canada Goose armor, emerging only to swap lenses. Meanwhile, Ziggy wavered precariously on the brink of both the prow and her own sanity, much to her mother's disquiet. Yet, in this peculiar dance of risk and reverence, mother and daughter reached across time, communing with ancestors, offering praises and incantations, capturing countless images. Amidst this spectacle, there were exclamations—a few "oh my gods" punctuating the air.
And then, the moment arrived to reverse course. The pilot, with an air of casual authority, informed us of his intent to accelerate on our return journey, suggesting we might find it prudent to seek refuge indoors. Yet, as the engine's roar intensified, Zaria remained steadfastly outside, embracing the absurdity of the wind-whipped deck. It was, after all, the quintessential place to exist—a defiant stance against the conventional wisdom that dictated safety and comfort over raw, exhilarating experience. Fuck yeah.
Back on shore, we reclined into the Inuit Cafe for dinner, a place both unassuming and oddly comforting in its simplicity. I opted for mussels, Derek chose the crab, Zaria the halibut, and Gabe, in a state of ravenous anticipation, selected the ramen—a choice both unexpected and strangely fitting in this Arctic setting. Derek dismantled his crustacean with the fervor of a Norse deity shattering realms, a spectacle both awe-inspiring and slightly unsettling. Zaria, meanwhile, was visibly perturbed by the mini shrimps scattered across her halibut, as if they were tiny sentinels guarding a culinary secret. Gabe, embodying a serene patience, awaited his ramen with the calm of a saint awaiting enlightenment.
The mussels, a dish that aspired to Belgian heights but settled comfortably in Ilulisset's embrace, were soft—neither chewy nor decisively firm. The broth, though flavorful with its warming mix of tomato and spices, was sparse, a slight but notable shortcoming. The accompanying bread, unfortunately, was a weak attempt at accompaniment; the absence of a robust, crusty loaf was palpable. A French bakery could make a fortune here, I mused, as I longed for a baguette to squeegee the remaining flavors from the bottom of the pot.
The meal concluded with an iceberg lettuce salad, a fitting nod to Greenland's own icy identity. Derek, with his usual perceptiveness, noted the symbolic resonance—an iceberg salad for an iceberg nation—Get it?
Now back in our little house, I am observing the snow as it begins to blanket the earth. Just yesterday, the world basked in the warmth of a 40-degree sunlit day. Now, paradoxically, the sun clings to the sky even as night descends. It's a curious inversion—grand illusions masked as reality. The colors defy expectation, hues shifting like a mirage. Ice appears and vanishes with a capriciousness that leaves one questioning both sight and sanity. My sense of scale teeters on an edge, while time itself feels warped and elastic. The weather undergoes transformations in the mere span of brushing one's teeth. It resembles a dreamscape, where the boundaries blur and logic retreats. And all is well with the commander.
Dreams await. Early boat tomorrow!