Chapter Three... Where's My Hat?

Draft 3.0  (close to being done)

 

 

It wasn't exactly a marriage made in heaven. We had a Big Bird. They had a hunting season on big birds.                                                                                                                                               

Few may know this, but Outdoor Idaho got its start in 1983 as a co-production of the state’s Fish & Game Department and Idaho Public Television. There really wasn’t a blueprint for such a collaborative effort, but it did make sense. 

 

Idaho Fish & Game was proud of their cutting-edge projects, and they wanted a TV show that highlighted their efforts, if only to show hunters and anglers what their annual fees were supporting. Each half hour monthly program would feature a handful of “hook and bullet” stories that their constituency could appreciate. Hunter Orange, Salmon Numbers over Lower Granite Dam, and Chukar Survival Rates were high on the list.

 

Idaho Public Television was a scrappy PBS statewide network. Some of its most popular programs were "Nature" and National Geographic specials, so a program devoted primarily to Idaho wildlife had a good likelihood of success. Besides, the $25,000 that IdahoPTV received from F&G would help cover travel and some production expenses, and the station would cover everything else, including video staff, camera, and editing equipment.

 

It was a unique arrangement, and after the first season, the show began to find its audience. The two individuals who did most of the work in those early years were writer Royce Williams from F&G and producer/director/videographer/editor Peter Morrill from IdahoPTV. Royce was an eloquent wordsmith, and Peter's shooting and editing brought out the best in Royce's pearls of wisdom.

The host was Doug Copsey, one of the people who helped establish the Idaho Shakespeare Festival. He was equally at home on stage or on a mountain trail. But the first couple of seasons could have been called Indoor Idaho. Doug hosted the show behind a desk in the station’s TV studio, introducing location-produced segments and occasional in-studio interviews.

 

The very first show, in 1983, featured segments on kokanee salmon near Anderson Ranch Dam, dealing with a problem grizzly bear, a road closure that benefited elk habitat, antelope near Arco, and a studio discussion with raptor expert Morley Nelson. It was a magazine program, with segments that didn't necessarily relate to one another. That's something that would change in later years. 

During the third season, Doug left his hosting duties, and Outdoor Idaho took the occasion to move completely out of the studio. It was still a co-production. It just needed a host.

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But why me? Why was I chosen?  It wasn’t because of my excellent outdoor skills, although I had built a log cabin outside Idaho City in the 1970's.  A freak blowdown near the ghost town of Graham had flattened several acres of lodgepole pine, just waiting for someone with an old beat-up truck with terrible brakes, lots of energy, and an unreliable McCulloch chainsaw to haul them away.

 

But back to their choice of Host. I’m pretty sure they chose me because the price was right. I was already on staff, working for the daily public affairs IdahoPTV show, “Idaho Reports.” That meant they wouldn’t have to pay me anything extra. Theoretically, I was "free." The price was right, and I was available when they needed me.

Besides. I thought I made a pretty convincing argument to those who questioned my qualifications. Among other things, I  had learned a lot about structure and deadlines, and I also knew how to handle myself when things got rowdy. 

It also helped that I didn’t require much makeup back then and had a halfway pleasant voice, or so I was told. But let’s face it, by then everyone knew my main selling point was that I was cheap. 

 

And I wore a hat. Granted, it was a black Greek fisherman’s cap, picked up when I was bumming around Europe one winter in the 1970's.  I had convinced myself that all real outdoorsmen wore hats on TV shows, so for my first hosting duties, I wore the Greek cap. Looking back on that decision, it was a rooky mistake. So was wearing cowboy boots to walk up a sand dune at Bruneau Dunes State Park. 

 

 

Royce and Peter decided it was time for a fashion “intervention.” No Greek fisherman’s cap for Outdoor Idaho, and cowboy boots only when appropriate. Did we ever consider a "wardrobe" person? Can't say it ever occurred to me. This was Public TV. I just assumed people expected us to look odd. 

 

A new host was also the perfect time to throw off any semblance of the show’s indoor trappings. Instead of a studio, Royce, Peter, and I would head out to exotic places, like Priest Lake,  Henry’s Fork of the Snake River, Silver City, and the St. Joe River.

Whenever possible we would drive in the morning, shoot during the day, and drive home at night. That meant we usually missed the "golden hour," the first hour after sunrise and the last hour before sunset, when the light is softer and more flattering. But we did save money, and that was important. When we entered a show in an Awards contest, they always wanted to know our budget. When we told them, invariably they'd say 'Get real!' We'd tell them, this is as Real as it gets.

 

To give the show that “outdoor” feel, I would talk to the camera along the banks of the Salmon River or in front of an impressive mountain or lake. The words came from Royce. We called them “stand-ups.” A typical show had four or five stand-ups, each about 30 seconds in length and sometimes re-written an hour before delivery. The standups were the bridges between the various segments. Sometimes the topics had little relationship to each other, like back-yard bird feeding followed by fly tying. But there was just enough connection that a dexterous writer like Royce could exploit and keep the show flowing. I was always impressed.

 

But even when the standups were a stretch, we figured it was no different from what host Marlin Perkins was probably doing for Mutual of Omaha’s “Wild Kingdom,” the leader in national outdoor shows at the time. “While Jim attempts to attach the tracking device to the enraged lion, I’m safe in the chopper. You can be safe, too, with Mutual of Omaha.”                    

Since the standup was the part of the show where I was on-air, I took those moments seriously. Sometimes it was the 6^th or 7th “take” before my walking and talking measured up to everyone’s expectations. We then looked to the cameraman to see if he was happy with his zooms and pans. Sometimes a 30-second standup could take half an hour before everyone was satisfied.

 

I was beginning to see there was nothing easy about going outside to produce an outdoor show.

 

And then there were the unexpected things. I had recently purchased contact lenses and was still getting used to them.  As we hiked to Jump Creek Falls in the Owyhees, in the spring, for my first standup, I was lost in thought, trying to memorize my lines, and didn't realize I had been brushing against foliage along the trail. It didn’t affect the standup that day, but by the next morning, my face had swollen, and I could not open one of my eyes. I didn’t realize just how much the poison ivy had altered the contour of my face until one of my friends approached me and asked if I was Bruce’s brother.

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By the sixth season, the folks at F&G had decided that the agency’s hunting and fishing community preferred their money be spent on stories about hunting and fishing.  By then Peter and Royce had moved on to other assignments, and Fish & Game employee Sue Nass began sharing the writing and producing duties for the show.

Apparently, my choice of topics was not helping to keep the co-production alive. The folks at Fish & Game were not as interested as I was about rock climbing in the City of Rocks, hiking to high mountain lakes with llamas, searching for morel mushrooms after a wildfire burn, hang gliding off cliffs, and rafting the Bruneau River with the first kayakers to make that journey.  But they were stories that we were convinced our PBS viewers wanted to see.

 

The good news was that the show was expanding its viewership. The bad news was that Outdoor Idaho was no longer a co-production.

                                                             

That led, literally, to the $25,000 question: Would Idaho Public Television step up to the plate, take on the entire responsibility for funding the program, and give Outdoor Idaho a chance to prosper?  Or would the station follow the path of least resistance and do what most public TV stations in the country did when something was too pricey for the bottom line... just drop the program and move on. 

 

I remember a brief conversation I had with station manager Jerry Garber. He asked me pointblank, “Can the station realistically pull off an outdoor series by itself?” I say it was a brief discussion because I blurted out something like ‘Hell, yes, we can. And you won’t regret it!” Later I came close to eating those words.

But back to that ‘free’ part.

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I got into television not because I took a communication course in college. I got into TV because I was watching “Idaho Reports”  one exceptionally cold Friday evening in February in my unfinished log cabin outside Idaho City, where Visqueen substituted for windows.  At the time, “Idaho Reports” was a daily program that covered the antics of the Idaho Legislature. The show’s set was located on the top floor of the Capitol building, making it easier to nab lawmakers for the live 6:30 pm daily program. 

 

One of the reporters, Jean McNeil, was talking about some legislative issue, and suddenly she just disappeared. "Automation" had apparently kicked in, and a BBC program started airing. Whatever the reason, it was 7 pm on a dark winter evening in my log cabin outside Idaho City when I decided I could handle the job. 

 

I began my letter writing campaign the next week, touting my many qualifications. Now, I was just brash enough to think I could do almost anything I set my mind to.  After all, I was teaching 8^th grade in Idaho City; writing and editing the Idaho World, the state’s oldest newspaper; keeping the Boise Basin library operating; and tending bar at O’Leary’s Saloon, while also finishing my log cabin. Doing all this still kept me below the poverty line, so I was pretty sure I could survive at a public television station.

I wrote several letters with nary a response, not even a note asking for a pledge. I realized this was not going to be an easy sell.

After a sufficient amount of time had passed and no reply letter appeared, I drove my truck down from Idaho City to pester the PBS staff in person. But I never got past the receptionist, a diminutive woman with a no-nonsense attitude.

 

I realized what I must do. If I really wanted to work in the television world, I needed to get serious and volunteer for three months during my summer break from teaching junior high students in Idaho City. That did break the ice jam, and the receptionist finally walked me down a long hall to a little room at the public TV station then on the Boise State University campus, where the “Idaho Reports” staff was working. I got to meet Marc Johnson, Gary Richardson, Ric Ochoa, and Jean McNeil, the woman who had mysteriously disappeared from the TV screen that one cold winter evening.

They welcomed me as one welcomes someone you’re convinced doesn’t belong there, but they were cordial enough and even allowed me to sit at a desk. A few weeks earlier, the reporter who sat there had left for San Francisco. Talk about serendipity. But I knew I had three months to learn my new craft and to make myself indispensable. Even I realized volunteering would only get me so far.

 

My task was to learn the TV lingo and to come up with story ideas for the daily half hour ‘Idaho Reports’ show, hosted by Marc Johnson. I still remember the pride I felt seeing my name in the credits for the first time, under “Production Assistance.”

The staff no doubt questioned some of my first stories, on Idaho wineries, Idaho gambling, drunk driving on Highway 21, horse racing at Les Bois Park. But with each half hour show under my belt, I was feeling better about my lifestyle choices.

I was on my way, and I knew my 8^th grade students in Idaho City were wrong to laugh when I told them I would not be coming back the following year, that I was going into Television. 

 

When the time came three months later to depart my self-inflicted volunteer tenure, I said my goodbyes to everyone and began heading out the door, heart in hand. I was literally walking down the sidewalk when Operations Director Bob Pyle called me back and informed me that they had just found some extra money. No guarantees, but they thought they could pay me for the next month or two. I was delighted they were willing to take a chance on me. But by then everyone knew I was a cheap date.

 

I remember having to fill out lots of generic state employment forms. One form asked: “Where do you get your ideas?” It was an innocuous question when I look back at it, but I had reached my limit with forms.  Why couldn’t it just be a handshake, like it was in Idaho City? Convinced that no one would even read my answers, I decided to test my theory.

“I get my ideas from Voices. I hear Voices.” And sure enough, no one said a word about my answer. No one had even read it.  

 

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A hat is never just a hat. It says something about you. Maybe it says you haven’t come to terms with not having hair. Maybe it’s an adult security blanket. Those who wear hats don’t really need a reason. But here’s one for you.

 

One of the “duties as assigned” at IdahoPTV was to travel around the state with our Development team, the ones who raise money for the station. We would speak to large groups of supporters who were hoping to be entertained with clips of upcoming shows and a few tall tales from the Outdoor Idaho staff. They wanted to know that their $50 donation was being put to good use.

I'm not sure how serious he was, but one day Governor Phil Batt saw me in the State Capitol, came up to me and said, "Reichert, you got the best damned job in the State." I thanked him. I already knew I was lucky. And if following our Development team across the state to rub shoulders with people I didn't know, well, I was going to beat back my innate shyness and make myself available. It was the least I could do for my good fortune.  

 

We were in Lewiston one evening, and when it was my turn to speak, I decided not to wear my hat on stage.   As I was describing our latest Outdoor Idaho show, on the River of No Return, someone in the back of the auditorium yelled out, “Where's your hat? Put your hat back on!” The audience applauded. As I later told my colleagues, they only have to tell me once. Apparently, my hat had become a thing.

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It can be scary, but it happens every day. You begin waiting tables. Then one day you manage the others who are waiting tables. Your tasks grow larger, and as you learn the ropes, people learn to trust you with more duties.

One day there comes a point when you have a chance to run the entire operation. And you ask yourself, is this something I really want to do? You're pretty sure it will consume your life. Chances are, it will also come to define you.

 

It’s one thing, as host, to memorize someone else’s words. But now you will be the one to write those words. Now your task is to create the entire program, to find the experts, to conduct the interviews and work them into the script.

Will there be three segments or five, or maybe just one long segment? Will each segment follow Freytag’s Pyramid, a dramatic structure that storytellers have used for centuries: exposition, rising action, climax, falling action, resolution?

And how will the segments line up with each other? Do you start “strong” or save your best stuff for the end?  Do you use your narrative voice to weave things together or just let the interviews you conducted tell the story?

The show has to end exactly at 26:46 minutes to allow “interstitial” material to play before starting the next program exactly on the hour or half hour.

And each show needs to be somewhat “evergreen.”  No one wants a program that can only air once or twice. But who would have guessed that some of the shows would still be airing 30 years later?  So be careful what you write. Oh, and make the show timely and relevant, too. In other words, a show that is both timely and also evergreen so that viewers will want to watch it at least once a year.

I didn’t even mention the most important thing. This is television, and it’s a marriage of images and words. That’s where the real magic lies. So don't let the words overwhelm the images.

 

And, then, once you finish a program -- sometimes only hours before air-time -- take a break. Maybe grab a beer or treat yourself to a nice meal. Because the next show already has an air-date, and it's sneaking up on you. Plan to tackle that show on Monday.

 

Luckily for me, I worked with videographers and editors who kept the show from failing miserably. Sauni Symonds, Pat Metzler, Jay Krajic, John Crancer, Jeff Tucker -- these are names that come immediately to mind.

I also received a piece of advice in those early years from Peter Morrill, who had worked his way up from videographer to producer to general manager.  When things are overwhelming, he said, take a moment and break things down into components. That way the tasks won’t seem so daunting.

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After the amicable divorce between Fish & Game and IdahoPTV, an astute observer might notice that the main difference in Outdoor Idaho was one of organization. Is the show about many different topics, as in the past, or does each show have one single, overarching theme?

 

We wasted no time answering that question. Our first show out of the gate without Fish & Game we called “Pend Oreille Country.” Every segment featured some aspect of life around Idaho’s largest and deepest lake, including hunting and fishing. And to prove that there were no hard feelings, we interviewed Idaho Fish & Game Commissioner Dick Hanson. He and his wife lived along the big lake, and so it made some sense. Besides, we didn’t want to lose our access to Idaho’s difficult-to-find wildlife.

 

The diversity of those first programs was impressive: “The High Desert,” “Winter Solitude,” “Under Idaho,” “Idaho Horses,” “The Big Game State,” “Vanishing Idaho,” “A State Without a National Park,” “Empire of the Snake,” “Searching for the Soul of the Forest Service.” 

An astute observer might also notice that Outdoor Idaho had begun what some viewed as a perilous slide into dangerous territory. “Stay in your own lane,” said a friend who was worried that the show was getting too political. “Birds, bass fishing, and beautiful places is where Outdoor Idaho needs to camp out.”

 

I agreed with him, but only up to a point. Believing Idahoans to be sharp, involved, resourceful, and pragmatic, I was convinced there was a way to frame public policy issues that most Idahoans would appreciate. And I was determined to find that pathway.

 

Outdoor Idaho's mission had broadened considerably since its inception.  My hope was that the show could cover the state, helping explain Idaho to Idahoans. And, who knows, maybe even play a role in connecting a state confounded by its tortuous geology.

 

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