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September 7, 2008

The documentarian films 'The National Parks: America's Best Idea' and finds a rare occasion to relax in Montana's wilderness. By Christopher Reynolds September 7, 2008

Glacier National Park, Mont.

It's too early for civilians. As dawn's first light falls on the jagged peaks, creeps down the

dwindling glaciers and glides across glass-faced Swiftcurrent Lake, most of the tourists in

the Many Glacier Hotel are still snoozing.

But down at water's edge, three early risers huddle around a camera. One of the guys,

leaning on a tripod and waiting for the clouds to arrange themselves over the jagged

peaks, has a Beatles haircut, the build of a shortstop and a face you've seen before

somewhere.

Perhaps during pledge week.

"I want more of the color," he says, peering through a viewfinder. "OK, I'm doing it," he

says. And the film rolls.

Yes, it's Ken Burns, solemn PBS documentarian of the Civil War, jazz, baseball, Frank

Lloyd Wright, Mark Twain, Congress, the Brooklyn Bridge and more than a few other

American characters and institutions. Beside him stand cinematographer Buddy Squires

and writer Dayton Duncan. Upstairs in the hotel, Burns' wife and 3-year-old are still

sleeping.

So what exactly is Ken Burns doing on his summer vacation?

A six-part, 12-hour series, of course.

"The National Parks: America's Best Idea" is to air in fall 2009 on PBS. This choice of

topic may surprise some, given the body counts and civil-rights gravity of other subjects

Burns has chosen. His last series, nominated for several Emmy awards, covered World

War II. Other projects in the pipeline cover Prohibition, the Dust Bowl and the Vietnam

War -- doom, destruction and gangsters on every side.

So why drag his cameras out here to the Canadian border, amid the peace, quiet,

scampering children and slowly retreating glaciers?

When you boil it down, Burns says, almost all of his work is about the way American

geography connects with the American character. And one of the country's most startling

innovations, he says, was the creation of a national park system in the late 19th and early

20th centuries.

"For the first time in human history, land was set aside not for the pleasure of kings and

noblemen and the very, very rich, but for everybody, for all time," says Burns, lounging

in a chair downstairs at the Many Glacier Hotel.

If that phrasing sounds suspiciously like a Burns script, that's not so surprising. Burns,

the son of an anthropologist, has been exploring American institutions on film for more

than 30 years, ever since his graduation from Hampshire College in Massachusetts in

1975.

Those first few years were lean -- he remembers using food stamps in 1977, grossing

$1,200 in 1978 while trying to woo backers for his first documentary.

"I looked 12 years old, and I was trying to sell the Brooklyn Bridge," he recalls fondly.

"I've got two binders of rejections at home."

The explorer

Of course he did sell the project eventually. "Brooklyn Bridge" aired on PBS in 1982, and

the work has been steady, if not frenetic, ever since. Burns splits his time between tiny

Walpole, N.H., and Manhattan and at 55, still radiates boyish enthusiasm, his

conversation quick and thick with literary and historical allusions.

Out on the trail, you don't hear a lot of hikers huffing out such phrases as "the apotheosis

of our exploration" and "the portal to immortality," but Burns does. Then again, he's also

sound-bite savvy enough to sum up his life's work in three words.

"Race and space," he says. In works on the Civil War, baseball and jazz, he explored race

relations in American culture. In works on the West and Lewis and Clark and Mark

Twain, he explored how this country's geography and culture have shaped each other.

With the parks project, he says, he wants to explore the movement that set aside

Yellowstone and Yosemite and created the national park system. These seem like

astonishing, out-of-character moves, he says, "in a culture so dedicated to the almighty

dollar, so dedicated to a kind of extractive and acquisitive mentality. It's phenomenal. So

how did this happen? Who were these people?"

The project, written and co-produced by Burns' longtime collaborator and New

Hampshire neighbor Duncan, will also look at other tensions that have long preoccupied

park-watchers -- the constant jostling among recreation proponents, preservationists

and commercial interests, for instance, and the big businesses that shaped the system in

its early decades, especially the railroad moguls and road-builders.

Here at Glacier, that means taking notice of Louis Hill, whose westward routing of the

Great Northern Railroad helped determine the park's territory. And George Bird

Grinnell, the naturalist and anthropologist who pushed for the area's designation as a

national park in 1910.

And Stephen Mather, the early National Park Service director who in 1921 chose the

route for Going-to-the-Sun Road, an epic 53-mile highway that crosses the continental

divide, its higher reaches chiseled into stony slopes. It took 11 years to build the road,

which opens in summer and is buried by snow the rest of the year. (Fall snows usually

close Going-to-the-Sun Road by late October or early November. This year, road-

improvement work will limit access beginning Sept. 15. For details: www.nps.gov /glac.)

Besides Swiftcurrent Lake's mountain views, the pseudo-Swiss architecture of the Many

Glacier Hotel and Going-to-the-Sun Road, Glacier's attractions include Logan Pass,

where you can tramp around on mid-summer snowfields about 6,600 feet above sea

level, a snowball's toss from the Continental Divide; and Lake McDonald Lodge, where a

gallery of mounted animal heads gazes down upon the woodsy lobby.

R&R time

Because so much of the parks project is in the can already, Burns and his team have the

rare luxury of relaxing here. Duncan has brought his wife and son. When Burns isn't

chasing the good light at dawn and dusk, he and his wife, Julie Brown, take their 3-year-

old daughter, Olivia, to play with pebbles on the shore, to sit for a moment on a horse at

the stables near the hotel and to glide around Josephine Lake on a midday boat cruise.

It's their first time here.

"Louis Hill and the Great Northern [Railway] made this park," Burns says. "They thought

that by controlling the access to this park, by setting up the resorts, more people would

ride on the railroad. And it was true. It was a big success."

Fortunately for nature lovers with short attention spans, the big ideas and historical

details in the Burns project will come with a hefty dose of sweet scenery. Along with the

archival photography that has become a hallmark of Burns projects, the filmmakers have

spent about $15 million over five years gathering fresh footage of just about all of the 58

parks. Duncan, in fact, has been to every national park but the one in American Samoa.

Burns, juggling multiple projects, has been to far fewer. But after all these years, he and

the gang fall into an easy rhythm in the field, their patter playing on footnotes in

American history, lines from long-ago scripts and pratfalls from three decades of

stumbling around North America in the predawn dark.

It is understood that most mornings, Burns will wake up first, Squires will be last and

Duncan will turn up sometime in between, filling idle moments by fussing with his pipe,

always ready to drive miles for a good slice of pie. Squires will bring his own coffee

maker and get the best pictures.

"In the material world," Squires says, "light and weather equals emotion equals

storytelling. So you take advantage of what nature gives you."

"God is our gaffer," Burns says that night, scanning the dusk horizon for possibilities.

"And he's not working today," says Squires, seeing none.

By the third afternoon in the park, the shooting is all but done. With his daughter

napping, Burns grabs Squires and me and another guy for a power hike toward Grinnell

Glacier. Through the loose rock and bear grass we climb, Burns leading the charge and

quizzing Squires about changes in camera technology.

At about 6,000 feet, we reach a spectacular spot above Grinnell and Josephine lakes, and

I pull out my camera. Burns, who has been waiting for me to catch up, can't help but

sidle over.

"Now if you put these four trees in the foreground, with the lake behind," he says, "I

think you can get the depth of field to work for you in a sort of Impressionistic way."

Who could argue?

The thrill of nature

The next morning, just before he and his family head off to Lake McDonald Lodge for the

last few days of this quasi-vacation, I ask Burns about his own history as a park tourist.

Clearly, he's been waiting for the question.

"My family life was horrifically tragic," he begins. "There was never a moment when I

wasn't aware that my mother was tremendously sick with cancer. I was told when I was 6

or 7 that she was going to die within six months. She died a few months short of my 12th

birthday. I didn't have a childhood."

But one weekend when Burns was 6 or 7 and the family was living in Delaware, his father

met him after school and drove young Ken to spend the night at his grandmother's house

in Baltimore. The next morning before dawn, Burns' father woke him and they hopped in

the car.

"We drove from Baltimore to Front Royal, Va., which is at the top of Skyline Drive, at the

top of Shenandoah National Park," Burns recalls. "The Skyline Drive runs down the

spine of the Shenandoah Mountains, and it is spectacular. We drove through tunnels,

which I'd never done. We drove through clouds, which I'd never done. We saw deer on

the road, which I had never seen. We saw a bear. We stayed in a little cabin, just my dad

and me. We had a campfire. We took a hike to see a waterfall, which I had never seen.

We turned over logs and saw these bright orange salamanders. And they scampered

away, and I caught one.

"And I will never forget the thrill of it. . . . It isn't just these places. It's who you see them

with."