The ATV followed a faint track through the forest before emerging into a sunny meadow dotted with yellow flowers. No one was allowed to go into the backcountry now, but even though they were less than half a mile from the lodge, it felt like they were in the wilderness. On the far side of the field, Doyle could see the local family of mammoths browsing some bushes at the edge of the trees—a bull, two cows, and two calves. He was glad to get away from Brock Ballou and his exhausting demands and relieved to take a day off from the grueling film schedule and the constant importunities of his crew. This shoot, to get some establishing shots and B-roll of the mammoths in their habitat, was like a mini-vacation.
The ATV halted, and the two others being driven behind them, carrying his three-person camera crew and two other guides, pulled up alongside. They got out with their equipment and began gearing up—two handhelds and one Steadicam on a harness. Depending on what they got, the footage would be integrated into the movie as needed. But in looking across the meadow, Doyle felt a faint shiver: those animals were big. Gigantic hairy mountains.
“So,” said Doyle to the chief guide, “how do we get close without spooking them?”
“They won’t run away,” said the guide. “They’re used to seeing people. In fact, the opposite might be a problem—they’ll come over and want to take a look at us or even interfere with us. The little one is Tom Thumb, by the way, one of the favorites around here.”
“What do you mean by … interfere?” Doyle asked, alarmed.
The guide laughed. “They associate us with feeding, and sometimes they’ll try to search our pockets for treats.”
“If they come over,” said Doyle, “so much the better. As far as I’m concerned, they can’t get too close—as long as they don’t step on us.”
“Not a chance. They’re quite dainty about where they put their feet.”
“Let’s go, then,” said Doyle, turning to his crew. “Let’s get some footage.”
Carrying their gear, Doyle, the DP, and two camera operators set off walking across the meadow. The mammoths were immediately aware of their presence and turned to look at them, several with their trunks in the air, chasing their scent.
“Let’s get a few shots at a distance,” Doyle said to the DP, “then some medium shots, then get as close as possible.”
The DP issued some instructions to the two camera operators, and they began shooting, spreading out to get the advantage of several angles and backdrops. The mammoths looked alert and curious, having halted to watch them.
“It’d be nice if they were moving,” said Doyle to the guide. “How do we get them to move?”
“If we stay here for a while, they might start browsing again.”
They waited. Sure enough, after a few minutes, the bull turned his attention away from them and began uprooting a bush with his tusks, then tearing it apart and stuffing the branches into his mouth, munching away. The others followed behind him, plucking and ripping at twigs and bushes.
“Let’s get closer,” Doyle said.
They advanced to the middle of the field, where they paused again for the camera operators to shoot B-roll. When that was done, they continued forward, moving closer to the mammoth family. As they approached, the mammoths again stopped eating and stared at them. Tom Thumb went to hide behind his mother. The bull raised his trunk and suddenly gave a tremendous blast, a trumpeting sound that caused Doyle to jump. When it ended, the echoes of it came back from the mountains, rolling around the valley like dying thunder.
“What did that mean?” he asked the guide. “Is he angry?”
“No, that was a greeting call. I believe they might be thinking of coming over and investigating us.”
And sure enough, the bull took a step toward them, raising its trunk and giving another blast.
This was going to be killer footage, Doyle thought.
Now the bull was ambling toward them, cows and calves trailing.
“Okay, they’re coming to investigate,” the guide said.
“What do we do?” Doyle asked. They loomed up like big hairy mountains—they could be trampled so easily.
“Just stay cool; stand in one spot and don’t move around. No sudden movements or noises. They might explore you a little with their trunks. Put away anything loose in your pockets—they’re curious, and they sometimes take things.”
As they closed in, Doyle felt a thrill of excitement. “Just shoot and keep shooting,” he murmured to the DP. “And, everyone: total silence.”
He knew he didn’t even have to tell her any of this, but he didn’t want the guides talking while they were shooting.
Now as the mammoths loomed above him, he felt his heart beating fast from both the thrill of it and apprehension at how small and vulnerable he felt. He could now smell them—a not unpleasant, dusty, horsey scent. They moseyed closer, trunks swaying back and forth, the tips up and pointing at them.
Doyle held himself still as the bull came up to him, tusks polished and gleaming in the sunlight passing close to his face. The animal’s two warm brown eyes stared down at him, blinking. Then the bull reached out with his trunk—slowly, tentatively—and touched Doyle’s head, mussing his hair. The tip was surprisingly soft, and he felt the animal’s warm breath wash over him as the bull gently pulled and plucked at tufts of his curly hair. The trunk then snaked down and poked itself into Doyle’s shirt pocket, but not finding anything went down to his pants pocket and tugged on that, then ran his trunk up his back. A surge of emotion washed over Doyle, triggered by the extreme gentleness of a creature so staggering in bulk and powerful in mass. He found this close contact with the magnificent creature incredibly stirring.
Meanwhile, Doyle could see that Tom Thumb had come out from behind his mother and was tentatively sniffing at one of the camera operators with his little trunk. The bull eventually got bored with Doyle and turned to reach out with his trunk toward the DP and her handheld camera. She continued taping even as his trunk explored the camera, touching the lens and sniffing around, fogging up the glass with an exhale of breath, and then feeling around to every little knob and lever.
Everyone was silent. The only sounds were the creaking of the mammoths’ bodies, the rustling of their stiff hair, the sounds of their breathing, and the occasional rumbling of their stomachs. And then there was an abrupt razzing blast of air—one of them farted.
The bull seemed very curious about the camera. He wrapped his trunk around it and gave it a gentle tug. Doyle didn’t want to speak, but he hoped the DP would let him have it—and she did, releasing it as he grasped and raised it. He held it up to his eye to examine more closely, staring into the lens while tilting his massive head this way and that, ears flapping. The camera was still running, and Doyle could see it was capturing the shot of the century. After peering at it for a while from different angles, the bull—instead of dropping it as Doyle expected—held the camera back out to the DP, who silently took it back, still running.
After a few more minutes of snuffling and exploring, poking and prying, the herd moved on past them and lumbered back toward the verge of the forest, their curiosity satisfied—if a little disappointed, perhaps, that no one had food or treats.
He looked at the DP. Her face was glowing with suppressed excitement. She knew as well as he the priceless footage she had just captured. This was going into the movie—they’d rework the script if necessary. It was as real as it gets—no CGI, no VFX—just actual footage of a real woolly mammoth. They wouldn’t even need to Foley it—the sounds the herd made were already so fabulous. David Attenborough himself would cream his shorts to get that footage.
Doyle finally breathed. “That … was totally fucking awesome.”