One small step for man, one giant leap for a chick

SUMMARY: For the BBC series 'Life' I was sent on a mission to film barnacle goose chicks on their epic journey from nest to feeding ground. Back in 1985, a landmark BBC series called 'Kingdom of the Ice Bear' managed to capture what must be one of the most remarkable natural behaviours.  It has hardly ever been seen and has not been filmed since. This is the story of my attempt to capture this rarely seen behaviour in full HD glory.

The Never Setting Sun

The 24 hour daylight of the arctic attracts birds from across the planet. They come here to nest and raise their chicks in the security that the constant daylight allows. The ever-present sun not only helps in their vigilant lookout for predators but also provides a rich supply of fast growing grass to feed on. One of the most distinctive of the Svalbard migrants is the barnacle goose and every summer thousands of them make the 2000 mile journey from Caerlavernock in Scotland. I followed in their wake. I had one week with Norwegian field guide Lasse Ostervold, before the crew - Gordon Buchannan, Justine Evans and producer, Patrick Morris, arrived.

A Vast Wilderness

After three days of traveling by car, plane and boat I looked around at a colossal landscape and my heart sank. It suddenly seemed an incredibly daunting prospect to find anything in this vast wilderness let alone tiny black and white geese. However we did have a starting point... months of planning had at least allowed me to speak to the lead researchers and scientists who knew these birds. Of particular help was Dr Maarten Loonen of the Norwegian Arctic Station. In 1985 the crew of 'Kingdom of the Ice Bear' had traveled to Greenland, but there they had the help of the Norwegian military to get to a remote inland valley, and had the help of bird scientists already on the ground who had been finding and studying nests in advance. This time it was completely down to me and Lasse.

Barnacle geese usually nest on the ground, and further north on Svalbard Maarten was busily studying hundreds of geese who had already snuggled down to lay their eggs on small grassy islands. Here they could raise their chicks isolated from predators such as the arctic fox, who would find it difficult to cross the fast flowing water.

Further inland and away from the islands of the fjords its a different story. Ground-nesting would be an open larder for any fox that could sniff them out. For our story we needed to find geese who sought the protection of high cliffs.

We had set up camp by the entrance to a large rocky canyon where my contacts had told me that they had studied cliff-nesters 10 years earlier! I was a little more convinced of our chances when a few boat captains, who frequently passed through this area, told me that they often see barnacle geese feeding on the shoreline and flying overhead.

Camping in a vast wilderness

The Cold Reality Dawns

Full of optimism we entered the canyon...  it wasn't long before we spotted potential nesting sites, all vacant but it was a promising start. A little while later however, it became very apparent that these high ledges were in fact still covered in snow and ice - a few hours of trekking and searching and I became convinced that until the ice thawed this canyon was far from nest-friendly. We sat on a ledge, sheltered from the howling wind, and looked out as a small blue trickle of melt water crossed the white depths of the canyon. I was feeling a bit sick, not from the dehydrated dinner in a bag, but from the sinking feeling that we may have come to the ends of the earth for nothing. Would I have to call the UK and cancel the shoot? Had months of planning and hard work all been in vain?

I phoned Maarten who had believed this area might be a hotspot for cliff-nesting geese. He was surprised at the lack of life, but it had been an unusually cold spring, and a late thaw must have resulted in far fewer geese nesting than usual. 'There should be some', he said... 'somewhere'. Lasse and I were the first people to reach this valley since the sun had first popped back above the horizon in early March, the winter was holding on.

-5 degrees and still smiling

A discovery in the nick of time

We were reaching the end of five days of searching and things were looking bleak. Soon the team would arrive with fifty cases of kit.

Having exhausted all hope of finding geese in the canyon, Lasse and I left camp early one bitter morning. We headed out towards a bird cliff that I had spotted five days earlier, as our boat passed on the way to setup camp. Several hours later we breathlessly arrived to be greeted by a party of puffins spinning through the air and little Auks laughing and waddling around on high ledges.

Holding my breath as the steely wind blasted my face, I peered over the cliff. Could this be the moment of reckoning? Elation eased the pain of my wind-chapped face. Less than fifty metres below me, male barnacle geese stood tall and proud like Roman sentries overlooking the icy Fjord, and tucked neatly behind them were females cosily wrapped around their eggs.

I could hardly contain my emotion. If Lasse had been a little less macho I might have even hugged him! It was a huge relief.

The next morning, Patrick, Justine and Gordon arrived in high spirits and we wasted no time in heading out.

Adult barnacle geese watch for predators while standing guard over their little chicks.

'Kingdom of the Ice Bear' 1985

You may by now have worked out what behaviour I was hoping to film. It was the moment that the tiny, fluffy chicks take a huge leap of faith and jump. Unable to fly they fall and tumble down the jagged cliffs in a desperate attempt to get back to the safety of their parents and to the lush green grass below. All the while they must avoid the ever-present and ever-hungry gulls and foxes which patrol for a chance to grab a bite.

Here is a clip of the incredible sequence from the 1985 series 'Kingdom of the Ice Bear'

Goose Watch

Once little baby chicks had been spotted we knew that we had less than 48 hours before they would need to get to the feeding grounds below. So if we kept poised for action it should all work out beautifully.

My hours of watching were certainly enlightening - sitting atop a freezing wind-blasted cliff as the 24 hour sun circled above me. It may sound cliched, but I felt as though I was sitting on top of the world. The vista constantly evolved as clouds and shadows swept by... 24 hours later and I handed over to Justine. Exhausted I crawled into my sleeping bag, safe in the knowledge that the key shot would be bagged by that time tomorrow.

Several hours later I woke and excitedly radioed to get the news... there was a brief silence and then clearly but painfully 'we didn't get it'... I paused as reality dawned, swearing to myself.

Apparently the chicks had jumped from their nests so fast that Justine and Gordon didn't even have time to press record on the camera. Contrary to what we had believed the adults had given no warning at all - no beckoning or encouragement to their young. The chicks all simply tumbled over and fell down. We could see them below - dots walking about at the base of the cliff, but we had nothing on film.

Exhausted and cold we had no choice but to remain optimistic. Peak hatching season was upon us and we were finding more nests every day. Surely this was just the first of many? We had learned a lot about the barnacle goose. Every minute we had spent watching the little family had provided a further insight into their behaviour. Next time we would be prepared.

An expedition up stream

Justine and I decided the time was right to venture out even further, extending our search to an area 15kms away. Trekking across the icy peaks, and following the canyon that I had searched several days earlier, we ventured further and further upstream. Then we turned a bend and the whole mood of the canyon changed, before us was a deep, hidden chasm. Towering curved cliffs provided an amphitheater for soaring fulmars and the glacial river violently roared below. There nestled high on pinnacles and ledges of rock were families of barnacle geese - the sun highlighting their splendid black and white plumage. I couldn't believe it. Maarten was right - this was a hotspot!

Before I got too excited, the practicalities started to dawn. The only possible way to reach this majestic enclave and get close enough to film would be to go up the treacherous looking river. So began another tough slog, several hours trekking upstream in heavy waders, fighting hard against the current. It was quite an adventure.

Lasse and I braving the melt water and giant blocks of ice

Deep down in the canyon it was a whole new world. As water swept past us, huge blocks of sculptured ice and giant snow bridges lined, and sometimes blocked, our passage. Every footstep was one of trepidation. From here the canyon appeared higher and more daunting then ever. When we finally broke through the last of the ice bridges I felt like a Conan-Doyle adventurer encountering an unseen land.

Barnacle geese flew over head as if to welcome us, and we could already see several chicks who had come down from their nests. The adults stood nervous and protective over their young, while gulls flew greedily overhead.

Justine and I taking a rest in the river

From this vantage point it wasn't long before Justine filmed a pair of barnacle geese leading their baby from the grass into the water - the chicks first paddling lesson. It's skill they would need if they were to leave the canyon and join the other geese who were gathering by the green edges of the fjords in preparation for their return to Scotland in a few months time.

Within moments the little chick looked overwhelmed as it fought the fast flow, its small feeble wings paddling desperately. For a moment it sank beneath the icy water, Justine filming its every breath. Suddenly a huge gull swept down, plucked the little ball of fluff from the water and swallowed it whole. The lesson was over. A heart-wrenching moment and we had caught the harsh reality on film. After months of care this pair of barnacle geese that had lost their little chick in one mouthful.

The Final Great Leap

With more and more barnacle geese gathering together we had less than six days before leaving Svalbard, and we still had failed to get the key shot. Only one nest remained in reach, only one nest on which to put all our hopes and dreams. It was a beauty - and would be nothing short of spectacular. We had found a goose sitting on eggs 150 metres up, on the edge of a long ledge jutting out over the canyon. This could be even more dramatic than the 1985 sequence.

A couple of days later and with five little chicks the adults became more and more anxious, pacing back and forth over the ledge, the father occasionally flying off to feed himself. It seemed to me that their predicament had struck home. How on earth would the chicks get down to the feeding grounds alive? Either a straight drop of 150metres down one side - surely suicidal, or a bumpy but slightly less suicidal tumble down the other. Whatever happened it was going to be dramatic and most probably deadly.

Over several hours the mother kept peering over one edge. Was she working out the safest way down?  We positioned our cameras to give us the prime view, and waited.

Spot the Cameraman - Gordon Buchanan is in position opposite the nesting barnacle geese

Almost 60 hours had passed. The chicks must have been getting hungry - the severity of their situation no doubt responsible for their delay in leaving the ledge. Gordon was on tenterhooks. I was rushed with adrenalin and sat on another ledge some distance away. From there I was able to survey the situation with a clear view of the steep suicidal side of the ledge, which the geese were wisely keeping away from.

Suddenly, with no warning the mother and father flew away and abandoned their chicks. Left alone, they looked so tiny and vulnerable. I could see the parents fly down and join the other geese feeding. They had obviously exhausted their resources and had no choice but to leave the chicks. Now it was only a matter of time before the chicks jumped, or they became an all you can eat buffet for the encroaching gulls. I could feel my heart pounding. Was this it? Were we going to film them jump? And under even more extraordinary circumstances? This was going to be a powerful story. Would the chicks make it?

Gordon was ready, but without a mother to lead them, the confused chicks started walking in my direction... towards the suicidal cliff. Horrified I radioed Gordon, but he had already grabbed his camera and was scrambling in desperation to get to where I was. I fell to my knees looking through the binoculars. This was the the scene I had pictured in my dreams - playing out in what seemed like slow motion. Five little chicks all jumped, plumeting down 150 metres. One disappeared as it hit the rocks, another was grabbed by a gull, the remaining three fell into the river and were washed away. In a matter of seconds the chicks had gone.

I cried.

Gordon looked at me, we packed up and walked home silent and sad. We had failed. 

Cameraman Gordon Buchanan waits for jumping chicks

In four weeks we had seen our cold wintery valley be transformed into a scene from the 'Sound of Music'. The sun was shining, the rocky tundra slopes were now lush meadows speckled with tiny yellow and purple flowers, and the ice fields were velvety streams trickling across the hillsides. We had gone from winter to summer in a few weeks.

It had been an emotional rollercoaster. No matter how much planning or how much equipment you have, animals just don't read scripts!

 A young arctic fox often visited me - presumably he was waiting for the same leap that I was.

For more photos and videos of the expedition click here