Aerial Tapioca: Up, Up, and Away

Draft 3.5.1
February 20, 2026

 

It was an audacious gamble, bordering on folly: to distill the essence of Idaho into video and words in the span of an hour -- and to do it completely from the air. That meant no people and no interviews.

Whether we succeeded is open to debate. But the audience rendered its verdict quickly and emphatically. Judging by the flood of comments, donations, and DVD sales, Idaho Public Television’s 1999 “Idaho: An Aerial Tapestry” became the most effective on-air fundraising tool the station had ever produced. In sixty minutes, viewers saw more Idaho than many manage in a lifetime of travel.

Inside the shop, we jokingly called it “Aerial Tapioca,” a wink at my occasionally overcooked prose paired with soaring images captured from a camera bolted to the belly of a Bell Jet Ranger helicopter. The combination, improbably, worked.

A quarter century later, I still think of “Aerial Tapestry” as a love letter, written by a young man too smitten to blush -- at least back then -- at his ornate phrasing or his willful blindness to his beloved’s imperfections. “For those intent upon understanding this region,” I warned in the script, “a note of caution: beware of sudden geographical mood swings.”

Even now, if I were teaching a course on Idaho, that hour would serve as a worthy starting point.

The producer, director, chief videographer, and editor of the project was my colleague John Crancer. Ricardo Ochoa assisted on camera, along with David Walsh of the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation. The original score came from two northern Idaho musicians performing as Wild Roses. I served as writer, narrator, and executive producer.

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The promotional copy promised “an aerial celebration of mountains, rivers, deserts and lakes,” and “a bird’s-eye tour of the state’s natural beauty and geological extremes.”

(a comment from Crancerman)

John and the pilots mapped out a sweeping route: east to west, south to north, all the way to the Canadian border.

We followed the arc of the Snake River from near the Wyoming line, tracing its westward journey across the state. The helicopter circled and lingered over geological landmarks so I could explain what we were witnessing. “Taller than Niagara,” I narrated at Shoshone Falls, “this spectacle is the signature work of the 15,000-year-old Bonneville Flood, whose waters drained Utah with such force that massive whirlpools tore blocks from the bedrock.”

Central Idaho’s batholith and wilderness areas received a great deal of attention, always with one eye on the gas gauge. “Light on the mountains, gem of the mountains: to many that will always be the real meaning of the word ‘Idaho,’” I reported, “mountains as jagged and crumpled and pleated as the Snake River plain is flat.”

Farther north, over some of my favorite terrain, we paused above the Palouse. “It feels comfortable, like home,” I commented. “The lush curvature of the landscape tells you that life is easier here... These undulating hills, randomly arranged and brilliant in their diversity of colors, are in effect a sea of wind dunes, blown in by strong southwesterly currents. The green lawn, pelouse in French, stretches and swells and flows.”

 

The last leg of the 3,000-mile journey allowed us to explore the Clearwater drainage, past the discovery of gold in 1860 that shook the region like an earthquake, above the salmon fishing grounds of the Nez Perce that Lewis and Clark would still recognize, around the 20-mile circle known as Silver Valley that produced more valuable metals than almost anywhere in the world. And then we headed further north into the big lakes country.

 

“Northern Idaho is land overrun by floods,” I observed, “flooded first with lava flows, then later with ice flows from the north. A warmer climate chased away the glaciers, but tell-tale signs remain: glacial deposits, natural levies for beautiful lakes.”

 

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While producing the program, we deepened our understanding of the cataclysmic floods that shaped the region. Not just the outburst that sculpted the Snake River Canyon and Shoshone Falls, but the even larger Ice Age floods that repeatedly roared across northern Idaho, gouging out Lake Pend Oreille, Idaho’s largest and deepest lake.

As I noted in my narration, “ancient ice flows trapped and then released a flood of biblical proportions through the mouth of the Clark Fork River , among the greatest floods documented by man.”

 

Our 1999 “Aerial Tapestry” marked our first sweeping, one-hour portrait of the entire state. In its wake, we became something like prisoners of our own success. Other statewide productions followed: “Idaho Edens,” “Imagine Idaho,” “Idaho: State of Wonder,” “Idaho: A Portrait.”

“Idaho Edens,” for example, returned people to the landscape. We spent fifty-five days in the field, logged 5,000 road miles, and shot 4,000 minutes of tape -- all to craft a single hour. It also allowed us to revisit 3,000 miles of helicopter footage.

We invited individuals to share a place in Idaho where they felt most at home. That took us to Priest Lake, Silver Creek, the White Clouds, Henry’s Fork, and beyond. I wrote the narration, but Jeff Tucker carried most of the structural load. “Idaho Edens” and a half-hour version of “Aerial Tapestry” became our nationwide offerings to other PBS stations.

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Aerial productions, however, do not come cheap. The hour-long “Aerial Tapestry” cost more than $100,000, with helicopter rental, pilot fees, and fuel consuming most of the budget. The specialized stabilization system -- the Tyler Mount -- was shipped from Colorado and reserved weeks in advance at $600 per day, weather be damned.

If the wind kicked up, if smoke drifted in, if clouds lowered, the meter kept running. When light, air, and timing aligned, it felt like magic. But more than once we wondered if we’d gotten ahead of our skis. Idaho’s size, its seven degrees of latitude, and the tyranny of budget meant there were corners we never reached.

Then-General Manager Peter Morrill later called it “a groundbreaking, beautiful program that sustained the agency during a difficult period -- and one that dared to attempt what many PBS stations avoided for fear of financial risk.”

Across the country, public television stations were struggling. In Idaho, our local productions made us, per capita, the most-watched PBS station in America. Programs like “Aerial Tapestry” and “Idaho Edens” led the charge.

We also gained a deep respect for our pilots. They were collaborators in the sky. We would suggest a target. Once there, they often charted the line, and we merely tilted the camera. They found the angles that made Idaho sing.

Of course, not every moment was lyrical. On an earlier shoot for our 13-part “Visions of Idaho” history series, producer and videographer Jeff Tucker asked the pilot to circle a granite spire in the Sawtooths. “That’s when Peter Morrill demonstrated what he’d had for breakfast,” said Jeff. “The pilot promptly returned him to Stanley so we could resume filming. Peter still complains about being left behind -- without his jacket.”

One of the little things we hadn’t counted on was high-flying insects. More than once the pilot had to touch down so we could clean the camera lens.

In the Selkirk Mountains near Chimney Rock and the Canadian border, a pilot once balanced one skid on a rock ledge because there wasn’t a flat spot in sight. “I jumped out, Earl ___ the pilot steadied the ship, I took care of the offending bug, and we were good to go. I’m still kinda proud of that moment,” laughed Jeff. “It took some skill from both of us. Definitely not a ‘hold my beer’ kind of moment.”

But it wasn’t always fun, recalled producer and occasional videographer Sauni Symonds. “I remember when you and I hired a helicopter to shoot the first aerial video of Hells Canyon with a Tyler Mount.  It was very exciting swooping over and around the cliffs and zooming over the river, just feet above the water.  At one point, there appeared to be a malfunction with the helicopter, and we had to land quickly. There are not a lot of flat places in that canyon!  But everything checked out ok, and up we went again. 

“I also remember when Outdoor Idaho was a co-production with Fish and Game. I sometimes had to hang out of the open door with my camera, secured only by a harness, while the pilot chased bighorn sheep across the desert. I found that very exciting but was glad when we began using a Tyler Mount.”  

 

For the most part, the pilots seemed to be having as much fun as our production team, but there was that time we got a stern lecture from one of the pilots. “Don’t leave anything behind,” he barked. “The last guy in my ship left a roast beef sandwich under the back seat. It took me a week to figure out where the smell was coming from.”  Of course, everyone on the camera crew knew immediately who the culprit was, didn’t we, John.

Years later, drones offered a more affordable alternative, though the early ones lacked the ability to cross mountain ranges. When we needed a sweeping panorama and needed it in a hurry, we sometimes turned to a friendly pilot and his Cessna, with a small camera mounted under the wing. Pretty sure no one checked in with the FAA beforehand.

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There is a particular chemistry between images and words. At its best, it reveals something true. Idaho is complicated, confounding, and resistant to summary. No single vantage point -- not even from a Bell Jet Ranger at 10,000 feet -- can fully capture this remarkable state.

But that has never stopped us from trying.

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