Taking On Big Brother

August 9, 2026
Draft 6.6.4

It began with a camera in the forest.

In the spring of 2010, Outdoor Idaho set out to produce a straightforward program about Student Conservation Association volunteers from throughout the country rebuilding trails in the Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness. Instead, we found ourselves in the middle of an unexpected fight over whether a public television camera belonged on public land.

With more than sixty percent of Idaho managed by federal agencies, most of us have a story or two about regulations drifting beyond the orbit of common sense. This one is ours.

The Student Conservation Association crews were rebuilding trails in one of the most remote wilderness areas in the lower forty-eight states. It was exactly the kind of stewardship story Outdoor Idaho liked to tell.

Or so we thought.

Our videographer, Jay Krajic, had already begun filming. He met the teenagers as they arrived at the Boise airport from across the country, then followed them to Cobalt, where they learned to use crosscut saws and pulaskis before heading into the wilderness.

Producer Marcia Franklin, however, was beginning to hear troubling rumors that our plans to accompany the students into the Frank Church Wilderness might be unraveling.

When she called the Forest Service wilderness ranger to find out why, the answer was astonishing. We would not be allowed into the wilderness. The reason, she was told, was the Wilderness Act of 1964. It prohibited cameras in the wilderness.

From our perspective, the agency’s position made no sense. At a time when millions of Americans routinely carried digital cameras into the backcountry, why couldn’t a two-person public television crew do the same? Besides, we had been doing just that for several decades. Ansel Adams had carried cameras into Yosemite to help Americans understand why wilderness mattered. Jay had even worked for the Forest Service building trails. If anyone understood wilderness ethics, it was he.

"At one point,” said Marcia, “I asked the wilderness ranger if it was because the camera was considered 'mechanized' because a tape was rolling. If so, I pointed out that we now had cameras where nothing moved—they simply recorded to a chip. I still remember his silence."

The explanations became even more puzzling.

The ranger suggested we could ride a jetboat up the river and meet the students there, but we couldn't step into the wilderness with our cameras. A jetboat was acceptable, but a camera was not.

I took it personally.

The Wilderness Act contains what may be the most lyrical sentence ever written into federal law. Wilderness, it says, "is hereby recognized as an area where the earth and its community of life are untrammeled by man, where man himself is a visitor who does not remain."

I've always loved those words. To suggest that Outdoor Idaho—a program devoted to helping Idahoans understand and appreciate their public lands—was somehow violating the spirit of that law struck me as completely backward.

The more we listened, the less coherent the explanation became. If this really was the Forest Service's interpretation of the Wilderness Act, then the implications stretched far beyond one television program.

This wasn't just about us anymore. It was about whether journalists could document life in a publicly owned wilderness. If we lost that argument, so be it. But we had to have the argument.

The fight officially began on Wednesday, May 19, 2010. That morning, Frank Guzman, Forest Supervisor of the Salmon-Challis National Forest, sent us a memorandum that seemed to leave little room for discussion.

"Our experts in Special Uses and Wilderness Management in the regional office all agree that this sort of filming is commercial, and thus not allowed in the Wilderness," he wrote. "There really seems to be no grey area on this topic."

No grey area.

Those three words clarified everything—and nothing.

Within hours, Idaho Public Television general manager Peter Morrill notified the State Board of Education, the office of the Attorney General, and other state officials that we appeared headed toward a prolonged dispute with the Forest Service. Before long, the Associated Press picked up the story under the headline: "Gov. Otter takes on feds over wilderness filming."

Our disagreement had suddenly become public.

Governor Butch Otter's response was immediate. Although the governor and Idaho Public Television had occasionally found themselves on opposite sides of budget debates, he wasted no time siding with us in this fight against the federal bureaucracy.

"The claim that IPTV is a commercial entity is patently absurd and defies common sense," the governor said. "IPTV is owned by the State of Idaho and is an agency of the State Board of Education. IPTV is a noncommercial entity."

Others quickly joined the conversation.

Peter Morrill posed the question that cut straight to the heart of the issue. "If Ansel Adams were alive today," he asked, "and wanted to bring his camera into the Frank Church Wilderness, would the Forest Service let him?"

It was a question no one seemed eager to answer.

Steve Amen, executive producer and host of Oregon Field Guide, noted that interpretations of the Wilderness Act varied widely across the country. "The people in the main offices love what we're doing," he said. "They want us on the land."

Bethine Church, widow of the man whose name now graces the Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness, found the entire controversy nonsensical. "Frank would have laughed," she told us, “because he would have found this so nutty."

Even the editorial writers couldn't resist. Idaho Statesman columnist Kevin Richert summed up the situation in one memorable line: "The Forest Service wanted to block public television from public lands. Can't make all this up."

Behind the scenes, Idaho's congressional delegation was also weighing in. Members contacted Forest Service Chief Tom Tidwell, urging the agency to take another look at its interpretation of the law. The issue had quickly grown beyond one television program. It had become a public test of common sense.

As the pressure mounted, officials in the Forest Service's Intermountain Region in Ogden began searching for a way out.

One suggestion was especially memorable. Instead of allowing Outdoor Idaho to film the Student Conservation Association crew, perhaps each student could carry a small camera and record the experience themselves. We could simply use their footage.

The idea never went anywhere.

On Friday, two days after there supposedly had been "no grey area," the Forest Service discovered some.

The Intermountain Region issued a press release stating, “After careful review, the U.S. Forest Service has moved to allow filming by an Idaho Public Television crew in the Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness.” The agency also emphasized that helping the public better understand national forests was an important part of its mission and that “one of the ways we can do this is through the media.”

It was a remarkable reversal.

Soon afterward, Forest Service officials Andy Brunelle, Dave Olson, and Erin O'Connor worked with us to develop something unprecedented: a blanket Special Use Permit covering four wilderness areas spread across multiple national forests and two administrative regions.

The immediate battle was over.

More important, we were able to move ahead with production of “50 Years of Wilderness,” an hour-long documentary celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of the Wilderness Act. The program aired that December, received a Regional Emmy, and earned first-place awards in every competition it entered.

We thought the issue had finally been settled.

We were wrong.

Four years later, cameras in the wilderness were back on the front page. One statement from the proposed Forest Service directive caught my attention. "If you were engaged on reporting that was in support of wilderness characteristics," the Forest Service's acting wilderness director told a reporter from The Oregonian, "that would be permitted." The Forest Service seemed to be arguing that they would allow reporting in wilderness only if the subject matter pleased them.

There was also the matter of permits and fees, with no assurances that a permit would be handled quickly. A reporter taking photographs—even with a cellphone—could be required to obtain a permit costing as much as $1,500, with fines of up to $1,000 for failing to do so.

The proposal alarmed journalists well beyond Idaho.

This time a different general manager of Idaho Public Television raised objections. “We think their interpretation of what commercial filming is, is way too broad,” said GM Ron Pisaneschi, and we think their interpretation of what is news is way too narrow.”

Again, the Forest Service backed down. Breaking news, such as a plane crash, would not require a permit. But slower-moving stories — a weed infestation, a beetle outbreak, or other issues requiring extended coverage — could still trigger the permitting process.

Those were the kinds of stories Outdoor Idaho did well.

This fight had grown beyond Outdoor Idaho and even beyond public television. National First Amendment advocates became involved. Idaho Senators Jim Risch and Mike Crapo weighed in, and Congressman Mike Simpson pushed for a quick resolution.

During this period, we interviewed Forest Service Chief Tom Tidwell in Boise. After the cameras stopped rolling, Tom told Ron Pisaneschi and me that Congressman Simpson had reminded him that every day this issue remained in the newspapers, it made it harder for him to build support for wilderness designation in the White Cloud Mountains.

Tom also joked that he had watched enough IdahoPTV pledge drives to know we were definitely “public” television.

Soon afterward, Chief Tidwell issued a two-page memorandum titled “Commercial Filming and Photography Permits,” File Code 2720. It clarified the agency’s position:

“Journalism is not to be considered a commercial activity for purposes of the regulations or our permit policies on any NFS lands.” The memo specifically included breaking news, features, documentaries, background pieces, blogs, and other forms of news gathering.

Once again, we thought the issue was resolved.

But experience had already taught us that clarity in a two-page memorandum from Washington, D.C., does not always translate uniformly across 193 million acres of public land.

Apparently, not every ranger reads every memo.

I began telling Outdoor Idaho staff not to over-explain our plans when working with distant Forest Service offices. Sometimes a courtesy call creates a problem that did not exist before. Once you announce your presence, someone may feel obligated to “do something.”

And that something might not be helpful.

That proved true again in 2021.

Outdoor Idaho producer Lauren Melink and videographer Jay Krajic began work on an hour-long documentary about the Bitterroot Mountains — a story about the history, culture, recreation, and science of a remarkable range shared by Idaho and Montana.

While working on the project, Lauren ran into a recreation staff member from the Lochsa/Powell/Moose Creek Ranger District. What followed was a level of procedural detail far beyond anything we had encountered before.

Lauren found herself filling out forms asking how many changing rooms we would have on set and whether we planned to use pyrotechnics. Outdoor Idaho generally travels with one producer, one videographer, a camera, and a tripod.

The suggestions became even stranger. The Forest Service employee told Lauren there was no reason Outdoor Idaho couldn’t simply use footage from past programs. Video from a dozen years earlier looked fine, she said.

“That isn’t in line with how we produce documentaries at Outdoor Idaho,” Lauren responded.

The employee also suggested asking volunteers to use their cell phones to collect footage for us.

Eventually, after numerous emails, Lauren sent along Chief Tidwell’s 2014 memorandum. When the two women later spoke by phone, the recreation specialist dismissed it as “just a memo” and one that was already several years old.

The Outdoor Idaho team considered postponing the program. But we were determined to tell the story.

I knew I needed to speak directly with the supervising ranger, to let him know we were not filming a remake of “Return of the Jedi.” When the ranger and I finally did talk, I let my frustration show.

“This is bullshit,” were my first words to him.

“I agree,” he replied.

From there, the conversation became straightforward and amicable. Outdoor Idaho would film only what we needed for our documentary. We promised to protect the resource, and we also promised to keep a low profile while in the Bitterroots. With that understanding, the conflict ended.

Our program “In the Shadow of the Bitterroots” eventually aired in December 2022—nearly a year later than planned—and received strong audience response, including a Regional Emmy nomination in the Environment/Science category.

It is difficult to become too angry with an agency charged with protecting designated wilderness. That mission is both necessary and legitimate. Most Forest Service employees understood exactly what Outdoor Idaho was trying to accomplish. As the late Boise National Forest public affairs officer Dave Olson once told me, “Don’t they realize what great work you guys do to showcase Forest Service projects that benefit the land?”

Through the years federal policies have continued to evolve. Congress passed the 2025 EXPLORE Act, removing outdated permitting requirements and further clarifying what is allowed in wilderness areas. General Manager Jeff Tucker offered informational assistance as the massive legislation worked its way through Congress. That means the last three general managers of Idaho Public Television all found themselves dealing with some version of the same question: Can a camera accompany a journalist into America's wilderness?

 

Ironically, Outdoor Idaho never did produce that half-hour program on the Student Conservation Association. Perhaps we should have. After all, we won the battle.  But when the ranger in charge of the SCA students told them they didn’t have to play ball with Outdoor Idaho , some of the students we had planned to feature bowed out, perhaps not to jeopardize their chances of a future job with the Forest Service. Jay eventually did go back into the Frank to get more footage of trail building, and some of that footage made it into other OI shows, including a Dialogue program hosted by Marcia.

For me the bigger story was no longer teenagers rebuilding trails. It was the unexpected fight over whether journalists should be allowed to document a publicly owned wilderness without unnecessary government interference.

I'm glad we didn't back down from that story. The support we received—from the governor, Idaho's congressional delegation, the Chief of the Forest Service, and many thoughtful Forest Service employees—proved that common sense can eventually find daylight, even inside a bureaucracy.

And Outdoor Idaho taught me once again that often we'd head into the field chasing one idea, only to discover something larger and something more interesting waiting for us around the next bend.

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