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The Leonardo helicopter is zipping along at 40 or 50 knots, just about that many feet above the tallest spruce trees on the rocky landscape. Ahead, I can see the geography give way to a drop of several hundred feet. As the ground plunges, my stomach jumps up into my throat. We should be falling too—the tension between gravity and the rotorcraft’s defiance of it.
The first Europeans to cast eyes on the rugged terrain of northern Labrador described it as “empty.” Never mind that the landscape is in fact teeming with biological life, nor that the notion of an “empty” landscape is a logical fallacy anyway. And never mind that the land’s First Peoples—here, the Innu and Inuit—had been subsisting on this landscape for thousands of years before the first white people arrived.
Notwithstanding the fact that I knew better, for a few moments I did see the expanse before my eyes as—in a certain way—empty. It isn’t that the endless subarctic landscape lacks features or life. Rather, it’s that my decidedly modern eye was simply unaccustomed to looking so far without perceiving the typical signs of human interference. That, I imagine, is what accounts for the spell that the North seems to cast on the human imagination.
Sitting in front of me in the chopper is wildlife cinematographer Rick Rosenthal. Rick’s enjoying the view of the Hunt River as much as I am, but I can see he’s a little uncomfortable too. And maybe with good reason. He’s been down in helicopter crashes—twice. Of course, it’s an occupational hazard for someone like Rick, who’s had a legendary 40-year career in wildlife filmmaking and whose credits include BBC’s Planet Earth and Blue Planet. Rick has travelled the world many times over and filmed in the most exotic and remote locations.
Rick and I spot a promising run and ask our pilot, Adam Walsh, to fly down for a closer look. Adam is also the camp manager at Hunt River Lodge, where we’re staying courtesy of Chris Verbiski and the future owner, Alex Taylor. Adam is as rugged as the landscape itself—a person so truly at home in the wilds of northern Labrador that he may well have been born of it. He is possessed of an envy-inducing form of boundless competence: his skill set seems never-ending, and no task is insurmountable. He is impressed by precisely nothing, which has the perverse effect of making me desperate to impress him somehow. So far, no luck.
Like other chopper pilots I’ve known, Adam can be laser-focused. Probably a good thing. But he’s also a Newfoundlander, and his dry humour flickers here and there. Occasionally, he cracks a wry smile at one of my feeble jokes and I bask in the small victory.
Flying a little lower, we spot several salmon in the run. It looks like a good place to shoot. The helicopter settles on the riverbank, and there are just inches between the rotors and the spruce branches hanging over the river. I can see why Rick might be a little nervous. Stepping out onto firm ground, we start to unpack, which is no small job.
When the cameras are set up and ready to roll, Rick reaches for his dive bag. He’s 80-plus years old but could easily pass for 15 years younger. A former college athlete and one of the first professional dive instructors teaching in California, he’s clearly led an active life. Fit as he is for his age, running a cinema camera underwater, in the current, in remote Labrador isn’t for the faint of heart.
I offer to take a stab at it for him. Rick waves his hand. “You’re just a stills photographer,” he quips with a smile. It’s his way of saying that this one’s for the pros. Before I know it, he’s waist deep in the river, wetsuit on, and asking me to pass him the camera.
Adam and I stand by at the river’s edge, hands in the chest pockets of our waders. It feels like we should be doing something, but every time Rick pops up it’s a simple thumbs up, then back to the salmon. It doesn’t seem like he needs any help at all.
When we get back to camp and start to review footage, it’s immediately clear that the old guy still has what it takes. The footage is great: shot after shot of beautiful, healthy wild salmon—and in a truly wild river.
Of course, Rick’s not content to rest on his laurels; he wants to get back out to shoot more footage in different locations. No doubt, that’s the approach that fuelled his illustrious four-decade career in filmmaking. Until he was 40, Rick worked as a marine biologist in both Californiaand Alaska. His passion to conserve wildlife and wild places inspired his mid-career tum to filmmaking. A rollingstone gathers no moss, and Rick’s strategy appears to be the same. While some would have put their feet up years ago, Rick balks at the idea of retirement. Slowing down—physically or professionally—just isn’t in the cards.
Which is precisely what brings him to northern Labrador, on the hunt—on the Hunt—for wild Atlantic salmon. Rick’s latest project is a major international film on salmonid species in a changing climate. He’s exploring the challenges they face and the adaptability they’re demonstrating. A few times in our discussions, Rick emphasizes that it’s going to be a new kind of salmon film: a film that shows salmon but also shows salmon as part of their ecosystems. Earlier in the year, he spent weeks in Alaska documenting the shorebirds that depend on the “biofilm” left behind by decomposing Pacific salmon. His film will also show ecosystems out of balance; shortly before our Labrador expedition, he joined me on the Miramichi River to film the interaction between striped bass and out-migrating Atlantic salmon smolts.
To get everything we need in Labrador, Rick and I keep Adam busy for a few more days. Our search for more footage takes us north to the nearby Flowers River and south to the Adlatok River, as well as to a few of Adam’s secret spots. I’ve learned over the years that great wildlife shots take a lot more than wildlife; the right conditions are everything, and it takes a strong measure of patience and persistence to find them. Intrepid—or stubborn—as ever, Rick keeps pulling on the wetsuit day after day. We consistently find fish, and the light and water clarity cooperate just often enough to make a successful shoot. Of course, he eventually lets me and Adam get our hands wet too, and after a few days our team is a well-oiled machine.
After 10 hard days in Labrador and feeling a little worse for wear, Rick and I hop on a Twin Otter to Goose Bay, where we overnight before catching a commercial flight to Halifax. When we part ways at Stanfield International Airport, I head straight to Maine to film salmon there, and Rick takes a few days of rest before more shooting in Iceland and Scotland. He’ll also be headed back to Alaska and then down to Patagonia before filming wraps up.
At less than half his age, I struggle to keep up with Rick. I’m not sure how he maintains his rigorous schedule, but I’m glad he does. When millions of people worldwide tune in to his film in early 2026, they’ll immediately be connected to wild salmon and their spectacular ecosystems. And because the film is a story of concern but also hope—a narrative of both fragility and resilience—viewers will also be inspired and empowered to help make a difference
