In Fielding’s guide (Robert Young Pelton)  to The World’s Most Dangerous Places, Eastern Turkey is described as “At Play In The Fields Of The Warlords”. It is a country where, within 100 miles of each other, you can find stealth fighters and people who live in caves. It took only one grainy photograph to convince me that I should go to Eastern Turkey to shoot the documentary, “The Quest for Noah’s Ark”.  Notwithstanding the “off limits” status for access to Mt. Ararat by the Turkish government, for me like my first marriage, the attraction outweighed the risk of imprisonment. Think of it- to film the greatest biblical archaeological find in the history of man was too seductive.

Its night, I’m descending Ararat, my head won’t stop playing a song by Talking Heads – “And you may find yourself in another part of the world-And you may ask yourself-well…how did I get here?”. I redirect my thoughts and make-up a mantra in hopes of lifting my body and spirit beyond physical exhaustion and dehydration.  “focus, focus, pacing, move forward, breath, don’t feel the pain, move, move breath, move, keep moving, one step at a time, G-d didn’t bring you this far to buy a cheap Turkish coffee cup from Istanbul’s airport gift shop. Keep moving”. “Shit that hurt!”  My boot is wedged again, I stop to give a informal yank without more damage to my foot- suddenly I’m aware that a shadow is proceeding me across this field of ankle busting rocks, “But wait, there is no moon” I thought. The shadow moved in slow motion in an eerie pink light with deep shadows of black surrounding it.  The shadow swayed slowly to the left of me then to the right. “Jesus Christ! Its my shadow”. I spin around and looked up behind me to the stars only to see a parachute flare floating to earth. Now, I hear the dogs. For the moment, I forget about the sixty-pound pack, my swollen tongue, parched throat and thrashed feet. The adrenaline shoots through my system and my heart rate increases. I can physically feel the hormone boosting the supply of oxygen and glucose to my brain and muscles. Hard-wired for “Fight or Flight” the firing of adrenaline and neuotransmitter hit my sympathietic nervous system, “Holy shit! I’m outta here”.

Choreographed like the Radio City Rockettes the five of us turn and haul ass across the stone field. Ahead, the Kurds never stopped and have disappeared beyond the pink light into the blackness. I hear my ski poles scraping against the boulders. It’s dark again, I stumble but keep moving to the horizon where I can make out the faint lights of  Dogubeyazit . I am wearing summit boot which are so rigid they do not flex with the uneven stones but slip between the rocks and gets wedged. I yank my legs up with each step so as not to get my boots pinned between stones. My feet feel warm and soggy, a sure sign of blood.

It was only three nights ago that we left the town of Dogubeyazit  (affectionately known as Dog Biscuit) under the cover of darkness and with the help of the local Kurdish Underground, I climbed the 16,854 foot summit of Mt. Ararat along with four Christian cowboys, two Kurds and two of the scrawniest horses I have ever seen. I could have stayed in L.A. picking up work shooting a mindless sitcom and watching a local celebutante with two soft protruding organs given us the local weather report. I could have…but.