Full Circle with Michael Palin

These are the Diomede Islands in the centre of the Bering Strait.

Behind me is Greater Diomede - uninhabited, a Russian island -

and the one I'm on - Little Diomede - is American.

50 miles to the north is the Arctic Circle. Behind me runs the International Date Line.

On Greater Diomede it's already tomorrow.

From these straits, the Pacific Ocean stretches southwards

to cover one third of the Earth's surface.

Our journey will take us all the way round this vast ocean.

50,000 miles of travel through 18 countries.

If all goes well, when we return here in a year,

we shall have been full circle.

A late August sun shines for our departure,

making light of the harsh life in this village,

battered by the elements for nine months a year.

The 180 inhabitants of this windswept rock live by fishing, and always have done.

- What? - (BOY) What are you doing?

Just making a film.

The oil-rich government of Alaska has done much to make life here comfortable.

There's a school, satellite TV, electricity and abundant fresh water.

And the island has voted itself alcohol-free.

But they still hunt beluga whales in boats of walrus skin

and it's in one of these that I shall begin my Pacific journey.

The locals are, frankly, unimpressed.

They've seen travellers trying to cross the ice bridge between Russia and America

or on their way to the Arctic.

This is just one more crazy departure

for a people who wouldn't exchange Diomede for anywhere else on Earth.

So we say, "Farewell, Diomede!"

See you in a year.

It's good to be on the move - out on the ocean on a wing and a prayer

and a walrus-skin boat.

What more could I ask for? Except a helicopter like the rest of the crew.

130 miles south of Diomede lies Nome -

a doughty, resilient community of 5,000, clinging to the shores of western Alaska.

The spirit of the last frontier survives in Nome.

They're proud of the fact that the nearest tree is 75 miles away.

In Nome, real men drive pickup trucks and never wash them.

90 years ago, these bleak beaches were called the "Golden Sands of Nome".

30,000 prospectors camped here in search of a fortune... and they still come.

Excuse me dropping in, but I was told I must see the Golden Sands of Nome.

- See if it's true. - Legendary!

That was three hours of work. Maybe $100.

- Three hours this afternoon? - Yeah. Maybe $100.

I'm gonna suck it right out.

- Are you together? - Yeah. This is my son.

Your son? Really? So is this a hobby?

This is a hobby. I invest all the gold money.

I don't have to live on it. I'm buying a new Corvette with this year's gold.

Last year... Two years ago I bought a Corvette.

Last year I bought a house. I've got five homes now.

With gold prices at $350 an ounce, there's still money to be made at the Bering Sea.

But everyone has his own way of making it.

Stan Cook is an Englishman.

Not for him the delicacy of the gold pan.

Stan is slowly and systematically washing away the beach.

- Why do you do this? - Why?

- Yeah. - So I don't die from lack of activity. It's fun.

Do you have to get special permission to pan on the beach?

No. Just from my wife. My wife is the only one I have to ask.

How much does she pay you?

I mean, how much do you have to pay her? Sorry. I goofed.

How pay much she her you do?

Pebble number 13. Bering Sea. Ocean. Sky.

Palin here. Very cold. Chill, chill. Nosey dribble and soon terrible temperature.

Flu-y. Fall over deady. No more Pacific Rimmy.

I'm deteriorating fast and it's only the second day.

This may be the frozen north, but no one leaves on a sled any more.

Thank you.

They know how to treat a star.

Thank you.

There are no roads from Nome to the rest of Alaska.

From here, there's only one quick way out.

Our circle around the Pacific will follow the Asian side first.

So we must make our way across to Russia.

The US Coast Guard has offered to take us on their supply flight

from Kodiak down the Aleutian chain to the island of Attu.

They leave from their Kodiak base in two days.

130 years ago, America bought Alaska from the Russians for $7 million -

less than two cents an acre.

But at the Orthodox church, Kodiak still feels firmly Russian.

As we have two days before our plane leaves for Attu,

there's time to see the sights.

The greatest of these is the Kodiak brown bear

which can be seen in the wild on an overnight trip from the capital.

The only way there is by float plane.

These workhorses - this one is 33 years old -

are the equivalent of cars on a rugged island like Kodiak.

The weather is good as we land 60 miles away on Karluk Lake,

so we set off straight away with Scott the ranger,

Siggi and Rosie - two enthusiastic Germans -

and a few thousand black flies.

We're in luck. Somewhere beyond the flies is a bear.

This is one of her cubs right here. He's OK.

- He's a year old? - A year and a half old this one.

Are they aware of us now?

That little cub... His mom picked up on that when he made a few sounds there.

So what are they thinking now?

She's more interested in pushing this other bear out of the area.

Shelly and Olga have these disputes all the time. Usually neither one of them gives in.

The bears scour the river for migrating red salmon.

A full-grown female will eat 30 fish a day.

- Where are the males? - That's a good question.

They come through in the evenings or late at night.

We see a few, but we don't see a high population of males here.

They're scattered around.

- Are they much bigger? - Yes. Sometimes 300-400 pounds more.

Finding somewhere to put the flies would help.

You can hardly see the bears for the flies.

That one up there has hunkered down. Looks like a huge boulder.

Next morning the weather has turned. We're packed and ready to go.

All we need now is an aeroplane.

When it doesn't come, we resign ourselves to a second evening here.

That's very nice. Lucky you. So where are you going to next?

Maybe Kenai.

Look at this. What a feast!

Rosie and Siggi are relaxed about the delay,

but they do not have to worry about circumnavigating the Pacific.

Has this happened before, people being stuck here?

We've had a few people this year that have spent up to four extra days here.

But that's where the town was fogged in solid. It's mainly fog conditions in Kodiak.

It's now 24 hours since we should have been airlifted from Karluk Lake

back to Kodiak and off to Attu, but we're still here.

I can see the mountains over which the plane should come, but there's no sign of it.

We've heard there's fog in Kodiak, so we're still stranded.

There's nothing we can do but sit and wait.

The day passes with no sight of the plane.

There is a real chance that we will miss our Coast Guard flight to Attu

and we can't tell the Coast Guard what's happened.

Scott's proud of the fact that there's no phone on the island.

In some desperation, I ask him if there is any other way out.

You could walk to Larsen Bay.

It'd be around five miles of walking and six miles of floating.

How do we get down the Karluk River?

I know of an old raft. I'm not sure about its condition. We'd have to check it out.

Are there bears down there?

Not as thick, but there's one point along the river on this corner

where they're doing lots of feeding - catching king salmon, red salmon.

You will encounter bears, I'm sure, along the river.

There may be one female with three spring cubs that might stay there.

There is one, as Scott warned, and it's quite large.

Suddenly, the idea of walking out loses its appeal.

It comes right out of the blue... or the grey.

For a moment, I don't believe what I'm seeing.

Then I'm running out to welcome our saviour.

Impenetrable fog had grounded all flights out of Kodiak City for three days,

but no one's complaining - we've been rescued.

Ah, down to the last pair of underpants!

The bad news is that the Coast Guard flight has left.

The good news is that we've got on the last flight of the season

on the only scheduled service between Alaska and Russia.

- Morning. - Good morning.

Petropavlovsk, please. I have trouble saying that. You know where I mean?

We know where you mean. And it is how it's pronounced.

- How many passengers are travelling? - There's seven of us.

- How many bags will you be checking? - 43.

- 43?! - We're going on somewhere.

- We have 43 tags here. - Good.

If you could set your bags up here, we'd appreciate that.

- Do we have comfortable seats? - Very.

If there's nobody in first class, we could go there. We won't bother anybody.

Just give us a glass of champagne and some bags of nuts and we'll sit there quietly.

Flight 203 from Anchorage to Petropavlovsk.

From America's last frontier to Russia's last frontier.

Kamchatka lies 2,000 miles away. The contrast is stark.

Alaska is the land of opportunity,

and Kamchatka, until six years ago, was closed to all foreigners.

But that's changed, and I'm welcomed with a traditional offering of bread and salt.

Oh. Thank you. Oh, dear.

Unfortunately it's not for me at all,

although some of the press half recognise a star when they see one.

The real celebrities are an Alaskan delegation from Homer, led by the mayor.

The way he tucks in makes me strangely envious

of the new cordiality in Russian-American relations.

Greetings over, the Alaskan delegation is swept away in the official limousine.

But the offerings from the people of Petropavlovsk don't go unappreciated.

I was given it by a friend. It was a bit of a mistake.

They weren't for me. They were for some Alaskan-Kamchatkan friendship society.

But they left me with the cake. I didn't get the flowers, but I got the cake.

Very nice. We'll share it. It should last us a week.

Next morning we meet the team who are to show us the wilder side of Kamchatka.

- Director of the Kronotsky Reserve. - Hello, Sergei.

- Cook, Svetlana. - Svetlana. Excellent.

- My assistant, Alexander. - Alexander.

- And interpreter Konstantin. - Konstantin.

And for those who may not know, this is Igor Nosov, who is the big man here,

who's going to guide us through Kamchatka and all the way down the Russian Pacific.

So we're all ready. Igor, we are in your hands. Let's get aboard.

Thank you. Please.

Svetlana. Sergei...

And me.

Kretchet - the name on the aircraft -

is one of the myriad private companies running these old military helicopters.

The word means "falcon", but this mighty beast feels more like an elephant.

For one moment, I thought we'd decided to go by road instead.

There are no roads across Kamchatka and very few people.

Those that brave the weather and the rough terrain are mostly nomads.

We're looking for a tribe called the Evenks, who live off great herds of reindeer.

We locate one of their encampments. It seems remarkably reindeer-free.

Can he tell us where are the reindeer herds?

- Do you see the mist over there? - Yeah! I don't see anything in the mist!