All language subtitles for Invisible

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Out in the desert,

I became a better athlete
than I ever was before.

It was not uncommon for me
to run 250 miles a week.

Two hundred
and fifty miles a week

is a thousand miles a month.

Twelve months,

that's 12,000 miles right there.

When I started
to lose my eyesight,

I kept pushing and pushing.

And after a couple of years,

I've honed myself
to run across Death Valley.

My purpose
was to start at Badwater

and go roughly 150 miles
to the summit of Mount Whitney.

It had never been done before.

My very dear friend,

David, and I started
training together.

But one of the things
David didn't do

was the heat training.

Going down to Death Valley
the first time in 1974,

we started at four o'clock
in the morning.

Dave came down with heat stroke
after about 18 miles.

If you get heat stroke,
the clock is ticking.

At Furnace Creek,
we put David in the bathtub.

I put over 100 pounds
of ice on him.

And there were people there,

and they said
they'd take care of him.

So then I took off
and started running.

The only thing I could think of

was that my good friend
was dying.

His temperature,
core temperature, was over 104.

So I stopped.

It took him over a year,
over a year before he recovered.

That's how close
he was to dying.

And that's the reason why
I didn't make it the first time.

The second time
I went down there,

I showed Death Valley absolutely
no respect whatsoever.

I figured I'm gonna
go back and kill it.

I ran a mile
in under six minutes

in that attempt.

I was charging
instead of taking it easy.

And after 40, 50 miles,

I learned real fast
who was the boss.

You don't charge Death Valley.

You treat Death Valley
the same way you do

when you're making a meringue.

If you go too fast,
the whole thing will collapse.

It's not so hard physically.

What's really hard
is mentally, to slow down.

It had never been done before.

It wasn't important
how fast I did it.

Bristlecone pines live
in a pretty high altitude

near Death Valley.

The bristlecone pines survive
where other things wouldn't

because they are slowing down

to a painstakingly slow
growth rate.

The bristlecone pines
are so beautiful

because you really
can see their struggle

is sort of inherent
in their forms.

So it's almost like

you can watch
their movement over time

and understand that
they really want to live.

There's a...

There's a sense of doing
whatever it takes to survive

in a pretty harsh environment.

It actually wasn't
until the '60s

that people knew
that they were that old.

A grad student
had lost his coring bit

in the middle of a tree,
and the Forest Service said,

"Well, just go ahead
and cut it down.

There's plenty of them."

And it turned out he cut down

what ended up being
the oldest known tree

in the world, at the time,
that was the Prometheus tree.

The oldest bristlecone pines
are over 5,000 years old.

The oldest unitary organisms
on the planet.

It's really interesting to think

about what was going on
in history at that time,

the invention of the wheel...

and cuneiform,
the first written language.

So it really actually demarcates
the beginning of human history.

I had been working
on a lot of landscape work

that was about the relationship
between humanity and nature.

And I got an invitation
to visit some friends in Japan.

I took the advice

that several people
had given to me,

which was, if you're
interested in nature,

you should go visit
the 7,000-year-old tree.

And it's on this remote island
called Yakushima.

I just bought a new camera.

It was a medium format
film camera,

and I photographed it.

But I had no idea when I started

that it would be
a ten-year endeavor

photographing
the oldest living things.

Looking for things

that were continuously living
for 2,000 years and longer.

Two thousand, being, you know,
why is it 2018 right now,

like, isn't it, you know,
4,500,002,018?

Like really trying
to create this framework

for understanding
human timekeeping.

So, initially, I thought,

"Oh, I'll find somebody
who's going to partner with me,

an evolutionary biologist."

They said, "Well, look
at what you're doing.

It's really broad.

This is not something
that one scientist

would ever claim expertise at."

That was the first moment
when I realized

I would have to be the expert.

It was thrilling to learn

that there were
so many organisms

that have been alive
for 2,000 years or longer.

I had no idea.

The honey mushroom

is a 2,400-year-old
humongous fungus

that lives almost
entirely underground

that is actually
the largest organism

in the world.

Its unique footprint,
if you will,

is that it will kill trees
in this circular pattern,

and so that's known
as Armillaria Death Rings.

And it's quite clever

because it doesn't
kill the trees

until after they've reached
reproductive age.

So thereby, it's ensuring

that it will continue
to have a food supply.

There's an 80,000-year-old
clonal colony

of aspen trees in Utah.

It's known as Pando,
and this is fascinating

because what looks like a forest
is essentially one tree.

Like 106 acres in size.

And what I mean by that

is that it's this giant
interconnected root system,

and each tree is actually a stem
coming up from that system.

This whole system communicates
with all parts of itself.

So, you know,
if one section needs water,

an area that has more water

can send it
through the root system

to the place that needs it

or likewise nutrients
or warning signs.

I was surprised to learn
that there were any animals

that were over 2,000 years old,

and it turns out
there's several.

In Antarctica, there's
the volcano sponge,

some of which are thought
to be up to 15,000 years old.

The one that I got
to photograph, however,

I had to learn to scuba dive
for that, around 60 feet deep.

It actually took my breath away

seeing this just
enormous creature.

It almost looked like
some lost meteorite

at the bottom of the sea.

What are the things
that connect these organisms

that seem so different?

I came to understand
that fast and furious

is not the way to live and grow.

Map lichens in Greenland

grow one centimeter
every 100 years.

The continents are actually
drifting away from each other

faster than these lichens
are growing.

A number
of the oldest living things

thrive in a pretty
harsh environment.

Not in spite of this
harsh environment they live in,

but because of it.

And the Atacama Desert
is really one of my favorites.

It has seen almost no rainfall
in all of recorded history.

I drove from the coast

to farther and farther up this,
you know, tremendous elevation,

and it just gets drier
and drier and more desolate,

and truly, you could be
on another planet.

I was there in search
of the llareta plants.

They look like moss over rocks,
but they're actually shrubs.

So they're made up of thousands

of these really
tightly compressed branches,

and they're so dense
you could actually sit or stand

on top of them.

But, at that altitude,
you're likely

to fall over from dizziness,
so I don't recommend it.

And who knows what else exists?

We've really only
scratched the surface

of understanding
what's on our own planet,

let alone looking out
to the rest of the universe.

We are all living
in a base camp here

in the middle of the desert.

The driest desert of the world.

This is the weather
that astronomers like.

So we see back in time

where no visible light
is emitted.

Imagine light
that began traveling

and coming towards us

from eight billion
light years away.

Through empty space,
this light travels

unimpeded by anything,
untouched,

and then it hits Earth,

and there's this very thin layer
of Earth's atmosphere,

which can completely destroy
that light.

This layer is the reason
why we can't look further

and further into the universe,

further and further
back in time.

One of the ways in which
we can do that on earth

is to go up
to the Atacama Desert

in the Chilean Andes,

where you're above
most of the dense layers

of Earth's atmosphere.

And, to me, it's really amazing
that these ancient lands

have been chosen as the site

to look nearly
to the beginning of time

when the first stars
were being born.

The VLT is made
of four telescopes,

the largest mirrors ever made

from a monolithic piece
of glass.

And the surface
had to be so precise.

Imagine grinding
a city like Paris down,

so that the only bumps left
are about a millimeter high.

That's the kind of precision

that they needed
for the kind of astronomy

that we need to do now.

These telescopes
have become so sensitive,

and the kind of things
that we are studying

have become so faint

that astronomers are essentially

in search of very,
very special land

that is completely radio-quiet.

Which means no interference

from television towers,
mobile phones,

transmission from airplanes,
radios, urban centers.

And that's what set me
on journeys

to these very extreme locations
all over the Earth.

These amazing places,
which in themselves are poetic

where there was extreme physics
being done.

And also, to share
this sense that I have

of what physics can do to us
as human beings,

not in terms of the knowledge,

just simply in terms
of how it makes us feel.

And I wanted a way
of exploring that feeling.

A certain comprehension
of an infinity.

How immense everything is.

That we are part of it

and probably a very tiny dot
in this vast scheme of things.

The Hanle Observatory lies

in one of the remotest regions
of India.

One of the remotest regions
in the Indian Himalayas.

There are almost
no people there.

It's quite an impressive,
remote, cold, beautiful place.

When I was standing
on top of Mount Saraswati,

which is the hill on which
the telescope has been built,

looking across the valley floor,
perched really precariously

at the other end of the valley

was this 400-year-old
Buddhist monastery.

The thing
that became clear there,

looking at the monastery
from the telescope,

was that both monks
and cosmologists need silence.

It's because of this silence

that we are able to look
deeper into the cosmos,

and further back in time.

We need to preserve
these places on Earth

because if we don't,
then we'll end up on a planet

that is so noisy...

from television towers,
mobile phones,

or light pollution,
which is a kind of noise,

that we will be stranded
in this cosmos

without an ability
to look outwards

to understand
our very beginnings

and maybe understand
where we are headed.

We live in a very busy world

that doesn't foster silence.

My childhood backyard
was an ancient coral reef

many, many millennia back.

It's like a cathedral.

A place of great beauty
and silence.

It's easier to capture
the evidence

of some of the old passages
of time here...

through the fossilized
crustaceans of the mountains,

through the pictographs
that remain on those rocks,

highly polished
ancient mammoth rubbings,

known trails
from early settlers.

So there's this beautiful echo
of what's passed through

and I like to think about
the people that came

way before my own
passing through

that their echoes
are still here as well.

I've been a founding member
of Paul's Out of Eden Walk.

He conceived of the idea

while he was walking
across this landscape.

I got this idea
on this ranch in West Texas

where I was doing a little help

with the local vaqueros,
the local cowboys.

In the mid to late '90s,

the genetic revolution
was just taking off in a big way

and scientists were able
to start extracting

very useful information
about ancient migrations,

which you could, you know,
you can trace through our DNA.

I thought, "What if I
retrace the route

of the first human beings
who walked out of Africa...

to recreate
the first primordial walk

that we made across the world?"

The first discovery of the world
by the first Homo sapiens,

the first exploration
of the Earth

back in the Stone Age.

I drew out the map
of the intended global trail

about 20,000 plus miles on foot

from Ethiopia to the tip
of South America,

Tierra del Fuego,

which scientists tell us
is the last virgin beach

that our ancestors reached
about 7,000 years ago.

- Okay. Go ahead.
- All right.

I've been
a foreign correspondent

for the past 15 years.

Foreign correspondents
normally cover stories

as they happen.

They fly to story A
and they fly to story B.

What this project hopes to do

is connect the spaces
in between.

And the argument there
is that there are hidden links

between major stories of our day
that never get covered

because we simply don't
slow down enough to see them.

Paul's walk comes
at a time when journalism

is pressed on all sides
by short attention span

because of the immediacy

of the Digital Age
and the internet.

We're still carrying
around a Pleistocene brain

that absorbs information
and processes the world

at the pace of walking,
at three miles an hour.

Do you remember
what Linda's reaction was?

Uh-huh.

Over a cup of coffee,

maybe not even looking up
from a newspaper or a book

and just saying, "Uh-huh,

so you're gonna walk
around the world?

All right. That sounds good."

Again, she knows me.

When I was 14, I walked
across the Sierra Nevadas alone.

Later, across Papua New Guinea
and through Alaska,

just living off a rifle.

He had walked from the border
of Arizona to Mexico City,

retracing the footsteps
of an early Victorian explorer,

took a packed mule,

and that took something
like nine months.

So then, it was not
too big of a leap

to jump into a dugout canoe,

a pirogue, to float down
the Congo River for weeks,

to tell the story
of the Congo Civil War.

Or to walk away

from a broken down
Russian Jeep in Afghanistan

and walk and ride horses

over the Hindu Kush
through hip-deep snow,

to get to the front lines
of the Afghan War.

I think whether
we realize it or not,

we're all on some form
of pilgrimage,

and that includes
commuting to work,

you know,
these micro migrations,

even those
are a form of pilgrimage.

Um...

And it's our task maybe
to find the meaning under them.

Being fearless
is important for anyone

who is trying to do something
of the unknown.

So I started
to extend my training,

acclimating my body
to temperatures.

For example, I rode

a stationary bicycle
in the sauna.

The air temperature
was 165 for 10 hours.

I made sure that my skin
did not touch the bike

because it would've been like
a soldering iron,

I would have scourged myself.

I didn't know I had
this capacity.

I did not know.

Ten hours is a long time,

but it's not two,
it's not three days.

I wanted to know
how much I can take.

All the pain that I inflicted
to find out about myself,

each step pushing the boundaries
further and further.

It took me 4 years
and 15,000 miles.

And then I started thinking,
you know,

"Maybe I can run Death Valley."

I headed North
across the Panamint Desert.

The temperature
was climbing and climbing,

and I lost visual contact
with the surrounding mountains.

I have glaucoma.
I can only see so much.

I knew where the sun
was supposed to be.

Following the sun,
I repositioned myself.

Focused on it, I almost
became hypnotized to it.

I had to pay attention
to my footing.

I was by myself,
my life depended on it.

Before setting out
in December of 2012,

I went down to the finish line
to meet the last native speaker

of her indigenous language
in that part of the world.

So I spent a day
with her at her cabin

next to the Beagle Channel
in Chile.

This is just across the channel
from Argentina,

listening to her talk,

and she would walk around
and say, you know,

a canoe is this,

and a rock is this,
and the river is this.

Recording this language

is a form of gathering
a precious stone

at this point in time

where language
is about to wink out,

to carry with me
across the world.

To remind myself
partly why I'm doing this

because this project is rooted
in the bedrock of history.

And, in that sense,
it's also an act of remembering.

And I just wanted
to remember her

as I walk towards her.

I don't know
if she'll still be there

I don't know. When I get there,
she was quite old.

I had first photographed

the 3,500-year-old
bald cypress tree

just outside of Orlando
in 2007, I believe.

A few years ago,

some kids snuck in
to do drugs inside the tree,

and they actually set it
on fire from the inside out,

and then posted about it
on Facebook

and got caught, thankfully,

but it was actually on fire
for over a week

before anyone knew.

It was impossible to save.

There it was,
smoldering and dead.

It really changed my perspective

about everything
that I was doing.

It was a very painful reminder
that just because something

is incredibly old, does not mean
that it's immortal.

In South Africa,
a researcher I was speaking with

introduced me to something

that are collectively known
as the underground forests.

That area is very prone to fire,
and what these trees did

was basically migrate

the bulk of their structures
underground.

And that way, when the fires
inevitably come through,

it just singes the top
of the leaves off,

which they can easily reproduce.

And so I visited 1 that was
around 13,000 years old,

that's been around
since mastodons

and saber tooth tigers
when humans started farming.

However, a few years later,

I was informed that it
had been destroyed

when they decided
to change the traffic patterns

outside of the garden
and paved right over it.

It hit another note of the chord

of what it means
to be looking at time.

The whole point
of the project, really,

was to create a relationship

with timescales
that are far removed

from our normal
human experience,

and by doing so,
to create a relationship

with that time that's personal.

When you see something
that's alive, that's alive now,

that you can have
an interaction with

and has experienced 80,000 years
of the world's history

leading up to this moment
that you meet it,

and then on the other end
of the spectrum,

you have the click
of the shutter of a camera,

so a 60th of a second.

And then, somewhere
in between those two,

we somehow then
all come together

to share this moment.

And, to me, that's a way

to start looking at time
with a different perspective.

Even though we are part
of this giant continuum,

it's actually a reminder
to look at the small moments

that make up the fabric
of the time

that we all spend here.

One of the places where some

of the oldest Homo sapiens
fossils have been found

is the Rift Valley of Ethiopia.

Bones about 156,000 years old.

So I chose that
as my starting line

back in January of 2013,

and walked away
from that boneyard,

up the Rift Valley of Africa.

The Afar Region
where Paul started

requires every bit
of forethought

and planning to survive.

I'm grateful that I
was able to join Paul

seeing him
take the first few steps.

As we continue to know

each other,
our paths have, um...

They converge and diverge.

He has been trying
to understand the world

and who we are
through the soles of his feet.

The antidote to instant news
and abbreviated viewpoint.

In my case, my path has to move

through a level of abstraction
to pursue those questions.

For a period of time,
we knew each other

in the template
of a traditional marriage.

Though our practices
are vastly different,

what we share is appreciation

for slowing down
and seeing the invisible.

But I suppose one of the more
harrowing moments for me

uh, was when Paul was abducted
along the Sudan-Chad border

in 2006, and he went missing.

There's always
the element of risk

because Paul does not shy away
from challenging stories.

So you wonder, "Are you going
to see this person again

as they walk off
into the Afar desert?"

We were moving
in opposite directions now.

I saw horrible things

about how we treat each other
as human beings

in my career as a war reporter.

But walking has given me hope

about our generally
messed up species.

Walking creates bonds,
you get to know people.

You talk about your life
with each other.

It's a bridge
to that person's mind and heart,

to their cosmos.

On this journey, though,
across continents,

I hoped that things
were gonna be okay.

It was a physically demanding
starting line to the journey.

Temperatures were extreme.

The very first days
of the journey

were defined
by this harsh reality

of walking
through a drying landscape

where pastoral groups
were fighting each other

over shrinking pasture lands
and drying water holes.

So it became the war story
almost immediately.

And they were, in fact,
killing each other.

So we have actually walked
through the Rift Valley

along a very strange
snaking route

that if you took
like a satellite picture

would seem nonsensical
because there was no barrier,

but they were following

these invisible edges
of conflict zones

that most people couldn't see
that were invisible to the eye,

but were as real
as any trench works,

you know, on front lines
of any war.

And I remember
we had to kind of do

a silent camp one night
without fire,

so as not to be spotted
to get through a danger zone

before anybody noticed us.

Climate change,

it's a very difficult thing
to convey to people

because it appears
to be moving so slowly.

It's an incremental calamity.

But when you're walking,
you have no choice,

but to experience it
through your own body

in ways that reading
about it never will,

or looking at equations
never will,

or hearing politicians
lie about it never will.

And sure enough, after crossing
the Djibouti border,

we stumbled across men, women,
and children who didn't make it.

A couple days ago,
we found the bodies

of seven migrants in the desert.

They died of thirst,

trying to reach Saudi Arabia.

And they were
just one ridge line away

from reaching the Red Sea,

their watery finish line
to get out of the desert.

It's made my own journey
seem... frivolous.

So I'll just ask
the question again.

Okay.

Abdi Nasir, it took you
one week to walk here.

What did you...
Is the journey worth the danger?

Is the journey worth
going to Saudi Arabia

when people are dying?

I was stuck in the port
of Djibouti for six weeks,

because I couldn't convince
a commercial cargo ship

to take on a passenger,

with the risk of being attacked
by Somali Pirates.

There's been
a lot of murder out at sea.

Piracy is like a lottery

for poor people
that are starving,

and they're ready
to risk their lives, you know.

- They're desperate.
- Yeah.

Maybe I'll see you
in Saudi Arabia.

I should come to Ali

because I've been trying
for a month to get a boat,

and I can't find a boat,
so, Ali, I might need your help.

I wasn't getting a visa
to walk through Eritrea.