National Parks: USA (2024) s01e04 Episode Script
Olympic
Olympic National Park, the gem
of the Pacific
Northwest.
Along its 73 miles of
protected shorelines,
nutrient-rich waters
provide food and shelter
for a diverse
range of wildlife,
including a vital pit
stop for its largest
visitor, the gray whale.
On one of the longest
migrations on Earth,
from Alaska to
Mexico, gray whales
appear along the park's
coast twice a year.
Sheltered from
offshore predators,
a calf learns to feed
by watching her mother.
Suctioning up sediment
from the ocean floor,
she eats the critters
within, using a
comb-like structure
inside her mouth to
filter out the sand.
This subsequent churn
nourishes creatures
throughout these waters
and the forest above.
Contributing to
the constant
regeneration that fuels
a rich biodiversity
throughout Olympic
National Park.
From the coast, over
1 million acres of
temperate rainforest
sprawls inland.
Inside this lush,
secluded habitat,
an elusive creature
makes a rare appearance
for something
very Olympic.
Typically a night hunter,
today this bobcat
dares to break her cover,
gambling to strike gold.
Her keen ears pick
up every sound.
Like many felines,
she's not exactly
interested in a swim.
Instead, she patiently
stalks her prey,
awaiting the perfect
moment to strike.
To strike.
Avoiding a dip in the
river, she quickly
returns under the
forest cover,
stashing her prize.
But for the park's
most iconic titans,
getting their feet
wet is of no concern.
The Roosevelt elk,
the largest elk
in North America,
were the catalyst
for the creation of
Olympic National Park.
Sporting some of the
biggest antlers on Earth,
these impressive
behemoths can weigh
over 1,000 pounds.
Feeding on aquatic and
terrestrial plants,
they thrive on the
wealth of the forest.
Their constant grazing
gives the park
its manicured,
magical look.
As social creatures,
the females stick
together as a harem.
This bull's
high-pitched bugling
advertises his fitness
to the females.
Today, his prowess
discourages
any challengers.
As the largest
unmanaged herd in the
Pacific Northwest,
around 5,000 Roosevelt
elk roam here freely.
But it wasn't
always this way.
With their population
in dramatic decline,
in 1897,
biologist C.
Hart Merriam
named the species
Roosevelt elk after
his friend, Teddy
Roosevelt. And soon, that
friend gained the power
to save the species.
In 1909, after being
elected president,
Roosevelt established
Mount Olympus
National Monument,
forever safeguarding
the lands of his
namesake elk.
From this surprising
start, Olympic
National Park now
protects over
90 mammal and 300
bird species.
For more than a century,
the protected species
have been protected
by the Arctic,
the protected area
expanded to include
the coastline,
ancient forests,
and the ice-capped
Olympic Mountains.
With nearly 200
high-altitude glaciers,
part of the most
glaciated region
in the lower 48, it's
always winter here.
It starts atop the
towering Mount Olympus.
At nearly 8,000 feet,
up to 70 feet of snow
falls here each year.
Over time, the
snow compacts,
creating glaciers.
Here, since the Ice Age,
the up to 900-foot-thick
blue glacier
moves downhill
three feet per day.
As winter melts away,
glacial waters carry
finely ground
silt and clay.
Cumulatively, the
Olympic glaciers
can generate 35
million cubic meters
of water in a year.
Rushing downward,
these meltwaters
collect in hollows carved
by ancient glaciers,
creating the exquisite
Seven Lakes Basin.
Here, early risers
are on the hunt.
Emerging from six
long months of
winter inactivity,
this male black bear
is very, very hungry.
Despite the season's
slim pickings,
this ravenous omnivore
can eat whatever
pops up first, even
freshly sprouted
pine needles.
As he wanders across
the park, his feces
disperse undigested
seeds, assisting
an Olympic's perpetual
regeneration.
But to properly fatten
up for the year,
he has a lot more
eating to do.
As the thaw reaches
lower elevations,
visitors can enjoy
the spectacle as it
pours over Soul
Duck Falls, meaning
sparkling waters.
In the Quileute language,
the Soul Duck River
is Olympic's lifeline.
Over a mile beneath
glacier-capped peaks,
vegetation flourishes.
And the river raids,
constantly churning
Olympic's nutrient-rich
environment.
Here at the famous
Salmon Cascades,
a pantheon of the
park's Olympians
converge and enter
a grand arena.
In these wild waters,
every champion has
their specialty.
Some dive right
into action.
Others take a more
unexpected approach.
This American dipper
braves the Cascades,
because the river is
how she makes a living.
Dipping to hunt for
aquatic insects,
her transparent eyelids
let her see underwater.
And a movable flap
seals her nostrils,
earning these birds
their name, the
American dipper.
The trophy isn't
hers alone.
Despite the perilous
perch, her insulated nest
keeps the chicks warm
and safe from predators.
With four mouths to feed,
the job of raising kids
is never-ending,
which is why their
father sticks
around to help.
Despite being fish
out of water, the
steelhead trout are
in their element.
Springtime calls them
for a yearly ritual.
Able to survive both
salt and fresh water,
the steelhead swim
against the current
for one reason--
to spawn.
With 19,000 making
this run, this
remarkable event
attracts a lot
of attention.
But this river
otter isn't here
as a spectator.
She's here to compete.
Holding her breath for
eight long minutes.
Gets her the gold.
Olympics pristine
waters nourish the
park's diverse habitat.
A world this green and
lush exists here only
because of a
perfect confluence.
The secret of this
forest's abundance
lies just beyond
the trees.
Here, the humid
ocean air tempers
the freezing
northern climate.
Olympics coastal arm
along Washington
state's coastline
creates weather patterns
that characterize
this region.
Constantly rising
marine moisture
hits the rugged coastline
and moves inland,
encircling the
mountains and forests
of the park's interior
in dense waves of fog.
Up to 160 inches of
annual precipitation
makes Olympic America's
wettest national park.
This cocoon of moisture
fosters the only
temperate rainforest
in the lower 48.
Water absorbed by
this evergreen forest
is exhaled as vapor
with the sunrise,
constantly breathing
new life into the park.
At higher elevations,
spring is a
relative concept.
Frost-resistant
wildflowers burst
through the snow,
surviving by hugging
the ground and hanging
onto their moisture.
Some flowers don't
bloom until July.
With spring lasting
just a few weeks,
the business of
sprouting, budding,
blooming, and dying
has to be quick.
As do the creatures
that depend on them.
During spring, flowering
plants yield high
amounts of protein.
The abundance even
welcomes this
mother and her cubs
on their first
adventure in the open.
Atop Hurricane Ridge,
winds can reach
75 miles an hour.
One creature hacking
this elevated life,
the city grouse.
One of the largest
grouses in the country.
And she's not alone.
In a mere 13 weeks,
her chicks will
reach adulthood.
If they're lucky.
The American kestrel
often hunts in
groups from perches
that offer a
wide vantage.
Like a kite in the
air, she hovers.
Strike from a
stationary position.
Spotting the
danger above,
this mother
alerts the brood,
prompting them
to take cover.
The grouse catch a break.
Some chicks will stay
with their mother
into adulthood.
Others will strike
out on their own,
conquering short
flutters of success
in one of the
park's highest
altitude ecosystems.
At elevations of
4,000 to 6,000 feet,
life is an uphill battle.
Especially for one
unique creature.
Found nowhere else on
Earth, the Olympic marmot
carves out a narrow
niche up here.
Their piercing
shrieks signal the
arrival of spring.
After eight months
of hibernation
beneath the ice,
they take full
advantage of the thaw.
Spring means a
good house clean.
And a veritable buffet
at their doorstep.
They only have a few
months to fatten up,
doubling their
body weight to a
hefty 15 pounds.
Though a warming
climate threatens
these varied food
sources, for now,
these well-fed marmots
signal a thriving
ecosystem, which
they share.
But only when
they have to.
This marmot tries
to assert himself.
But the deer is unfazed.
To protect their
turf, someone
always stands guard to
alert the colony of
threats and invasions.
Deer are one thing,
but strangers
from other colonies
are another.
This means war.
At stake, the hills
coveted food.
But with higher
ground, this local
takes no prisoners.
Though ceding no
territory, the
marmot colony
must remain
eternally vigilant.
Abundant high
alpine meadows are
worth defending.
And at Olympic
shorelines, the wealth
of marine nutrients
hosts their own
noisy locals.
Harbor Seals, one
of the park's few
year-round coastal
residents, awaiting
the arrival of
Olympics annual feast,
they haul out without
much elegance.
Following a path
perfected by
their ancestors,
hundreds of thousands
of Pacific salmon
flood the park's
freshwater rivers.
With the gills that
regulate their salt
and water levels,
the salmon withstand
this dramatic sea change
from salt to freshwater.
Every year, they
travel up to 70 miles
upriver on a mad
dash to reach their
spawning grounds.
They face a gauntlet.
As the salmon
journey upriver,
the ravenous seals
hunt them from below.
Surveilling from up
high, bald eagles.
And picking over what's
left, the seagulls.
As one of the last
remaining salmon
runs in the lower 48,
this spectacle is
the lifeblood of
the park's rivers.
By bringing the ocean's
nutrients inland,
the salmon enrich
the whole of Olympic
National Park.
For over 14,000
years, this cycle
has supported the
humans here, too.
Native Americans
thrive off of these
very salmon runs,
including eight tribes
who maintain ties to
their ancestral homes
within the park today
and continue to
fight to protect
these sacred lands.
In the early 1900s,
two dams were erected
along the Elwha
River, decimating
the cycles of
life it nurtured
and depriving the
lower Elwha Klallam
tribe of their food.
To restore the
natural wealth of
their ancestral home,
they fought for 100
years, eventually
taking their case
to court and Congress.
They won.
In 2011, the Elwha
Dam came down,
the largest dam
removal of its time.
Three years later,
the Glines Canyon
Dam also fell.
Today, work to restore
native vegetation
to the recovering
area continues,
reviving the Elwha's
cycle of life.
The lower Elwha
Klallam tribe didn't
forget their ancestral
home here, and neither
did the salmon.
Returning to the
park's rivers in
historic numbers.
Those who survived
the journey upriver
will find their own
ancestral home.
Finally reaching her
birthplace, this
exhausted mother
readies a nest for
the next generation.
With teeth that emerged
just for mating rights,
the males fight
ferociously.
With her consent, the
victor approaches.
As she spawns thousands
of eggs, he fertilizes
them in unison.
For the adult
salmon, their life's
journey ends here.
As fuel for Olympic,
even the trees
absorb the fishes'
remains, fostering
the park's
regenerative ecology.
Here, life begins on
the forest floor.
Olympic sogginess
nurtures hundreds
of species of moss
that cover the
forest floor like a
carpet, storing water
and providing shelter
for organisms
to live and die.
With over
1,400 varieties,
the mushrooms
of Olympic National
Park administer
the cycles of
life and death.
Breaking down fallen
trees, they deliver
sustenance to the soil.
As nature's recyclers,
this rebirth
helps sustain more
animals than anywhere
else in the forest.
The eight-inch banana
slug also consumes
dead organic matter.
Its slime catches food,
and nutrient-rich waste
feeds the forest floor.
From these tiny
foundations, life
regenerates, giving
rise to this
complex ecosystem.
Olympics' rich
biodiversity also
yields a unique sonic
landscape, easily missed
in today's modern world.
But some locals
are listening.
Acoustic ecologist
Gordon Hempton
is on the hunt for
one of Olympics'
rarest phenomenons.
If you close your
eyes now and listen
to the world,
what do you hear?
Refrigerators,
air conditioners,
planes, noises
that disrupt
nature's acoustics.
Quiet places, free
of man-made sounds,
connect us to the land,
to our evolutionary past,
and to ourselves.
There is a place within
Olympic National Park
where silence takes over.
For 20 miles in
every direction,
you can hear natural
sounds, an incredible
auditory horizon
deep within the
whole rainforest.
I come here to
listen to the Earth.
Everything has a voice.
My hope is that by
encouraging others to
find natural quiet,
it will help us
become true listeners
and recognize one of
the most important and
endangered resources
on the planet--
silence.
Some voices here ring
louder than others.
Back at the colony,
summer means
feisty marmot pups.
Getting in each other's
face tells them
who's part of the colony.
Keeping the pups safe
requires never-ending
work on watch.
But Olympics'
ever-changing weather
makes this difficult.
For this juvenile
hawk, fog forms
the perfect cover.
With eyesight
eight times sharper
than us humans,
hawks can spot
their prey from 100
feet in the air.
But the colony
is on to him.
Mercifully, the
coast is clear--
for now.
For the young
animals downstream,
life has rather
immobile beginnings.
The eyed eggs of
these salmon embryos
spend their first three
months trapped in a
translucent bubble.
For weeks, any movement
is left up to the
whims of the current.
But eventually,
a breakthrough.
As a newly emerged alvin,
it's easy to get stuck
between a rock
and a hard place.
Their only means
of transportation
is a fierce wiggle.
Slowly, they absorb
nutrients from
their yolk sac.
Until-- their
mouths open
and their digestive
systems come online.
Finally free, these
young salmon begin their
journey out to sea.
But with just a 1%
chance of making
it to adulthood,
this journey is
a numbers game.
As they transition from
fresh to saltwater,
their very
biology changes.
But the salmon don't
forget their birthplace.
They will eventually
return upstream to
these exact same
rivers, carrying on
their life cycle.
As the salmon travel,
another secret
world reveals itself.
In Olympic's intertidal
waters, strange
creatures come
alive in spurts.
At low tide, they freeze.
These sea stars
halt, surviving in
the air for hours
with spiny skin
that holds water in.
High tide is go time.
The world comes
alive once more.
This constant
environmental churn
leaves many casualties
and opportunities.
Hundreds of hardy
species withstand the
daily ebb and
flow of Olympic's
intertidal zone.
Despite a rocky life,
lush kelp forests
and rugged sea stacks
provide food and
shelter for marine
wildlife year round,
including the return of
a giant for its second
annual appearance.
For as long as
these waters remain
rich and pristine,
the gray whale will
return, feeding
into Olympic's
perpetually regenerative
cycles of life.
of the Pacific
Northwest.
Along its 73 miles of
protected shorelines,
nutrient-rich waters
provide food and shelter
for a diverse
range of wildlife,
including a vital pit
stop for its largest
visitor, the gray whale.
On one of the longest
migrations on Earth,
from Alaska to
Mexico, gray whales
appear along the park's
coast twice a year.
Sheltered from
offshore predators,
a calf learns to feed
by watching her mother.
Suctioning up sediment
from the ocean floor,
she eats the critters
within, using a
comb-like structure
inside her mouth to
filter out the sand.
This subsequent churn
nourishes creatures
throughout these waters
and the forest above.
Contributing to
the constant
regeneration that fuels
a rich biodiversity
throughout Olympic
National Park.
From the coast, over
1 million acres of
temperate rainforest
sprawls inland.
Inside this lush,
secluded habitat,
an elusive creature
makes a rare appearance
for something
very Olympic.
Typically a night hunter,
today this bobcat
dares to break her cover,
gambling to strike gold.
Her keen ears pick
up every sound.
Like many felines,
she's not exactly
interested in a swim.
Instead, she patiently
stalks her prey,
awaiting the perfect
moment to strike.
To strike.
Avoiding a dip in the
river, she quickly
returns under the
forest cover,
stashing her prize.
But for the park's
most iconic titans,
getting their feet
wet is of no concern.
The Roosevelt elk,
the largest elk
in North America,
were the catalyst
for the creation of
Olympic National Park.
Sporting some of the
biggest antlers on Earth,
these impressive
behemoths can weigh
over 1,000 pounds.
Feeding on aquatic and
terrestrial plants,
they thrive on the
wealth of the forest.
Their constant grazing
gives the park
its manicured,
magical look.
As social creatures,
the females stick
together as a harem.
This bull's
high-pitched bugling
advertises his fitness
to the females.
Today, his prowess
discourages
any challengers.
As the largest
unmanaged herd in the
Pacific Northwest,
around 5,000 Roosevelt
elk roam here freely.
But it wasn't
always this way.
With their population
in dramatic decline,
in 1897,
biologist C.
Hart Merriam
named the species
Roosevelt elk after
his friend, Teddy
Roosevelt. And soon, that
friend gained the power
to save the species.
In 1909, after being
elected president,
Roosevelt established
Mount Olympus
National Monument,
forever safeguarding
the lands of his
namesake elk.
From this surprising
start, Olympic
National Park now
protects over
90 mammal and 300
bird species.
For more than a century,
the protected species
have been protected
by the Arctic,
the protected area
expanded to include
the coastline,
ancient forests,
and the ice-capped
Olympic Mountains.
With nearly 200
high-altitude glaciers,
part of the most
glaciated region
in the lower 48, it's
always winter here.
It starts atop the
towering Mount Olympus.
At nearly 8,000 feet,
up to 70 feet of snow
falls here each year.
Over time, the
snow compacts,
creating glaciers.
Here, since the Ice Age,
the up to 900-foot-thick
blue glacier
moves downhill
three feet per day.
As winter melts away,
glacial waters carry
finely ground
silt and clay.
Cumulatively, the
Olympic glaciers
can generate 35
million cubic meters
of water in a year.
Rushing downward,
these meltwaters
collect in hollows carved
by ancient glaciers,
creating the exquisite
Seven Lakes Basin.
Here, early risers
are on the hunt.
Emerging from six
long months of
winter inactivity,
this male black bear
is very, very hungry.
Despite the season's
slim pickings,
this ravenous omnivore
can eat whatever
pops up first, even
freshly sprouted
pine needles.
As he wanders across
the park, his feces
disperse undigested
seeds, assisting
an Olympic's perpetual
regeneration.
But to properly fatten
up for the year,
he has a lot more
eating to do.
As the thaw reaches
lower elevations,
visitors can enjoy
the spectacle as it
pours over Soul
Duck Falls, meaning
sparkling waters.
In the Quileute language,
the Soul Duck River
is Olympic's lifeline.
Over a mile beneath
glacier-capped peaks,
vegetation flourishes.
And the river raids,
constantly churning
Olympic's nutrient-rich
environment.
Here at the famous
Salmon Cascades,
a pantheon of the
park's Olympians
converge and enter
a grand arena.
In these wild waters,
every champion has
their specialty.
Some dive right
into action.
Others take a more
unexpected approach.
This American dipper
braves the Cascades,
because the river is
how she makes a living.
Dipping to hunt for
aquatic insects,
her transparent eyelids
let her see underwater.
And a movable flap
seals her nostrils,
earning these birds
their name, the
American dipper.
The trophy isn't
hers alone.
Despite the perilous
perch, her insulated nest
keeps the chicks warm
and safe from predators.
With four mouths to feed,
the job of raising kids
is never-ending,
which is why their
father sticks
around to help.
Despite being fish
out of water, the
steelhead trout are
in their element.
Springtime calls them
for a yearly ritual.
Able to survive both
salt and fresh water,
the steelhead swim
against the current
for one reason--
to spawn.
With 19,000 making
this run, this
remarkable event
attracts a lot
of attention.
But this river
otter isn't here
as a spectator.
She's here to compete.
Holding her breath for
eight long minutes.
Gets her the gold.
Olympics pristine
waters nourish the
park's diverse habitat.
A world this green and
lush exists here only
because of a
perfect confluence.
The secret of this
forest's abundance
lies just beyond
the trees.
Here, the humid
ocean air tempers
the freezing
northern climate.
Olympics coastal arm
along Washington
state's coastline
creates weather patterns
that characterize
this region.
Constantly rising
marine moisture
hits the rugged coastline
and moves inland,
encircling the
mountains and forests
of the park's interior
in dense waves of fog.
Up to 160 inches of
annual precipitation
makes Olympic America's
wettest national park.
This cocoon of moisture
fosters the only
temperate rainforest
in the lower 48.
Water absorbed by
this evergreen forest
is exhaled as vapor
with the sunrise,
constantly breathing
new life into the park.
At higher elevations,
spring is a
relative concept.
Frost-resistant
wildflowers burst
through the snow,
surviving by hugging
the ground and hanging
onto their moisture.
Some flowers don't
bloom until July.
With spring lasting
just a few weeks,
the business of
sprouting, budding,
blooming, and dying
has to be quick.
As do the creatures
that depend on them.
During spring, flowering
plants yield high
amounts of protein.
The abundance even
welcomes this
mother and her cubs
on their first
adventure in the open.
Atop Hurricane Ridge,
winds can reach
75 miles an hour.
One creature hacking
this elevated life,
the city grouse.
One of the largest
grouses in the country.
And she's not alone.
In a mere 13 weeks,
her chicks will
reach adulthood.
If they're lucky.
The American kestrel
often hunts in
groups from perches
that offer a
wide vantage.
Like a kite in the
air, she hovers.
Strike from a
stationary position.
Spotting the
danger above,
this mother
alerts the brood,
prompting them
to take cover.
The grouse catch a break.
Some chicks will stay
with their mother
into adulthood.
Others will strike
out on their own,
conquering short
flutters of success
in one of the
park's highest
altitude ecosystems.
At elevations of
4,000 to 6,000 feet,
life is an uphill battle.
Especially for one
unique creature.
Found nowhere else on
Earth, the Olympic marmot
carves out a narrow
niche up here.
Their piercing
shrieks signal the
arrival of spring.
After eight months
of hibernation
beneath the ice,
they take full
advantage of the thaw.
Spring means a
good house clean.
And a veritable buffet
at their doorstep.
They only have a few
months to fatten up,
doubling their
body weight to a
hefty 15 pounds.
Though a warming
climate threatens
these varied food
sources, for now,
these well-fed marmots
signal a thriving
ecosystem, which
they share.
But only when
they have to.
This marmot tries
to assert himself.
But the deer is unfazed.
To protect their
turf, someone
always stands guard to
alert the colony of
threats and invasions.
Deer are one thing,
but strangers
from other colonies
are another.
This means war.
At stake, the hills
coveted food.
But with higher
ground, this local
takes no prisoners.
Though ceding no
territory, the
marmot colony
must remain
eternally vigilant.
Abundant high
alpine meadows are
worth defending.
And at Olympic
shorelines, the wealth
of marine nutrients
hosts their own
noisy locals.
Harbor Seals, one
of the park's few
year-round coastal
residents, awaiting
the arrival of
Olympics annual feast,
they haul out without
much elegance.
Following a path
perfected by
their ancestors,
hundreds of thousands
of Pacific salmon
flood the park's
freshwater rivers.
With the gills that
regulate their salt
and water levels,
the salmon withstand
this dramatic sea change
from salt to freshwater.
Every year, they
travel up to 70 miles
upriver on a mad
dash to reach their
spawning grounds.
They face a gauntlet.
As the salmon
journey upriver,
the ravenous seals
hunt them from below.
Surveilling from up
high, bald eagles.
And picking over what's
left, the seagulls.
As one of the last
remaining salmon
runs in the lower 48,
this spectacle is
the lifeblood of
the park's rivers.
By bringing the ocean's
nutrients inland,
the salmon enrich
the whole of Olympic
National Park.
For over 14,000
years, this cycle
has supported the
humans here, too.
Native Americans
thrive off of these
very salmon runs,
including eight tribes
who maintain ties to
their ancestral homes
within the park today
and continue to
fight to protect
these sacred lands.
In the early 1900s,
two dams were erected
along the Elwha
River, decimating
the cycles of
life it nurtured
and depriving the
lower Elwha Klallam
tribe of their food.
To restore the
natural wealth of
their ancestral home,
they fought for 100
years, eventually
taking their case
to court and Congress.
They won.
In 2011, the Elwha
Dam came down,
the largest dam
removal of its time.
Three years later,
the Glines Canyon
Dam also fell.
Today, work to restore
native vegetation
to the recovering
area continues,
reviving the Elwha's
cycle of life.
The lower Elwha
Klallam tribe didn't
forget their ancestral
home here, and neither
did the salmon.
Returning to the
park's rivers in
historic numbers.
Those who survived
the journey upriver
will find their own
ancestral home.
Finally reaching her
birthplace, this
exhausted mother
readies a nest for
the next generation.
With teeth that emerged
just for mating rights,
the males fight
ferociously.
With her consent, the
victor approaches.
As she spawns thousands
of eggs, he fertilizes
them in unison.
For the adult
salmon, their life's
journey ends here.
As fuel for Olympic,
even the trees
absorb the fishes'
remains, fostering
the park's
regenerative ecology.
Here, life begins on
the forest floor.
Olympic sogginess
nurtures hundreds
of species of moss
that cover the
forest floor like a
carpet, storing water
and providing shelter
for organisms
to live and die.
With over
1,400 varieties,
the mushrooms
of Olympic National
Park administer
the cycles of
life and death.
Breaking down fallen
trees, they deliver
sustenance to the soil.
As nature's recyclers,
this rebirth
helps sustain more
animals than anywhere
else in the forest.
The eight-inch banana
slug also consumes
dead organic matter.
Its slime catches food,
and nutrient-rich waste
feeds the forest floor.
From these tiny
foundations, life
regenerates, giving
rise to this
complex ecosystem.
Olympics' rich
biodiversity also
yields a unique sonic
landscape, easily missed
in today's modern world.
But some locals
are listening.
Acoustic ecologist
Gordon Hempton
is on the hunt for
one of Olympics'
rarest phenomenons.
If you close your
eyes now and listen
to the world,
what do you hear?
Refrigerators,
air conditioners,
planes, noises
that disrupt
nature's acoustics.
Quiet places, free
of man-made sounds,
connect us to the land,
to our evolutionary past,
and to ourselves.
There is a place within
Olympic National Park
where silence takes over.
For 20 miles in
every direction,
you can hear natural
sounds, an incredible
auditory horizon
deep within the
whole rainforest.
I come here to
listen to the Earth.
Everything has a voice.
My hope is that by
encouraging others to
find natural quiet,
it will help us
become true listeners
and recognize one of
the most important and
endangered resources
on the planet--
silence.
Some voices here ring
louder than others.
Back at the colony,
summer means
feisty marmot pups.
Getting in each other's
face tells them
who's part of the colony.
Keeping the pups safe
requires never-ending
work on watch.
But Olympics'
ever-changing weather
makes this difficult.
For this juvenile
hawk, fog forms
the perfect cover.
With eyesight
eight times sharper
than us humans,
hawks can spot
their prey from 100
feet in the air.
But the colony
is on to him.
Mercifully, the
coast is clear--
for now.
For the young
animals downstream,
life has rather
immobile beginnings.
The eyed eggs of
these salmon embryos
spend their first three
months trapped in a
translucent bubble.
For weeks, any movement
is left up to the
whims of the current.
But eventually,
a breakthrough.
As a newly emerged alvin,
it's easy to get stuck
between a rock
and a hard place.
Their only means
of transportation
is a fierce wiggle.
Slowly, they absorb
nutrients from
their yolk sac.
Until-- their
mouths open
and their digestive
systems come online.
Finally free, these
young salmon begin their
journey out to sea.
But with just a 1%
chance of making
it to adulthood,
this journey is
a numbers game.
As they transition from
fresh to saltwater,
their very
biology changes.
But the salmon don't
forget their birthplace.
They will eventually
return upstream to
these exact same
rivers, carrying on
their life cycle.
As the salmon travel,
another secret
world reveals itself.
In Olympic's intertidal
waters, strange
creatures come
alive in spurts.
At low tide, they freeze.
These sea stars
halt, surviving in
the air for hours
with spiny skin
that holds water in.
High tide is go time.
The world comes
alive once more.
This constant
environmental churn
leaves many casualties
and opportunities.
Hundreds of hardy
species withstand the
daily ebb and
flow of Olympic's
intertidal zone.
Despite a rocky life,
lush kelp forests
and rugged sea stacks
provide food and
shelter for marine
wildlife year round,
including the return of
a giant for its second
annual appearance.
For as long as
these waters remain
rich and pristine,
the gray whale will
return, feeding
into Olympic's
perpetually regenerative
cycles of life.