National Parks: USA (2024) s01e05 Episode Script

In Zion National Park,
warmer months
attract millions of visitors
to its towering
sandstone cliffs.
But today, only a rare few
embrace the cold of winter.
They're here to scale a buttress
taller than the
Empire State Building,
Angels Landing.
Cliff Ecologist, Zac Warren
and climbing partner
Adam Clifford
are here with a mission.
Even with fingertips
numbed by the frigid rock,
they must push upward.
Soaring to such great heights
usually lies only with the
winged inhabitants of Zion.
And in the hardest-to-reach
pockets of this
pristine landscape,
an amazing creature lurks.
Zac's exploration
Climber mode off,
scientist engage.
Brings him 200 feet
into this hidden fracture cave.
Where he finds a
Townsend's Big-eared bat.
The remote cracks and crevices
of Angels Landing give bats
a safe haven to
hibernate in Winter.
Zac and his team test as
many bats as they can find,
investigating if they're
infected by the deadly
white-nose syndrome.
This fungal disease has killed
millions of bats
across North America.
But according to
tests like these,
the bats here remain
clear of the infection.
Zion provides a safe haven
for more than just bats.
Named by 19th-century
Mormon pioneers,
after the ancient
Hebrew word for refuge,
Zion lives up to its name
for the 400 animal
species that thrive here.
This exalted landscape stems
from the Virgin River,
which connects its
distinct geology
to the creatures
that call Zion home.
In the harshness of winter,
wild turkeys flock together
by the Virgin for
safety and food.
But community living
can ruffle some feathers.
An older male, a Tom.
And a younger gobbler, a Jake.
Before spring arrives,
they fight to establish
pecking order.
This will determine who has
mating rights and who doesn't.
Wing punches.
Talon kicks.
The victor bites his
opponent into submission.
However, this commotion
draws unwanted attention.
Gray foxes can hear tiny
squeals from 150 feet away.
But by taking the high ground,
the turkeys force the fox
to search for easier prey.
Winter's retreat brings
more hunting opportunities
as rodents and
vegetation surface.
Warming temperatures restart
the sculpting of Zion's
enigmatic landscape.
Across 250 million years,
Zion's underlying
tectonic activity
has elevated this
sandstone plateau to
10,000 feet above sea level.
Ice melt from these dramatic
heights courses down to the
Virgin River.
100 times steeper
than the Mississippi,
within the park,
the Virgin wields
immense cutting force.
Over time, these
fast-running waters
slash through the sandstone.
In some places, carving
narrow slot canyons
as deep as 2,000 feet.
As winter gives way,
the swollen river further powers
the sculpting of this
striking landscape.
Connecting the park's
wildlife, plants, and geology.
The inviting temperatures of
Spring draw in more visitors,
just as a different
kind of snowstorm hits.
Cottonwood trees release their
fluffy seeds, by the millions.
Taking root along
the river basin,
they replenish this habitat.
Providing new homes and
new spots for foraging.
From the lowlands,
Zion's ecosystems
evolve by elevation.
Climbing upwards,
pinyon-juniper forest covers
nearly 50% of the park.
And atop Zion's
highest plateaus,
pines and firs dominate.
At these craggy heights,
only the hardiest can thrive,
like the Desert Bighorn Sheep.
Once driven to
extinction here.
Today, the Bighorn
are back on the rise.
Radio collars help scientists
track their recovery.
Over 500 populate Zion today.
But scaling these canyon walls
comes with considerable risks.
Built into
the Bighorn's DNA,
an agility for
living on the edge.
Rectangular pupils widen
their field of vision.
Constantly on the
lookout for predators,
they use Zion's rugged
terrain as a defense.
As night falls, the Bighorn
bed down in the safety of
Zion's steep bluffs.
At this hour,
another world awakens.
Darkness opens new
opportunities to hunt.
Even for Zion's most
elusive predators.
Roughly a dozen mountain
lions call this place home.
Their large eyes give
them night vision,
which they use to hunt
deer and bighorn
in near darkness.
The rhythm of life in Zion,
cycles anew with every dawn.
In Spring, wild turkeys
magnify this rhythm.
In this male's
pursuit of a mate,
he puts on quite a show.
The snood hanging over
his beak lengthens
as he puffs himself up.
At first, his
parading goes unnoticed.
Finally
his gobbles pique one
female's interest.
A soft, guttural drumming
draws her in.
He makes this sound
by sucking in air
and quickly forcing it out.
But the Tom must get close to
the hen in order for her to
feel the vibrations.
Following his deep rumble
the hen heeds his call.
In this lover's dance,
she takes the lead.
Upriver, the Virgin
continues its carving.
The canyon walls close in.
And sunlight
narrows to slender beams.
These vertical walls inspired
the Southern Paiute to call
this place Mukuntuweap,
meaning Steep Canyon.
For those who travel Zion's
century-old trails,
they'll find these walls imbued
with the stories, traditions,
and spiritual beliefs of
those who have called it home
for countless generations.
These rock layers represent
150 million years
of Earth's history.
Like pages in a book,
the layers can be read.
They speak of tropical oceans.
Coastal sand dunes.
And deserts
rivaling the Sahara.
The white tips of the Navajo
sandstone harken back to the
time of the dinosaurs.
From space, satellites pick up
the ancient, striated stone.
Chiseled out by
the Virgin River,
the park forms the
western edge of
the massive Colorado Plateau.
Red sandstone highlights
the elevated expanse.
President Woodrow Wilson
designated Zion as
Utah's first national
park in 1919.
The same year as
Arizona's Grand Canyon.
Today, a total of nine parks
stand along the edge
of this plateau.
The most densely
concentrated collection of
National Park Lands in the US.
All thanks to the
magnificence of the geology,
sculpted by water, wind,
and the march of time.
Away from the shadow
of soaring buttresses,
new life unfurls in the sun.
A super bloom of
desert globemallow ignites.
While these flowers
open to the daylight,
some reveal a sleeping guest,
the globemallow bee.
Native to Zion, they
cover themselves in pollen.
As the bees move,
they ensure the flowers'
life cycle and their own.
This mother has one duty,
provide nectar and pollen for
her unborn young back home.
However, rather than
living in hives,
each bee digs her
own individual nest.
When lined with enough
pollen and nectar,
she lays her eggs.
A mother's work is never done.
She must gather more nectar
and pollen to finish her nest,
which will sustain her larvae.
Constant labor means
leaving her nest unprotected.
The Bombyliidae fly
may look like a bee,
but in Zion,
her disguise conceals
her true intent,
to become a homewrecker.
If the fly can
drop her parasitic larvae
into the bee's nest,
they will feed on the
baby bees, killing them.
Solitary by nature, the
bees ignore the new face.
Nests built up with
a tall chimney
have an extra layer of defense.
But the fly has found
a shallow nest,
unprotected by fortress walls,
capitalizing on the
mother's absence,
it takes aim.
When this mother returns home,
she finds her nest undisturbed.
However, another mother
here won't be so lucky.
Life feeds off death.
And sometimes,
death inspires life.
In the 1980s, conservationists
successfully reintroduced
wild turkeys to Zion.
Today, they are thriving.
By eating and excreting
the vegetation,
they spread the
seeds that expand
Zion's plant diversity.
This messy business
goes beyond child's play.
For them, this is bath time.
With clean feathers,
these kids prepare for
the biggest steps
of their lives,
taking flight after
a mere two weeks.
They grow up fast,
because they have to.
80% will not
survive to adulthood.
Red-tailed hawks
often target poults.
For this looming threat,
mama carries out
her warning system.
These hawks won't attack adults,
making Mom's assembly
call to gather around her
a life-saver.
Zion offers no promises
in the quest for survival.
But the myriad ways
creatures here
endure these barren conditions,
reveal the extent of
their complex relationship
with the land.
For Desert Bighorn Sheep,
their bodies evolved to
go for months without water
by extracting it
from their food.
Since time immemorial,
the indigenous Southern Paiute
have had their own
relationship with the Bighorn.
For centuries, these majestic
creatures provided them
more than sustenance.
Their importance is
carved in stone
and written in the stars.
Southern Paiute
legend tells of one courageous
mountain sheep, undertaking
a journey up the tallest,
most dangerous mountain here.
Climbing so high that he
ultimately transformed
into the North Star.
Though forcibly displaced
in the 19th century,
the Southern Paiute maintain
their connection to these lands.
Just south of Zion,
they manage Pipe Spring
with the Park Service.
One of the only indigenous-run
National Monuments in the U.S.
Unpolluted by city light,
this dark sky park sets
the stage for stargazing.
Autumn Gillard is a
dark sky ranger,
and a proud descendant
of the Cedar band
of Southern Paiutes.
My journey
under the stars began with
the teachings of my
mother and grandmother.
Their wisdom nurtured my
deep connection to our
Southern Paiute traditions, and
the celestial wonders above.
My work leading Pipe Spring
to its International Dark Sky
designation prevents
artificial light from
intruding on our clear sky.
The stars are the heartbeat
of our stories, songs, dances,
and agricultural practices.
Our ancestors were the
original natural scientists
of North America,
weaving together
empirical observations
with rich cultural and
spiritual teachings.
Southern Paiute cosmology
connects us to the stars,
sky beings, and to our
four-legged brothers.
The North Star,
transformed from Nah-gah,
the bighorn sheep,
continues to guide us
with its enduring strength,
courage, and wisdom.
Despite the vast oceans
that lie between,
our Paiute constellations mirror
Roman-Greco depictions,
drawing similar patterns.
For us, Orion, the hunter,
aims his bow at the antelope
in the place of
Taurus, the bull.
Within his eye is
Pleiades, or So'nee,
a celestial resting
place for our spirits.
Without the dark skies of
Zion and Pipe Spring,
we would lose our tie to the
constellations that embody
both our waking lives and the
passage to the afterlife.
My mentor, Benn Pikyavit,
stands as a living bridge
between the past
and the present.
In our tradition,
the wisdom of the stars
spans generations.
A legacy that was nearly lost.
But like the dark skies
protected by our national lands,
the wisdom of the stars
is available to all.
The dark skies of
Zion protect more than the
stars and stories within.
Light pollution disrupts the
behavior of many bat species.
Zion's dark skies
provide a refuge
in which to thrive.
This single bat
will chomp down
thousands of
insects before dawn,
helping control the population,
and balance Zion's ecosystem.
But in nature, the
only constant is change.
Zion's creatures brace for it.
At the height
of Zion's summer,
temperatures can
reach a sweltering
110 degrees Fahrenheit.
To survive, hardy
creatures cling to
ever-shrinking
patches of respite.
Relief comes as autumn nears.
Warm winds from the
Gulf of California
meet moist air from the
Gulf of Mexico and condense.
Causing massive monsoons.
Cooling the desert, and taking
the park's sculpting efforts
to the next level.
Waterfalls channel
the rain below,
causing the sandstone
slot canyons
to swell dramatically.
Though flash floods cause
massive rockfalls
and landslides,
the rushing waters also exert
a much finer cutting tool.
Knocked loose by the floods,
tiny grains of sandstone
coalesce and grind the rock
like a perpetual
ribbon of sandpaper.
Continually smoothing.
Continually widening.
The sandy streams shape
Zion's distinctive canyons.
As they rush downward,
they cut deeper into
the Virgin riverbed.
All told, the Virgin will
carry away more than
a million tons of rock
debris every year.
Zion's annual cleansing
marks the beginning of fall,
as does the sudden
appearance of Tarantulas.
The change in humidity
influences the otherwise
nocturnal spider to
come out in droves.
The male tarantula will
walk up to 20 long miles
searching for a female,
even during daylight.
As he closes in,
the female stays close to home,
where she will
accept or reject him.
She readies her burrow,
throwing out strands of
silk laced with pheromones
to advertise her availability.
To prepare, the male
supercharges his
front two pedipalps with sperm.
But his affectionate
advance could be his last.
His high-stakes move
involves significant risk.
If she disapproves, she
will kill, and then eat him.
Cannibalistic females
go on to produce
higher-quality offspring.
He risks coaxing her
out from her burrow
by drumming the ground
with his pedipalps.
Easy, easy does it.
Keeping her venomous
fangs at bay,
his pedipalps spin his
sperm web into her abdomen.
She's testy.
But he does
escape with his life.
With no pillow talk, she
returns to her burrow alone.
Soon, she will spawn
an egg sac,
with 1,000 baby tarantulas.
For Zion's Bighorn Sheep,
mating also involves
major confrontation.
The fall winds carry
the scent of female ewes.
Curling back his upper lip,
he inhales her pheromones.
A special gland in his mouth
tells him if she's in heat.
But her irresistible scent
attracts a younger challenger.
The elder makes
his position clear.
But arrogance begs conflict.
Their battering rams
can weigh 30 pounds,
giving new meaning
to the expression:
"locking horns."
Though ramming with nearly
800 pounds of force,
the structure of their horns
works like a shock absorber.
Taking the higher ground,
and charging at up
to 40 miles per hour,
the elder prevails.
His gentle nudge
receives a warm reception.
In six months, their life
cycle will come full circle.
For now, the hardy creatures
of Zion soak up the last
vestiges of fall as
they brace for winter.
The web of life connects
Zion's creatures to this land
of stark extremes,
for all to bear witness.
In so doing, Zion continues
to live up to its name,
not just as a refuge,
but also a utopia for the
hardiest of creatures
that call this
enchanted place home.
Captioned by
Cotter Media Group.