All language subtitles for National Parks USA.S01E02

In the heart
of the wet season,

many of the
wild residents

of Everglades National
Park hunker down.

Heavy downpours take
over the environment,

but not all seek
shelter from the storm.

Black bears, at
their southernmost

range in the U.S.,
embrace the

opportunity for an
early morning shower.

Here, the dance between
the wet and dry seasons

fuels a world of
constant transformation.

A place where a slight
change in elevation

can birth an entirely
new ecosystem.

It's all a part
of the remarkable

diversity of life
unfolding in

Everglades National Park.

A few months
earlier, before the rain

began its rule, an
age-old pursuit

was in full swing.

Devoted parents doing
everything in their power

to build the future
for their children.

For the Roseate
Spoonbill,

a path to safety means
constructing a fortress

high in the
mangrove trees.

Piece by piece, the
nest is fortified.

The Everglades coastal
forest provides cover,

hiding the eggs from a
hungry bird's eye view.

Nest building doesn't
stop during incubation.

The clutch needs
guarding for just

over three weeks,
and the parents

take turns protecting
their eggs

from threats
above and below.

Danger is a way of life
for the Spoonbill,

and in the water, even
larger hunters lurk.

But predators aren't
the only risk here.

These parents are living
on a tenuous edge.

They're a pink canary
in the coal mine.

Short-legged
wading birds,

Spoonbills need
the perfect water

conditions to hunt.

Too deep, and their
rounded bills

can't reach a meal.

Too salty, and their
prey species disappear.

As sea levels rise
and fresh water

is diverted from
the Everglades,

this colony in Florida
Bay is shrinking.

Every nest matters.

As one of the
flattest national

parks in the U.S.,
the Everglades is

incredibly vulnerable
to a changing tide.

Across 1.5 million
acres on the southern

tip of Florida,
the highest point

of elevation stands
at just eight feet.

120,000 years ago,
the last time

the Earth was hot, sea
levels were 20 feet

above today's waterline,
enough to reduce

the peninsula to a
fragmented thumb.

In the opposite
extreme, at the

peak of the Ice
Age, the water

dropped 400 feet.

Florida doubled
its current size.

Positioned on a
nearly flat seabed,

the Everglades of
today are the largest

subtropical wilderness
in the country.

Wedged between
the Caribbean

and the temperate
forests to the north,

it pulls from both worlds
and creates a home

for plants and animals
of each climate.

This place, at
the intersection

of two realms,
changes elevation

only in tiny steps
as it moves from one

ecosystem to the next.

On the northern
edge of the park,

In a higher elevation
scrub ecosystem,

heaping sand dunes
bear evidence of

the marine past.

And hard at work is an
animal far more ancient

than the land on which
it makes a living.

The gopher tortoise
evolved in North America

35 million years before
the Florida panhandle

ever emerged
from the sea.

Living up to 60
years in the wild,

all signs point to a
creature that knows

how to take its time.

But when they move,
it's with purpose.

Paddle-like arms can dig
40 feet into the earth.

Named for their
housing preferences,

the gopher tortoise
spends up to 80% of

its time in its burrow.

And in the dry season,
under harsh solar rays,

they're best off
staying put.

But their dens
provide shelter from

more than the sun.

For Everglades residents,
the threats of the season

change with the weather.

Thankfully, tortoise
burrows have plenty

of room for guests.

Over 300 species will
use the cavities

as a safe haven.

And when lightning
strikes, that refuge

becomes essential.

Parched landscapes
from the dry season

are prone to
lightning-induced
wildfires.

These flames play
a crucial role

in the balance of
the Everglades.

And in underground
bunkers, animals

wait out the burn.

Fire is a part of
the natural ecology
here.

The plants, the trees,
even the wildlife

have evolved to
coexist with fire.

Across the national
park, over 100,000

acres of wetlands,
prairies and forests

burn each year.

But in a changed
landscape,

all is not lost.

While this new world
may appear barren,

there's more activity
than first meets the eye.

Fires clear away years of
accumulated vegetation,

making room for
new growth.

Seeds, long dormant in
the soil, now awaken.

Tender shoots
pierce through the

ash, reclaiming the
scorched earth.

Reaching over
three inches,

the eastern lubber is
the largest grasshopper

in the United States.

The name lubber comes
from an old English word,

"lobre," meaning
lazy or clumsy.

Oversized bodies and
small wings render

them flightless,
and the lubber

travels slowly.

Even the smallest
hop takes

considerable effort.

Rather than take most
leaps, they climb.

They're in no rush.

A bright orange exterior
is a warning sign,

signaling their toxicity.

Lubbers sequester
poisonous chemicals from

the plants they eat.

Consuming the giant
bug can cause violent

sickness or even death.

Almost all would-be
predators keep

their distance.

But among the cover
of big cypress trees,

some young animals
are, as of yet,

unaccustomed to
the many creatures

of the Everglades.

A yearling alligator
spots faint movement

on the shore.

The unhurried lubber
looks like an easy snack.

And the grasshopper
appears unfamiliar

with retreat.

The baby
gator couldn't resist,

and its siblings
join the pursuit.

To witness this unique
behavior is rare.

The camera may be
capturing a tiny window,

a brief period where
the eagerness of

the naive alligators
outweighs the risk.

Soon enough, the gators
seem to catch on.

They could be taking
a rest in the sun,

or they may be
experiencing a

toxic hangover.

Either way,
they've learned a

valuable lesson.

But the practice hunt
is too tempting.

Now, it's a game of
catch and release.

Some even offer
a friendly lift

to the shore.

Without meddling, mom
encourages her offspring

to discover the world
for themselves.

Known as ecosystem
engineers, alligators

accomplish more than
self-preservation.

Gators excavate
ponds deep enough to

prevent evaporation
in the dry season.

These alligator holes
provide sanctuary to

other wildlife and
improve biodiversity.

But while the alligator's
influence on the

landscape is both
subtle and beneficial,

humans have brought
about changes in the

Everglades of a vastly
different magnitude.

Since the 1800s, new
arrivals have focused

on the potential of
southern Florida.

Visions of development
took hold.

Draining began, turning
wetlands into farmland

and paving the way
for urban sprawl.

Today, Miami lies
only 15 miles from

the park border, but
less than 200 years

ago, nature prevailed.

The coast of the bustling
metropolis included a

vibrant mangrove forest.

The National Park
is essential to the

continued existence of
this natural habitat.

And in their vulnerable
haven, the protective

parents succeed.

Dangerous threats
didn't reach the nest,

which means downy
spoonbill chicks get

to meet the world.

But these chicks rely on
more than their parents

in this fragile time.

Keeping them aloft
and safe from the

chaos of life below,
quietly and without

fanfare, stand the
mangrove trees.

Mangroves evolve to
bridge the transition

from ocean to land.

Steady on their feet,
the red mangroves

appear to walk on water.

Wiry aerial roots
anchor the mangrove

firmly in the mud,
acting as stilts

to raise the tree
above the current.

Specialized glands
expel excess salt,

allowing the red
mangrove to tolerate

the high salinity
of its environment.

While the sprawling
branches above form

rookeries for a myriad
of bird species,

another hidden
habitat lies just

below the surface.

These magnificent
trees create a home

for some of the bay's
smallest creatures.

The marine environment
accounts for nearly

a third of Everglades
National Park,

and this underwater
realm showcases

biodiversity just as
rich as the world above.

Fallen leaves and
organic material break

down and make food.

Tangled roots create
hiding spots.

While they mature,
juveniles find nooks

to evade predators.

The mangroves are
a nursery for the

vast ocean beyond.

At just over a foot,
the endangered Goliath

grouper may look to have
outgrown the nursery.

But the little big
fish is still early in

its 50-year lifespan.

It stays in the
mangrove habitat

for up to six years,
and when it eventually

outgrows the
sheltered ecosystem,

it can reach 800
pounds and measure

over 8 feet long.

The small fish feeding
the grouper also

catch the attention of
the parents searching

for food above.

On the hunt, the
spoonbill sweeps its

head from side to
side, sifting through

the murky water.

Where many wading
birds take a more

jabbing approach,
the spoonbill flows.

Their highly sensitive,
rounded bill remains

slightly ajar, gliding
through the water.

As soon as prey
is detected, the

bill snaps shut.

While the young
spoonbills receive

their eagerly
anticipated breakfast,

something is missing.

A month ago, four eggs
laid in the nest, and

now only three chicks
beg for more food.

Down below, the black
mangroves provide cover,

camouflaging the fourth
chick who fled too early.

Distinct from
the spidery legs of

their cousins, black
mangroves have their own

remarkable adaptation
to life on the coast.

Instead of crawling
downward, their

roots poke up out
of the sediment.

The stick-like
protrusions are called

pneumatophores, or
air-breathing roots.

A single tree can
have more than 10,000

snorkels, each one
pulling in oxygen

from the environment.

And for the tiny
spoonbill, they provide

a critical hiding spot.

Without flight, or the
ability to hunt for

herself, the young bird
still needs her parents.

Just because she's
grounded, it doesn't

mean she's on her own.

The fledgling works to
stay as close as she can.

But while the spiked
mangrove roots are

helpful when trying
to stay out of

sight, they make for
no easy trail home.

It will be another
month until the growing

spoonbills can fly.

Meanwhile, their parents
will work double time.

All around them, the
Florida Bay is alive,

but it wasn't always so.

Everglades National Park
was established with

different priorities
than the national

parks that came before.

With intentions beyond
people and tourism.

In the late 1800s,
hunters nearly

eradicated birds of
magnificent plumage.

Extravagant breeding
plumes evolved to

attract mates, and the
same splendid displays

drew human interest.

They symbolized status
in a burgeoning fashion

industry, hungry for
ornate feathers.

The more striking the
plume, the more likely

it would wind up on a hat
in Paris or New York.

At peak, traders
took more than five

million birds a year.

The great blue heron
suffered one of

the worst declines.

Its plumes were
worth three times

the price of gold.

Sportsmen killed snowy
and great egrets for

wisps of delicate white.

And the spoonbill for a
striking pink statement.

Birds adapted with a less
showy appearance weren't

as widely targeted, and
spared for their modesty.

Among the groups
of scientists and

conservationists working
to end plume hunting was

the trailblazer, Marjory
Stoneman Douglas.

A young journalist
with the Miami Herald,

she crusaded
for the preservation

of the Everglades.

Years of advocacy,
highlighting the

ecological importance
of the Everglades,

eventually led to
the founding of

the park in 1947.

Everglades was the first
National Park created

to protect wildlife and
the natural landscape.

Now the park provides
a sanctuary to over

360 bird species.

Even with all her love of
the ecosystem, Marjory

Stoneman Douglas rarely
went to the Everglades.

She called it too
buggy, too wet, too

generally inhospitable.

But for Betty Osceola,
life in the Everglades

spans generations.

Marjory
Stoneman Douglas, she

herself didn't know how
individuals could live

in the Everglades, but
she understood the

importance of protecting
that environment for the

wildlife and the plant
life that needed to exist

so it didn't disappear.

So she did a lot
of good things in

educating and using her
writing and her voice.

But when you've grown up
here your whole life,

you really can't see
living anywhere else.

Member of the
Panther Clan of the

Miccosukee Tribe, Betty
is a force of nature.

She's a grandmother,
auntie, champion

of her people, and
the environment.

She is also an
expert captain.

Being an
airboat captain out in

the Everglades, it's
very peaceful.

Through my tours I'm
able to give a little

bit of insight to how
our people existed

here in the Everglades.

You know, historically,
before we have the modern

day airboat, we would
make the dugout canoe

out of the cypress trees.

There was abundance
of Miccosukee and

Seminoles living
throughout the Everglades

on the tree islands.

And it was a
nomadic lifestyle.

We traveled from region
to region, seasonal,

following the game.

Betty's
ancestors moved with the

cyclical patterns
of water.

Much of the fresh water
in the Everglades flows

from Lake Okeechobee,
north of the park.

In Seminole, Okeechobee
means "big water."

The giant lake feeds
the entire watershed.

Marjory Stoneman Douglas
popularized the term

"River of Grass" in her
book on the Everglades.

But indigenous people
understood this

circulation long
before her time.

We always
knew the Everglades was

a slow flowing river.

It had an abundance
of natural filters in

the water system that
would clean the water as

it traveled from north
to south, all the way

down to Florida Bay.

And as a child, I
understood that if

you were out in the
Everglades during

the dry times, and
you ran out of

water, to go into the
cypress stone, follow

an alligator's trail.

Because alligators
always have to have

water. They always
have to have water.

Come here.

Whether alligators are out in
the open

sawgrass, or traversing
the big cypress

forest, they're always
chasing fresh water.

And in spring, at the
tail end of the dry

season, the mother of
the curious yearlings

led her young away from
their gator hole in

search of deeper water.

But in the Everglades,
one creature's

departure signals an
opening for others.

A family of otters
moves into the

shallow gator hole.

However, a month further
into the dry season,

muddy waters make their
prospects unclear.

River otters use long,
sensitive whiskers

to detect prey.

They need to fish
now, before the water

completely disappears.

Making the most of the
sludge, the master

hunters succeed.

In the waning dry
season, the otters

aren't alone in their
search for calories.

The raccoon is
outnumbered.

With sharp claws and
36 bone-crushing

teeth, river otters
are fierce opponents.

The raccoon tests its
luck on the edges.

For now, the fish are
contained in small

pools, and even this
scavenger can get a meal.

But soon, these last
muddy patches will

dry up, and some
animals will be left

waiting for the rain.

For those on four legs,
traversing the cypress

forests of the Everglades
can be challenging.

The dense vegetation
leaves little

breathing room.

Rare open clearings
attract those in search

of an unobstructed trail.

A mother shows her
little ones the best

route for easy travel.

Here, the diversity
of the Everglades

is on full display.

Some of the smallest
in stature use the

opening to gather food.

On this high traffic
byway, even the most

elusive animals of the
Everglades appear.

In the dry
season, an endangered

Florida panther rules
this well-trodden path.

And as darkness
falls, the night

gets even wilder.

A male black bear
smells the scent

of other explorers.

The spotted bobcat jumps
without making a sound.

A coyote shares
a balance beam

with a sure-footed
raccoon.

Everyone can move
freely, as long as

they remain cautious
of who follows behind.

At last, the dry
season meets its end.

With the onslaught
of rain,

the Everglades fill up.

Nearly 60 inches of rain
falls in the wet season,

replenishing the dehydrated

environment with
much-needed moisture.

Across the park's
diverse ecosystems,

inhabitants adjust
to a new landscape.

For some animals,
the flooding of the

Everglades means
the expansion of

vital territory.

Big cats must now compete
with big reptiles.

It's a showdown at the
top of the food chain.

And once parched
trails now harbor

unwelcome mystery.

While the panther may
hiss at the adjustment,

rain is the lifeblood
of the Everglades.

And with it, this world
comes truly alive.

A tangle of roots clings
to a cypress tree.

As an epiphyte, this
unassuming plant can

live without soil.

It has no leaves
and no stem.

In a dry environment,
the star-shaped

stamp could be missed.

But with enough moisture,
the fabled ghost of

the Everglades arrives.

The big cypress forests
serve as a sanctuary for

the rare ghost orchid.

Before the rain,
some vegetation

appears nearly dead.

But the wet season
brings the resurrection

fern back to life.

The health and vitality
recharged by rainwater

courses south.

All the way from
freshwater swamps

into the brackish
estuaries and saltwater

flats of Florida Bay.

A pod of bottlenose
dolphins knows that

during the wet season,
schools of mullet

start a migration
to reach saltwater

spawning grounds.

To find the fish,
the dolphins employ

one of nature's
most sophisticated

sonar systems.

The dolphin melon, a
large fat deposit that

shapes their forehead,
directs sound waves

which to our ears
resemble rapid clicks.

These sound waves bounce
off objects in the

distance and return to
the dolphin as an echo,

allowing them to navigate
straight to their prey.

Silver mullet seek safety
in numbers, but the

dolphins have a strategy.

The subtle art
of mud reading.

Disoriented and
contained, the

mullet have but one
escape, flying up

and out of the water.

The dolphins need
to get lucky with

their positioning.

Holding on to a
slippery aerial

acrobat isn't easy.

They try a lineup to
increase their odds.

At last, some success.

Spectators eye their
triumphs and aim

to take advantage.

Brown pelicans in pursuit.

A six-foot wingspan
makes for smooth travel.

The pelican uses its
huge throat pouch as a

built-in fishing net.

The mullet writhes but
can't escape the trap.

These standoffs will
last as long as the

mullet continue to run.

Their migration will
extend through the

close of the wet
season in the fall.

But not everyone can
join the action.

In the mangrove
trees, our spoonbill

fledglings have left
their nest behind.

With the wind working
against them, they

attempt balance.

And test their wings.

For now, without ease
of flight, they are

confined to the branches.

But their sibling,
who met the ground

early, has had more
time to find her feet.

Standing steady, she
now has an advantage.

Proximity to the mangrove
nursery, full of food.

The little bird
is getting a head

start foraging.

The crustaceans and
invertebrates she

finds contain pigments
called carotenoids.

Over time, they will give
the spoonbill the bright

pink hues of her parents
and turn her eyes red.

In the coming years,
these birds may

be forced inland.

If the bay surrounding
their hunting grounds

becomes too deep,
they will build their

nests further in the
park's interior,

coping with the impact
of a changing world.

This is a shifting
landscape

Betty Osceola knows well.

My
mother, she always said,
you know, to

keep your identity
of who you are

and be grounded in who
you are, you have to

continue traditions
and live it every day.

Our people, we
knew the terrain

of the Everglades.

She provided us a home.

She provided us safety.

She provided us food.

A place to survive.

She said that the
environment of the

Everglades is in her time
of struggle and need.

It's our responsibility
and duty to help her.

You know, the Everglades
is a beautiful

place. It's alive.

Some people say that it's
a skeleton of herself.

But if you give her the
chance, she can heal

and she can thrive.

I n this
expansive, flat
landscape, forever

shaped by the rise
and fall of water,

the diversity of life
is still immense.

With care and meaningful
intention,

Everglades National Park,
set aside to protect

the plants and animals
within its boundary,

can continue to prosper.