Original subtitles

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.