Original subtitles

Once the whole world was a desert,

dry, hot, a barren wasteland, like deserts typically are.

In the wild west of America where I come from,

nothing has changed.

I'm used to it, adapted, as you humans would say.

When I put down my roots over 200 years ago

only a few of you dared to come down this way.

But you humans and I, we have something in common,

guests are always welcome.

We can offer them everything their hearts desire:

food, water, shelter,

and protection from the hot desert winds.

I am a carnegiea gigantea, a saguaro,

a massive cactus like a Methuselah as you humans would say.

My time is coming to a close, but wait.

Before I bid you a final goodbye,

listen to my tale, the story of this desert.

Let's go back a little,

a hundred and fifty, a hundred eighty, two hundred years,

before cars or light bulbs had even been invented

and I was still just a teenager.

I was happy then.

You see, I grew up in the shadow of a palo verde tree.

Exposed directly to the sun, I would've withered quickly.

The desert is ruthless.

To thrive here, you have to be prepared

and have a very thick skin

or be immune to pain.

Curve billed thrasher are like fakirs on a bed of nails.

They can handle even the spiciest of entanglements.

And here, they're young are safe from nest robbers.

But the parents constantly have to run the gauntlet

for them.

When I was growing up,

life without shade would've been unthinkable.

The palo verde protected me

from the sun's burning rays.

Like a parasol, its sparse crown

kept the ground cool and damp.

Without its aid, I would've perished.

Sometimes the palo verde had guests.

A costa's hummingbird's nest is about the size of a thimble.

It's young, barely bigger than a hazelnut.

For nests,

the birds weave spiders silk into tiny bowls

that stick to the smallest twigs,

an ideal home for their offspring.

They grow up quickly, those kids.

After only three weeks, they fly off into the world.

Three weeks, gone in the blink of an eye.

Now as the decades went by, I grew stronger and tougher.

After about 50 years, my life in the shadows was over.

I had outlived my nurse tree.

Its canopy was gone and I,

I was ready to brave the sun.

The palo verde's legacy was the protection it provided

and the precious water our roots shared.

The water I inherited from it lived on in me.

Now I was big enough to cast my own shadow

perfect for freshening up in the morning

just in time for breakfast.

Bed and breakfast for squirrels,

my life as a cactus hotel had begun.

Desert iguanas can withstand intense heat

but always need shelters within reach.

Their check-in is purely a formality.

The first two arrivals,

but who's at the front desk and who's the guest?

My front yard becomes the place to meet.

That has never changed.

See and be seen, and pretty soon you get used to each other.

Now, gestures may vary between species

but a tail flick is universally understood,

this is my spot.

No cuts.

After they're done fighting

over the best seat in the house, it's time to chill.

When my neighbors, the cholla cacti shed their chutes,

my front yard turns into a thorny minefield,

impossible for many small visitors to cross.

But here in the desert,

we have guests who aren't deterred by thorns or spikes,

the restless pack rat.

And like all pack rats, this one has a plan.

The remains of my former nurse tree

offer the perfect framework for it to build its new den.

A labyrinth of chambers

and escape route made to measure a mini personal fortress.

The rattlesnake is just as perplexed as the rat

but it doesn't strike.

It's settled down for an extended rest

and isn't in a hunting mood.

Oh, really?

The rat remains skeptical, but decides to stick to her plan.

As a seasoned builder,

she gets to work doing what she does best,

packing and repacking.

She keeps her eyes open for her favorite material,

cholla chutes,

which she hooks together to form a wall of thorns,

and the snake is locked out.

Pack rats aren't picky.

They put to use everything they find.

In a single night,

the comfort of my palo verde is transformed

into a cozy new home for a pack rat.

Change can attract some curious creatures.

These quails are just out of reach for the coyote.

But what about that rat?

He can scent there's someone in there, but how to get it?

The rat's done good work.

Her fortress is impregnable.

The coyote's lost interest

and retreated back into the desert.

Since then,

the space under my old palo verde has been inhabited

by generations of pack rats with ever-changing tenants.

At the age of about a hundred, my arms began to grow.

That was a time

when millions of people were migrating to America.

Settlers found their way to my desert

and marveled at my size,

a giant saguaro cactus close to 50 feet tall.

Like a candelabra, my arms reached up to the sky.

My shadow stretched further than ever before

inviting guests to come my way.

Generations of squirrels came by for their daily sand bath

and others gathered around my trunk too.

So many different guests visited and stayed.

My hotel had its very own reception area.

The front yard became a meet and greet for travelers

from far and wide.

When thrashers turn up, trouble is right around the corner.

It becomes a free for all.

And all that fuss in the lobby attracts predators.

The quails keep a watchful eye.

Their alarm calls warn everyone.

And that bobcat is left standing in the dust.

A rare guest enters my lobby.

This primeval dragon takes her sweet time.

A gila monster can reach 40 years of age,

outliving most other animals in the desert.

Most of the time,

this venomous lizard only moves in search of food,

but her thick tail tells us she's got enough fat stored

in there to survive the next few weeks.

Her usual home is the underworld.

For most of her life, the gila monster remains hidden

from the light of day.

Here in a small borough at the end of my roots,

the female has deposited her treasure.

This well protected air conditioned spot

offers the perfect conditions for her eggs.

It takes three long months

for the young to mature and hatch.

It takes up to two days for them to scramble free.

The first and probably the only strenuous act

in their laid back life of minimal effort.

In their first weeks, they don't need to eat anything.

They can survive on what they brought with them

from the egg.

And even after hatching,

they still remain underground for months.

It's some time before they venture out into the light.

Deep down at the lowest levels of my labyrinth of roots,

there's a very special hotel storeroom

watched over, defended, and tended to by a giant army.

Some of these ant's abdomens are filled to bursting.

They're called repletes

and they're carrying a kind of liquid gold.

They're fed by their sisters

until they can barely take another step.

With their bloated bellies,

they're no longer suited for life on the ground.

They hang motionless from the ceiling

and look like tiny honey pots.

The honey pot ants create a valuable storage system.

When food is short, the repletes share these syrupy reserves

with the other colony members.

Life insurance for a whole city,

a wondrous honey factory

in the vaults of my tangled hotel basement.

The best years of my life began

just as you humans were on the edge of the abyss,

waging two world wars.

That's when my arms grew into a crown

and I became a majestic multi branched skyscraper,

ready for anyone looking for a home in the desert.

It didn't take long and the first suite was occupied,

and not just by anyone, but by America's largest owl.

Great horned owls need a good vantage point

and my upper floors provided an ideal panoramic view.

They didn't come every year

but one season there was a swarm of pack rats here

and the owls raised four little owlets on my arms.

Their parents had no trouble providing for their offspring.

Over 200 rats disappeared into those little owl tummies

during their 10 week stay.

A year later and a little higher up,

I had my first experience of unexpected renovations.

Only a woodpecker is strong enough

to break through my wax and skin,

and this one has a motive too.

The lady over him has high standards,

and his new home is not yet up to scratch.

One glance up and the message is clear,

you get back to work.

She even shows him how.

An inspection follows.

Hmm, not quite.

He moves on to another arm,

another inspection, and still not happy,

working overtime.

At last, the misses approves.

Gila woodpeckers have a lot of stamina.

Year after year, they build a new nest cavity

creating ever greater living space.

So my hotel has more and more rooms

and vacancies are filled immediately.

New guests are lining up all the time.

The woodpeckers make sure it's always high season.

Fly catchers prefer a home in the attic.

Sparrows can be found on my right arm

and just one floor down, the smallest of all owls,

the elf owl has its own branch.

In no time, I upgraded from a two star bed and breakfast

to an exclusive resort with several luxurious towers

scratched up, dug under, hollowed out,

and always fully booked.

Word spreads quickly.

If the front desk is left unattended,

the gopher snake can slip past

all the way up to the apartment floors

and not even my thorns can keep this scaly predator away.

Up it slithers.

This is extreme climbing.

It's been spotted

but the warning calls don't phase the snake.

Gopher snakes are feared nest robbers,

slithering silently towards their prey

to strike at lightning speed.

But this room is vacant.

The reptile isn't on the hunt.

With her sixth sense,

she can feel a change in the weather coming.

Only once in my lifetime,

I remember it like it was yesterday,

a strange, cold, white rain fell,

snow.

Cold crept into my pores.

Crystals sharp as my thorns

scratched at my vessels and waterways.

The whole ordeal lasted just a few hours

and never before had I longed so desperately for the sun,

and by late morning it was over.

But from that day on around 30 years ago,

I was forever changed.

In the desert, things often spring to life quite suddenly,

bees swarmed over my lobby.

Out of nowhere,

hundreds of them suddenly buzzing up out of the ground,

digger bees.

Green-eyed drones comb the ground

in hopes of finding a mate.

They're there somewhere hidden in the sand.

Once they pick up a scent, there's no stopping them.

There they are.

Females with bright red eyes appear from below.

Not all drones get lucky,

and the ones that do get just one chance.

No time to whine and dine.

After mating,

it's time for the females to do some digging.

They bury themselves in the sand

while the males having given it all they've got

just turn over and die.

Only the red-eyed females still swarm

as each digs her own private tunnel

and deposits her eggs at the end of it.

When the entrances lie too close together,

there are squabbles.

Despite their shared mating ritual,

digger bees remain solitary creatures.

Then after a few days, everything returns to normal.

The bees disappear as suddenly as they came.

And so the years went by filled with sunshine,

shade, and desert winds.

The constant underground tunneling of ants, bees,

and gila monsters slowly took their toll

riddling my foundations.

And when the wind jostled me above, my roots ached,

time to think about the future.

It happened for the first time

on a balmy spring night 150 years ago.

I blossomed.

My flowers open only in the cool of the night.

They rely on specialists.

For the pollination to be successful,

I need help from the local nightlife,

lesser long nosed bats.

The heady scent of my nectar lures them over

and they dive in headfirst coating themselves in my pollen

which they then carry off with them far beyond my reach.

They've gotta get on with it,

for the chalice of seduction has a time limit.

In just a few hours, my blossoms will close.

But come next morning, they still look stunning.

And my rooftop bar opens early, free nectar for all.

Sugar crazy honeybees are the first to come by

and take a sip,

closely followed by an armada of six legged patrons.

The perfume of my flowers attracts hundreds of tiny visitors

from far and wide rejoicing at my well-stocked rooftop bar.

Then the big ones wake up and join the party,

rushing to find a spot before it's too late,

plucking and quaffing as if there were no tomorrow.

In return,

all the out-of-towners get a load of my pollen.

At some point, it becomes almost impossible

to find a bee-free flagging.

Before they can dip their beaks,

those pesky bees have got to go.

Even with plenty of nectar to go around,

some guests just want to hog it all for themselves.

Collateral damage is unavoidable.

But at my hotel nothing goes to waste,

even guests on the ground floor get their money's worth.

Anything that comes crashing down from the rooftop bar

lands right in front of the squirrels, jackpot.

But here comes some other competitors,

so eat it up fast that carpel and pollen.

The javelina are perfectly content

with the leftover husks.

Every year, the monsoon comes and dark clouds cover the sky.

It marks the beginning of a difficult time for me.

The desert needs water.

I need water.

But these thunderstorms are fierce and dangerous.

For us plants, there's no escape.

Flash floods wash away the soil

that covers my roots and anything else in their way.

If you happen to be growing in the wrong place,

you don't have a chance.

Once the deluge is passed, anything still standing

breathes a sigh of relief.

I was lucky, my lobby was flooded,

but my guests gained a pool.

Everyone is welcome here, day trippers too.

And most of the time, peace prevails until...

This pool is mine now, he makes that very clear.

That means you.

And you too.

Curve billed thrashers

have a broad definition of personal territory

and a pool in the hot desert definitely fits the bill.

Ah, but wait.

This spiny lizard has chosen the pool as his hunting ground.

Hmm, that hunter's too good for his own good,

outta here.

Now these bees are all mine.

Pretty impressive.

Could this be the start of a beautiful friendship?

The pool area is now a spa for everyone,

but the pool party gets cut short.

Now it's the big guy's turn.

In these parts,

you'll only find water after a heavy rainfall.

But once they've had they're fun,

there's nothing left but a mud bath.

So drink first.

There is not a hog in the world

doesn't dream of a messy wallow, however tiny the tub.

Unbeknownst to the javelina,

their bathtub has a secret drain.

My roots are some of the most powerful in the plant kingdom,

absorbing water at high speed, sucking it up into my trunk

before it can seep away or evaporate.

By sunset, my reserves are fully replenished.

I've got enough to keep me going for well over a year.

And a small puddle still remains

for thirsty late night passers by.

This coyote is wary of coming too close.

Why?

An armada of red spotted toads

has occupied the basin.

Appearing out of nowhere,

this clan has gathered in the water.

They've been waiting for a year between my roots.

Now they're in ecstasy.

They only have just a few nights to court, mate,

and lay eggs, the whole shebang.

Thirsty onlookers gawk and hesitate.

There's a definite hint of toad poison here.

Better call it a night.

Bobcats may be fearless hunters, but they are no fools.

He won't come anywhere near

these hotheaded cold-blooded amphibians.

A tactical retreat into the desert night.

For a few nocturnal hours, the toads are in charge here.

Their time is running out though.

My roots are relentless,

absorbing almost all the water from the pool,

soon there'll be nothing left.

In the monsoon season,

I can take on more than a ton of water,

perfect for a juicy harvest.

The sweet pulp of my fruit is

the super food of the Sonoran Desert,

drawing once again a rash of visitors.

And so they all come,

the birds and the bees, predators and prey.

Nobody can resist this last tasty temptation.

They feast and indulge and as a byproduct,

carry millions of seeds with the juicy fruit flesh

all over the desert.

And here the circle closes.

I spent two centuries

in the most beautiful desert in the world,

but time has taken its toll.

My thorns are falling,

small cracks have become deep furrows,

wounds that won't heal.

My life's elixir seeps away into the sand.

My guests are long gone, my hotel silent,

only the wind remains incessantly buffeting my arms.

My foundation is eroded, porous.

The last pages of my memoirs are written.

After 200 years of growing, thriving, and decay,

my end comes suddenly and unequivocally.

My life passed in slow motion, as will my death.

A few more years and I'll be history.

I was, as you humans would say, a Methuselah,

an old cactus hotel.

My guests eroded my roots, hollowed me out,

and tore at my trunk.

Undoubtedly, they hastened my demise

but they also secured my legacy,

carrying millions upon millions of tiny seeds out

into the desert.

Perhaps some of them will share my luck

and find themselves in the shadow of a palo verde tree

just as I once did on a balmy spring evening

over 200 years ago.

♪ I'm living down this road ♪

♪ I'm living down this road ♪

♪ A burn of scars in my soul ♪

♪ In my soul ♪

♪ Love is furious and fast ♪

♪ Love is furious and fast ♪

♪ I've dealt with the demons in my past ♪

♪ In my past ♪

♪ This road's gonna take your soul ♪

♪ This road's gonna take your soul ♪

♪ But every dog knows there's a dawn ♪

♪ I won't walk this road alone ♪

♪ This road's gonna take your soul ♪

♪ This road's gonna take your soul ♪

♪ But every dog knows there's a dawn ♪

♪ I won't walk this road alone ♪

♪ I won't walk this road alone ♪

♪