Original subtitles

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.