All language subtitles for 8BD75B5D1DC7BA811D52A521F4A64D70_eng

On Australia's highest
peaks, the snowy mountains,

winter temperatures
reach well below zero.

This true alpine wilderness can spend
half the year beneath a blanket of snow.

Very few creatures can withstand the winter
on Australia's peaks, where food is scarce.

But some tough it out.

This echidna has hibernated
on and off during the coldest

months, emerging at the
tail end of winter very hungry.

An insect eater, it's slim pickings
while the snow encases his food source.

But as one of those energy-efficient
mammals on the planet, with a body

temperature that can drop
below five degrees Celsius,

this echidna can survive
long periods in the bitter cold.

His shovel-like claws
work like snowshoes.

It's a lonely march
on an empty stomach.

As the days get longer
and warmer, high country

rivers carry the now liquid
winter down the mountain.

Spring's arrival also
means, at last, the echidna

can feast after months
of winter's famine.

But one obstacle still stands
in the way of a full belly.

A fast flowing one.

Using his long beak as a
snorkel and large feet as

paddles, he's perfectly
capable of a river crossing.

He may not look like an all-terrain
vehicle, but the echidna inhabits more

Australian landscapes
than any other native animal.

He will now spend 18
hours a day foraging for

insects, turning over soil
and gardening the forests.

The echidna is named
after the Greek goddess

Echidna, who was half
woman and half reptile.

Its closest relative,
the world's only other

monotreme, also has a
curious blend of characteristics.

With splayed limbs, on land,
the platypus shuffles like a lizard.

But in the water, she
glides like an otter.

Egg-laying and beaked like a
duck, she's the ultimate man-eater.

But the

combination works.

The platypus has remained unchanged
in Australia for 25 million years.

These elegant
underwater hunters are the

oldest lineage of mammals
alive on Earth today.

Living only here, on the
rivers of eastern Australia.

Later on the evolution of the world, the
platypus will be the only one to survive.

But in the same
surrounding grasslands and

forests of modern
Australia are the marsupials.

And the most familiar of them
all is the eastern grey kangaroo.

The weight of an adult
human, but head and shoulders

taller, this male is demonstrating
his potency to the mob.

A thick, sticky secretion from glands
on his chest, in a cocktail of fresh urine,

says, this is my patch.

Just in case anyone
doubts his authority.

He has a harem of
nine breeding females.

All with at least one, Joey.

Despite the male's posturing,
he's not the powerhouse

of this extraordinarily
successful species.

It's the female with
her magic pouch.

So while this ten-month-old Joey is
starting to explore the outside world,

another tiny baby is already
developing in the pouch.

It's only the size
of a jelly bean.

The older Joey is now being forced to
spend more hours outside the pouch.

To give his mum and
new sibling a break.

Like all young ones, he knows to
keep pestering until she gives in.

He's a little bit of a snob.

With only two Joey's on the go,
she's now ready to fall pregnant again.

A fact not lost on
the dominant male.

He will pursue her for days.

But rival males are
a constant threat.

Maintaining his status as top roo is so
taxing, that he may only keep the dominant

male crown for a year
before he is toppled.

Being a kangaroo is much
more complicated than it appears.

But the energy expended on
reproduction is working for them.

Exploiting the farmlands which have spread
across the continent, there are millions

of eastern grey kangaroos
in Australia today.

Large kangaroos are amongst the very
few native animals to benefit from land

clearing and the decline of
Australia's apex predators.

So many species are gone now.

The continent's top
carnivore, the Tasmanian

tiger, was hunted into
extinction by the 1930s.

And the grand hunter
from the skies, Australia's

own eagle, has come
perilously close to being lost.

This country's wedge-tailed
eagle is one of the world's largest.

For years it was
mercilessly shot, mistakenly

portrayed as a
prolific killer of lambs.

In the mid-1900s, there was a bounty
on its head, with up to 30,000 eagles.

The eagles killed in a single year,
their great bodies strung up on fences.

Eagles are now protected,
and most farmers accept

that they are no
threat to their livestock.

Now affectionately known as wedgies,
their calls again echo across the farmland.

Australia's biggest bird of prey
has a chance of a comeback,

thanks in part to another
mistake of European settlers.

Fluffy eagle fodder, brought here over
200 years ago, now in plague proportions.

The wedge-tail is a
stunning avian predator.

But such a large bird, her
movements are deft and light.

With a 2.5 metre wingspan, her
precision at speed is breathtaking.

She can soar up to 2,000
metres high, and carry

half her own body
weight in her huge talons.

But as she surveys the
landscape, those eagle eyes

pick up something curious,
and worth investigating.

An eastern long-necked tortoise.

Although the tortoise
has almost impenetrable

shell, he's not
taking his chances.

Time to retreat.

She's sure that rock was moving.

But it's not.

Baffling, really.

It's an old trick,
but a good one.

The eagle resumes her
search for an easier target.

This time, it's more familiar.

In some parts of the country, rabbits
make up 90% of the eagle's diet.

The tortoise... zero.

Yet again, the
tortoise bids their.

And eagles now are the farmer's friend,
helping to keep the rabbit population down.

Before rabbits were introduced to
Australia, and so much native bushland was

removed, it was the small native
animals which had the run of the land.

In the southwest of the country,
lie the dryandra woodlands.

This stand of wandu eucalyptus is one of
the last strongholds for a native mammal,

which once roamed
the entire continent.

As the sun hits the carpet of wildflowers,
and insects begin massing on the forest

floor, a small marsupial, a male
marsupial, is making its first move.

The numbat.

Closest living relative to the
extinct thylacine, or Tasmanian tiger,

is on a termite hunt.

It will take 20,000
termites to fill her belly.

Back in her den, are four
rapidly growing numbat

pups, which she has
fed through the night.

The young are eight
months old, and only just

getting curious about
life beyond the burrow.

One of them, the smallest
and boldest, is the leader.

She's begun to explore the tree
stump fortress, protecting the burrow exit.

Her siblings follow, trembling
as the air hits their fur.

Each day, our leader has
inched closer to the fortress walls.

From here, she gets her first
glimpse of the world beyond.

But with every sound of warning,
the pups retreat, more than advance.

They'll do well to be cautious.

Hundreds of thousands of numbats
once ranged across Australia.

Today, there are less of them than the
more famously endangered snow leopard,

or giant panda.

Just like the panda,
numbats are specialist feeders,

needing something that's
now in very short supply.

Undisturbed woodland,
with logs for termites.

This female can smell
a termite's gallery, and

even feels their tiny
vibrations beneath her feet.

Using her worm-like tongue, she
extracts them from tricky crevices.

Each day, she swallows
10% of her own body weight.

Her young are getting
braver and reveling in the sun.

The rounded snouts,
which have suited milk

feeding, are getting
more elongated by the day.

Within a month, they too
will be reliant on termites.

So the job of working out what is food
and what is not, is the lesson of the day.

Except for one of them.

Our little explorer is determined to
experience what lies beyond the wall.

While her siblings stay
cautiously close to the burrow.

She takes off.

She will keep wandering
further from the burrow, until one

day, she leaves her mother's
territory and finds her own.

Crossing paths with other young numbats,
also emerging from hollows in this forest.

Each one of them will need to venture and
breed in order to keep this species viable.

Over the past two centuries, almost all of
the numbat's habitat has been destroyed.

Apart from these last
stands, a whole new forest.

And less than one thousand tiny
numbats are left surviving in the wild.

Where Australia's ecosystems
are left intact, animals thrive.

It's as simple as that.

In far northern Queensland,
the rainforests of the wet

tropics appear as a thin
ribbon of green along the coast.

These rainforests have been around
longer than any other on the planet.

An estimated 180 million years.

Far outdating the Amazon.

Australia's most secretive and unique
creatures have made the forests their home.

And everyone here
is competing for spoils.

Even on the forest floor.

Thousands of species of fungi
battle to dominate the leaf litter.

Despite their myriad forms, the fungi are
all engaged in similar biological magic.

They break down wood and leaf litter
and return their nutrients to the soil.

While slime molds hunt down the
fungi and turn them into nutrients too.

Things live fast and die
young on this forest floor.

The

pioneers of recycling,
you might say.

Assuming every imaginable shape.

They feed the hungry
forest, turning it into

one of the Earth's
evolutionary hotspots.

For it was here, in the
cradle of the Gondwana

rainforests, that Australia's
mammals first emerged.

As the land became more arid,
many moved out to the grasslands.

But there is one kangaroo which
has never left its rainforest home.

A shy creature, rarely
seen on the forest floor.

That's because its
home is in the trees.

This young male tree kangaroo has evolved
for a life in the canopy, with large

strong arms, big curved
claws and a pendulous tail.

But even 20 meters up,
he's still clearly a kangaroo.

The

monkey of the kangaroo world,
just a little less sure-footed.

At almost two years old, he's only recently
left his mum to find his own territory.

Unlike his relatives at ground
level, he will live a solitary

life, only seeking out a
female when it's time to mate.

But he's having trouble
cutting the umbilical cord.

He can hear his mum in
one of her favorite trees,

and he crosses the
canopy roof to reach her.

But it's not a tender welcome.

His mother doesn't
want him near her.

They move to opposite
ends of the tree.

Her tough love
suddenly makes sense.

At eight months, the newest
joey has begun leaving

the pouch and exploring
her high-wire world.

Oh, she's wobbly enough.

A teenage sibling might
topple her altogether.

For her brother, being solitary
requires its own process of evolution.

At least up in this rainforest,
he's never really lonely.

Above and below him,
over half of Australia's bird

species are in a springtime
nest-building frenzy.

The sunbird uses bark and
seeds to build its hanging nest.

And the form-breasted
bowerbird makes final

artistic touches to its
elaborate construction.

Most cockatoos and
parrots rely on hollows.

It would seem an
easier option than DIY.

But relying on hollows has left
the parrot world out on a limb.

This female eclectus parrot has guarded her
hollow well before she was ready to lay.

Her green mate delivers food to
her so she can stay on sentry duty.

Hollows form slowly in old trees,
so there's never enough to go round.

Unlike so many in this
forest, this one is too

high to flood and it's
safe from predators.

It should be a textbook
in keeping with the nature.

But

the neighbours nobody wants are
looking to move into this leafy suburb.

It's the sulphur-crested
cockatoo.

Famously loud, assertive and ready to lay,
this pair want the hollow for themselves.

They begin a
game of intimidation.

Unlike the cockatoos, who
can breed three times a year, the

eclectus parrot is doing well
to raise one chick annually.

But as the day heats
up, temperatures

inside the nest hit over
30 degrees Celsius.

Her ovaries, her own body heat, is
raising temperatures even further.

Her eggs will cook in this oven.

With the coast clear
of sulphur-crested

cockatoos, she leaves
to let the nest cool down.

But they see an opportunity too.

If the cockatoos get inside,
they will smash the eggs.

The cockatoos get more confident
with every passing moment.

The female will fight to the
death to protect her eggs.

Her siren colour is enough
to ward off these intruders.

But colour is only one of the many
ways birds in this forest communicate.

It's only recently been
discovered that 24 million

years ago, birdsong
evolved in this forest.

It is the home of
nature's great vocalists.

It's also where one cockatoo
has developed a sound

so unique, it wasn't
thought possible for a bird.

The continent's
largest cockatoo.

The palm cockatoo, or palmy.

It's the most intelligent of Australians
and possibly the world's bird species.

Its brain is comparable in brain-to-body
ratio to that of a dolphin or great ape.

But it's also a parrot.

And like its relatives, the
palmy nests in tree hollows.

This proud pair have
secured a beautiful bough.

And for their entire lifespans, around
60 years, they will share the parenting.

They pass the baton with a kiss.

Before taking turns to forage.

These birds in this forest
have evolved together.

With one of the world's largest beaks,
they're amongst the few creatures able to

break into the hard fruits
of the native nonderplum.

As the female returns to the
nest, she offers a distinct knock.

To say, it's me.

But it is her mate who works
harder still to message his partner.

Communicating in a way no bird, indeed,
no other animal on earth has accomplished.

This male palmy has a talent long
thought exclusively a human skill.

He fashions a drumstick and very carefully
and very deliberately makes music.

Each male produces regular
beats to his own particular rhythm.

Why he does
this is still unclear.

Is it a show of strength
to ward off competitors?

Or a message to his partner
that she needs to look no further.

He and his nest are best.

A feature of Australia's tropical
rainforests is their stability.

But the monsoon region to the
west is volatile and unpredictable.

Here the land seesaws
between two extremes.

The floods of the
summer's wet season.

And the raging fires
which can take hold burning

for months through the
region's parched winters.

But it's these extremes
which have helped sculpt

some of the world's
most dramatic landscapes.

One of the largest
savannas on Earth

sweeping across one
quarter of the continent.

Intersected by
permanent tidal rivers.

The hunting ground
of the saltwater croc.

This male known to the
river guides as Casanova

has been top croc on
this river for decades.

With over 60 pointed teeth.

And while now in his
late 50s he might be

considered an old croc
he has learned a new trick.

Casanova has adapted to the presence
of humans in an unexpected way.

He associates the rumble of a boat
crammed with tourists with dinner.

Life jackets.

Yep, they're
situated just up there.

I'm not even going to
show you how to put one on.

Does anyone know why?

Yeah, crocodiles are
attracted to bright colours, OK?

And splashing.

So, um... And there's about
5,000 crocodiles in this river.

If you end up in the water you
won't have time to drown anyway.

Yeah?

So, number one,
avoid going in the water.

But, um, if we do, life
jackets are useless.

When not chasing the
female crocs Casanova puts

his natural abilities to
good use and thrills them.

And she kills the tourists.

A wave-like thrust created by hundreds
of muscles working in tandem propels

two-thirds of his body
clear from the surface.

Finishing the leap with a bite.

The strongest
downforce of any animal.

Although it looks unnatural crocs will
leap for animals on overhanging trees.

She's ready to go now.

Look at this.

No mucking around.

Here we go.

Here we go.

All right.

There we go.

Only here in Australia have
Casanova and his salty river

mates learnt to jump for
rewards offered up by humans.

To avoid a crocodile
attack's very easy.

You stay back six metres from the
water's edge and you never enter the water.

Those two simple things never
get attacked by a crocodile.

Although that is a very complex
thing to comprehend for some people.

On this river, human and reptile
have found a way to coexist.

Not that life is now easy for
the continent's apex predator.

He is relentlessly
hunted by the March Fly.

Not just here to hitchhike.

The fly seeks out divots
in the crocs' armour plating.

Weakness found.

It bores its drill-like proboscis
into the soft area of skin below.

A modified form of saliva prevents
the croc's blood from clotting.

And then the fly mops up the
blood with its fleshy mouthparts.

Filling to bursting point on
its victim's rich cold blood.

The delicate three-layered eyelid
is particularly susceptible to attack.

Nostrils are targeted too.

And from this perspective,
the menacing croc is

reduced to no more than
an involuntary blood donor.

Although he does have
one pest control strategy.

Australia's all-natural
fly repellent.

Not only a barrier to flies, but
also a salve to soothe irritated bites.

At least for a moment.

It's not fatal, but
it feels like torture.

And despite its ancient evolutionary line,
the croc still has a distinct design fault.

Legs so short that there's
an itch that can't be scratched.

While the croc is at war with its
flies, the rest of the creatures who call

Australia's northern
monsoon region home battle

the extreme viability
of variations in climate.

Birds migrate to cope with the
dramatic pulses of the wet and the dry.

Other creatures do
not have this luxury.

Unable to move with the seasons,
they must stay and face the elements.

On these flood plains in the far north of
Arnhem Land, a creature has evolved a

unique coping mechanism to
survive this seasonal change.

The children of Manangrida, whose
playground spans these northern flood

plains, have discovered an extraordinary
web of life beneath their feet.

In this one small area,
they've helped scientists identify

an astonishing new species
of tarantula, or didgeridoo.

This is the galloper.

Like most spiders, they
have eight eyes and eight legs.

But what sets these tarantulas
apart is their dashing red coat.

And fangs long enough
to dig deep into flesh.

The flood plain is
pockmarked by thousands of

spider burrows, a mega
cluster of ambush hunters.

The female will spend hours waiting
motionless for the perfect dinner guest.

She has laid silk out
around her burrow entrance.

It's a carpet of tripwires.

Once in the tarantula's vices,
like grip, there's no hope of escape.

She deals a final blow,
injecting it with toxic venom.

The grasshopper is paralyzed.

Her last catch for the dry
season, rumbles outside,

suggests her world is
about to be inundated.

The monsoon has arrived.

Thunder heads reach
over 12,000 meters high.

Electric charges
begin to spark fire.

A thunderstorm producing the
equivalent energy of an atomic bomb.

A flood makes its
way towards the plain.

For a creature that lives
underground, this can only spell danger.

But she is no
ordinary tarantula.

She won't flee her burrow
as the water table rises.

She has her own silvery
life support system.

Her hairy coat
traps air bubbles.

Keeping movement to a minimum,
she can survive on these tiny air pockets.

Like an astronaut in space,
she's created her own atmosphere.

Known only as the diving
tarantula, their discovery is so

recent, they are yet to be
officially named by science.

By the peak of the wet season, this
area will be under half a meter of water.

And with nowhere to go, it's assumed she'll
remain submerged for the next four months.

Scientists estimate there are 25,000
diving tarantulas on this flood plain.

The highest concentration of
tarantulas anywhere in the world.

Most certainly, this is no place for an
arachnophobe, or even a family holiday.

As the wet season departs the top
end, it leaves behind a vivid savanna,

plumped by the rain.

Now it will be the dry season's
turn to repaint the landscape.

But before the greens turn
brown, they will be dressed in black.

And the

storm will be 200 kilometers south of
Maningrida, the indigenous ranges of

central Arnhem Land are
setting the ground alight.

They burn now It is
time now to prevent

uncontrollable wildfires
later in the season.

The crisp grass ignites quickly.

The flames move on,
leaving the trees intact.

And as the smoke builds, the
rangers know to look skyward.

They will almost always
see a black kite overhead.

As the grass burns, a mass exodus
of creatures is forced to flee the heat.

So the black kite, precision instrument
that he is, can swoop on par-baked bugs.

But the kite doesn't
feast alone for long.

As the smoke builds, so do the
kites, arriving from kilometers around,

hundreds of them.

All are competing
now for the spoils.

Squabbles break
out, talons clash.

The traditional owners know
what this bird might do next.

For thousands of years,
dreaming stories have

been told of a bird
that makes its own fires.

The clever firebird, or garaki.

The only creature, other than humans,
known to harness fire for personal gain.

I don't like kites, but I do.

When I was a boy, I
dreamed I wanted one.

I wanted to go for a big one.

I

was always laughing,
but now I don't.

I don't know how to protect myself, I
don't know what I am doing right now.

I'm just a little boy.

We've all witnessed
building new fires to flush out

more insects, creating
new hunting opportunities.

And despite being the
world's most common raptor,

it is only Australia's
kites which do this.

The rangers are left to deal with extra
fires, while those guilty of fuelling the

flames fly free and are
very likely to re-offend.

For tens of thousands of years,
indigenous people have been telling the

stories of this ancient
land and its creatures.

And yet there is so
much about Australia's

wildlife that remains
unknown to the world beyond.

About the indigenous people.

The intelligence.

The resilience.

And the perseverance of these
unique and irreplaceable creatures.

Some are thriving.

While others are on the edge.

Australia may be an ancient
land whose creatures have

grown over millennia from
her rock and soil and flora.

But human change
is shifting everything.

What this means for the
future of Australia's animals is...