Original subtitles

Humans have walked across Australia for at least 60,000 years.

By traditional law, indigenous Australians tread lightly on its surface.

The world's longest continuing culture has

left only very subtle marks on the landscape.

It is new waves of migration in the last two centuries that have introduced radical

transformation and a very different future for wildlife.

For some, it's been a boom time.

Surprisingly, people and their chaos can offer opportunities.

In cities such as Melbourne, close to 5 million people go about their business.

As do tens of thousands of brush-tailed possums.

In Melbourne in particular, possum is a term of endearment.

As in, hello possum.

Living alongside humans has helped the possum population surge.

In the city, they live a very different life to their country cousins.

These greedy possums enjoy an all-you-can-eat smorgasbord.

Courtesy of Melbourne's tourists.

While food is abundant, the trees are not.

Indeed, the best trees are overflowing with possums.

With mobs of marsupials forced together, each night in

the park turns into one big, angry, raunchy street party.

And no one uses contraception.

This mother has enough food to breed continuously.

And will be raising young her entire life.

She may have twice as many offspring as bush-brushies.

But her fertility comes at a price.

At just six months, her eldest, Joey, needs to make space for younger siblings.

As a city dweller, he's forced out at a much younger age.

And with the park's few trees so heavily

defended, he can't find a safe place to rest.

Like many young possums born into this park, he

takes a huge risk in search of a place to call home.

He heads into the human chaos.

Most possums leaving their home range won't survive.

Only one in five young males will make it.

And that's when he finds his way off the roads.

It's the cats he has to watch out for.

More possums live in Melbourne's roofs than in its trees.

A shed roof offers him an opportunity.

It's the ultimate jackpot for a homeless possum.

A sanctuary with much less competition.

Plus, there's a friendly human face.

Most people don't want to share their world with possums.

Nature can be an inconvenience in this new landscape we're building.

And yet, apparently, a world that's good for plants and animals is also good for us.

Even a patch of suburban garden is enough for

Australia's native animals to make their magic.

In the undergrowth, peacock spiders sense their world through vibrations.

It's how they hunt, find mates and avoid predators.

But the pandemonium of humans makes sensing vibrations more complicated.

This male peacock spider has superb eyesight,

which helps him find what he's searching for.

A female peacock spider.

To convince her to mate, he relies on a series of

vibrations known scientifically as rumpelrumps.

Sensing his movement through her legs, she is looking for a suitor with soothing,

even vibrations.

Anything muddled or intermittent is unacceptable.

Oh, drat.

A lawnmower.

Fortunately, he has another trick, designed

to distract her from all else in the garden.

Gaze locked, the enchantment begins.

She sees his dance in ultraviolet splendour.

His choreography becomes increasingly vigorous and grandiose.

But he's not easily seduced.

A rival suitor muscles in to try his luck.

He strikes in less than a tenth of a second and

injects a lethal dose of venom in his brain.

The rival is now not a mate.

But a meal.

Undeterred, our suitor once more steps into the line of fire.

He must mesmerise...

or die.

At

touching distance, he gears up for a final flourish.

A mistake will cost him his life.

The pair will mate for around ten minutes.

While his front legs rotate her abdomen into position, he

gathers his sperm and passes it to her reproductive organs.

This rather picky female behaviour has led to

strong selection for increasingly complex courtship.

By having both vibration cues and visual cues to seduce her, peacock courtship can

succeed in the noisiest and busiest of gardens.

In backyards across Australia, different species

of peacock spiders are dancing in the undergrowth.

The more flexible creatures are about where and how

they live, the better they will do in our cities.

But flexibility only takes you so far.

Sometimes you simply have to change with your environment.

In central Brisbane, dotted between the freeways and

the skyscrapers, there are islands of green space.

In fact, Brisbane has more species of plants, animals

and insects than any other capital in Australia.

But it's the city's cold-blooded residents that are so famously abundant.

And here in the city, they're demonstrating evolution in overdrive.

Meet Brisbane's most successful natives.

The eastern water dragon.

For this young buck, the only world he's ever known is this inner-city park.

He's also learned to share it with plenty of non-dragons.

Circled by roads, this dragon can't safely leave.

He is marooned in a man-made ecosystem.

And it's very different to his natural habitat.

From its natural world, from the park's size

and its surfaces, to its prey and predators.

This dragon population is evolving to survive

in this new world, right before our eyes.

They have become metropolitan dragons.

Not just with a lifestyle change, but

genetically distinct from their wild cousins.

This male's ancestors were here long before the city developed around them.

But in many ways, this modern dragon generation has things easier.

Like staff who do the digging for you.

A bee-flavoured fun park.

And water features.

A fair replacement for his natural creek habitats.

With

abundant food too, and few natural predators,

the city's park populations have soared.

He lives amongst the highest density of water dragons on the planet.

Which means good communication is essential to social harmony.

Well, if you speak dragon, a raised arm, tail slap,

or a tilt of the head, all communicate pecking order.

With his chest turning a deep red, it's obvious he's now coming of age,

and needs to assert his dominance.

But it's hard to get ahead in a city of strong, attractive males.

The current ruler of this territory is intolerant of young upstarts.

The crowd watch on.

Care for the young.

Can he hold his own?

The females have seen it all before.

Now vanquished, he retreats to the back bench.

At least the gardeners are sympathetic.

Given the competition in this park, he may never mate.

The dragons have now grown twice the size of their wild relatives.

With males now reaching over a kilogram.

And without their usual trees to climb, limbs

are getting longer, and claws less defined.

Their behavior has altered too.

In the wild, water dragons are timid towards people.

But in Brisbane, they won't move for mere humans.

These dashing dragons are Australia's most surprising example of rapid evolution.

Driven almost entirely by the changing environment.

Change which shows no signs of slowing down in the 21st century.

Sydney is Australia's most popular city.

With 280 new human arrivals every day.

Most of them sun worshipers.

As night falls, the beach crowd thins.

The stage is set for the next shift of beachgoers.

The secretive red fox.

This fast-breeding feral predator was born in this Sydney beachside suburb.

And every night its sands are hers to enjoy.

Shared with the late night revelers.

It's a carefree life for this fox.

And her siblings.

They can play without fear as they are now Australia's most prevalent apex predator.

Both beautiful and devastating.

Imported from England in the mid-1800s for the sport of hunting.

They shoulder the blame for Australia's appalling record of mammal extinctions.

It's estimated there are now close to seven million foxes in Australia.

Around midnight, the foxes give up their play and head out for their nightly rounds.

Humans are generous with what they leave behind.

The female has a five-kilometre radius that she patrols.

From the beach to its neighbouring streets, visiting

all the spots she knows might yield rewards.

While most residents sleep, the town is hers.

Her hearing is so acute she can detect snoring three houses away.

She moves silently like a cat.

She will even steal from her canine cousins.

She returns to the beach for one happy reunion before the sun rises.

Their night is rubbed off.

And the beach belongs to humans again.

While most Australians have made their home by the water.

With 85% of the population within picnicking distance of the coast,

their larger human footprint extends well into the continent's interior.

In the remote deserts of Western Australia, mining industries have set up shop.

24 hours a day, seven days a week, machines dig in the water.

The search for gold.

To find just one ounce of gold, mountains of earth must be moved.

It's the hottest, harshest part of the country.

And human activity out here draws in curious creatures.

Creatures such as the dingo.

Amid the noise, and the machinery, live several distinct packs.

This alpha pair, and their offspring, lay a claim

to a shale heap which overlooks the mine site.

Here, in a man-made, mechanized oasis, they enjoy the luxuries of water and shade.

Both in very short supply on the plains beyond.

But luxury comes at a cost.

This mine is no off-lead dog park.

The adults head out to forage before the heat of the day becomes too intense,

leaving the youngsters behind.

They follow reliable tracks across the mine.

The offerings are meager, and they'll take what they can get.

Sometimes traveling up to 20 kilometers a day in search of food.

The isolation of this great desert has protected

these dingoes from breeding with domestic dogs.

The pack leader surveys the desert as his ancestors have done for thousands of years.

He's a father to some of the last, precious, purebred dingoes.

As the day heats up, the family members who have stayed

behind in the mine stick close to their waterhole.

Watched over by a patient older sibling.

This is the hottest part of the country, and

it may be months before rain falls again.

The wastewater from the mine creates an oasis for all desert creatures.

Providing new foraging opportunities for their family.

The young dingoes dine on worms and scraps.

No feast, perhaps, but vital protein in the desert.

Now it's time to explore.

Pack, expend energy, knowing that when they

overheat there's plenty of water to cool down again.

But one pup has got itself into trouble.

The thick plastic lining offers no grip.

He struggles.

And tires.

But at last, the older sibling seems to catch his eye.

Guiding him to an exit point.

Another lesson learnt.

It might be a bit dangerous living amongst humans and their machinery.

But generations of dingoes have made the mine their own.

And from the rubble, they emerge younger still.

The newest generation is sneaking out from their hidey hole.

Dingoes normally dig a den for their young, but here they have man-made structures.

Relatively safe from the trucks rumbling past day and night.

These pups are guarded by an older sister while their parents hunt.

But they're getting hungry.

Impatient for mum to return.

The desert day trippers are on their way back to the rest of the pack.

And their family members are on the lookout for them.

This reunion at the end of the day is an important part of pack life.

Reinforcing the family bonds.

These animals have learned to live among the infrastructure pounding around them.

And to use it to their advantage.

Dingoes should have a much better chance of survival here than on the arid plains.

It's no picture book, perhaps.

But for these dingoes, it's as comfortable

as life will get in this desert environment.

Most man-made structures do not benefit Australia's wildlife.

Instead, they add to the perils animals confront in these harsh landscapes.

Like the networks of supply lines ferrying the desert's offerings to cities and ports.

With little warning, storms sweep in from the sea, bringing flood rains to the Great

Northern Highway that crosses Western Australia.

Triggering magical events.

Like blooms of fish in the desert's heart.

Yellow-tailed grunters wait out the dry season in small, ever-decreasing pools.

With these flash floods comes an opportunity to

disperse further into the Great Sandy Desert.

If they can cross the road.

Nobody knows what motivates them to make this perilous journey.

Or where their destination lies.

It appears that they're using the bridging reins to expand their territory,

driven by instinct.

But exposed on the tarmac, the fish are helpless against an aerial attack.

Terns which have flown to this desert from as far

as Siberia are welcomed with fresh hors d'oeuvres.

Served on a tarmac platter.

They feast for hours as the offerings just keep on coming.

Only stopping for the trucks to power through.

Sluicing the grunters back to where they started.

What a chance for a little fish.

But every now and then a grunter defies the odds.

Joining

a slippery battalion who make it through.

This year, the grunters extend their frontier further into the desert.

Australia's wildlife has evolved to deal

with the country's erratic weather patterns.

But now the climate itself is changing.

More dramatically here than in any other part of the world.

The animals, are struggling to cope.

In the farmlands of northern New South Wales, summers are getting tougher.

Hot days more frequent.

Droughts longer.

The Liverpool plains boast some of the continent's most fertile soil.

Swathes have been cleared to make way for grazing animals and crops.

Around 90% of the native vegetation is gone.

In a gum tree which still stands proud, a marsupial

lays her body against the cool of the branch.

The tree's trunk is five degrees lower than the

air temperature and will keep her from overheating.

The koala relies on these eucalypts for all she needs to survive.

Its tough waxy leaves, toxic to most animals, provide her only source of food.

The eucalypt even hydrates the super specialist by

giving her no reason to leave the safety of this tree.

Or so it was thought.

Cattle farmer Rob Friend has lived on this land for the best part of 70 years.

Today, as he surveys his paddocks, he finds a

lifeless body at the base of a seemingly healthy tree.

In the last major heat wave, 25% of the region's koala population died.

As the climate changes and temperatures increase, it seems the chemical content of

eucalyptus leaves is changing too, losing its ability to hydrate these marsupials.

A shift too subtle for the human eye, but critical for the koala.

Rob can't bear to see them go and is motivated to try something on his own farm.

At least.

He fits a drinking trough to a tree on his property.

He positions an infrared camera set to trigger at the slightest movement.

The farmer will monitor his watering station to learn if his resident koalas

are needing more than their trees can now naturally supply.

But when the cameras spring into action, it's not koalas alone they capture.

Birds fight for space.

Swarms of bees threaten to drink the water dry.

After nightfall, nocturnal drinkers are no less varied.

Thirsty tree frogs come to bathe.

Then something completely unexpected.

First possums and then an exquisite family of sugar gliders appears.

The daintiest and most acrobatic of Australia's

gliders and nesting in nearby tree hollows.

And launching themselves fifty meters between eucalypt groves.

To land with pinpoint accuracy.

And then at last a koala.

You know,

Drinking deeply.

Quenching his thirst.

Something the eucalypt seems no longer able to do for him in times of drought.

Over the days, the camera captures koalas drinking time and time again.

Sometimes they sip for hours.

They are thirsty koalas.

On Rob's land, the koalas are now healthier.

They're even tiny signs of a renewal.

Rob is working with Sydney University to create meaningful data about his koalas.

But he can't shift the predictions facing their species.

In New South Wales, koalas are on track for extinction.

By 2050.

In just over 200 years since European colonisation,

40% of Australian forests have been cleared.

Despite all we know about the critical importance of old growth trees,

land clearing shows no sign of slowing.

Add to this the impact of climate change and Australia's

wildlife is facing a perfect storm of challenges.

Unable to adapt fast enough, we may face a future without them.

To turn the koala story around, we will require a national recovery plan.

One that recognises the value of a single, incomparable species.

But Australia is capable of such a thing.

In Victoria, people have done something very unusual.

Accommodating vulnerable animals at the expense of humans.

Phillip Island, South East Victoria.

Just a day trip from Melbourne and one of the city's most popular holiday spots.

The island's shores tumble into Bass Strait, where the aptly named Little

Penguin, the world's smallest, spends 80% of its time.

Despite being only 30 centimetres long, it

moves through the water like a tiny torpedo.

The penguins hit the shore, leaving their elegance behind them.

And yet, these tough little birds have, for thousands of

years, battled the rocks here to reach their breeding grounds.

It's only in the past hundred years that

their journey has been lit by more than stars.

Human development on the island has turned their

remote home into a baffling and dangerous puzzle.

The population looked set for extinction until a bold decision was made.

To make this a penguin housing estate at the cost of the human one.

Given a chance, little penguins are enthusiastic breeders.

This hill above Summerland Beach is where penguins have long dug their nests.

Females lay two eggs at least once a year.

Sometimes twice.

But only if fishing is good and penguins are protected while nesting.

Which is now the case, after pioneering conservation efforts have been put in

place to keep the little nesting birds safe from harm's way.

Over the past twenty-five years, human residents

have been moved out to make way for penguins.

One hundred and eighty holiday homes have been carted away.

With them go the cars.

The people.

The cats.

And the dogs.

Which took this colony to the edge of collapse.

Now the sound and the pungent aroma of penguin dominates the landscape once again.

The little penguin population on Phillip Island has

tripled since the 1980s, now at just over 32,000 birds.

But humans aren't quite out of the picture.

In fact, they are now being invited back as paying customers.

The tourist trade funds the conservation drive

with 700,000 carefully controlled visitors a year.

Humans might outnumber penguins, but the tables are turned.

Finally, people are here on nature's terms.

The little penguins on Phillip Island are a conservation success story.

An example of how species can be protected.

Across Australia, few places remain untouched.

Wildlife is feeling the impact of the modern, human-dominated world.

Animals must adapt to the new normal.

In the cities, wildlife must now navigate roads, cars and people.

Some are changing the course of their evolution.

And while some have taken advantage of change, too

many are disappearing to make way for human expansion.

Australia is among the seven nations responsible for more than half of the

world's biodiversity loss in the last few decades.

Which leaves us with a choice.

Carry on as we are until there's no turning back, or start designing a new future.

Which places animals and ecosystems in the picture.

We have the opportunity.

We have the land.

We have the resources.