All language subtitles for The Sagebrush Sea PBS Nature 2015 720p HDTV x264 AAC MVGroup EN Sub

It's called the Big Empty,

an immense,

high desert
that stretches across

eleven western states.

It's a sagebrush wilderness,

so vast,
it resembles an ocean.

It's a land of travelers

who find refuge in winter

and a rich green nursery
in spring.

But one creature relies on
the sage for everything --

for food, for shelter,
and a grand setting

for the performance
of a lifetime --

the greater sage-grouse.

Grouse seek clearings where
they compete for attention.

And they get it.

And suddenly,
from underground burrows

and rocky outcrops,

along the highways
of the constant wind,

the sage is
a sea of possibility,

an open range...

And wild
and anything but empty.

On an icy plateau,

a lone performer
takes the stage.

In a deep freeze
with 40 mile an hour winds,

he begins
his ancient display.

His plumage is designed
to dazzle.

Key to his success is to
stand out in this vast expanse.

His home is often called
the Big Empty,

but that couldn't be
farther from the truth.

Those who look closely

will discover a landscape
full of life.

On this stage,
the struggle for survival

has played out
for millions of years,

but change is on the horizon,

splintering what remains
of the wilderness,

forcing those
who call this home

to face an uncertain future.

In this rugged landscape,
life has found a way to thrive.

Winter is over,

but a final blizzard
forces itself onto

the first days of spring.

The locals here
are accustomed to extremes.

They've adapted to survive
where others cannot.

One in particular,

the greater sage-grouse,
is found no place else.

Despite the late snow,

the lone performer
begins his spring ritual.

Instinct tells him
it's time.

His story actually began
three years ago

with his father
on a nearby stage.

He's not alone.

Males from across the range
are arriving

to spar for female attention.

Their elaborate display

has only one purpose --

to pass on their genes
to the next generation --

but self-promotion
on an open stage is risky.

This is the heart of the West,

an ecosystem
that once stretched

500,000 square miles
across North America.

Today,
only half of that remains.

At altitudes above 3,000 feet,
it's considered high desert,

a place of scarce water.

60% of it comes from snow,

and most of that is carried
to outlying rivers.

As the days lengthen,
temperatures rise,

and a transformation
takes place.

The melt reveals a sea of sage.

Sage is the anchor
of the high desert.

Without it,
the land would be a dust bowl.

These twisted shrubs
can live 140 years.

Extending for hundreds of miles
in every direction,

they're the foundation
of this wilderness.

The wildlife here

has evolved with the sage
for over two million years.

With a new chick to feed,

the golden eagles constantly
look out for prey.

In open country,

these powerful raptors
can hunt almost anything,

allowing them
to raise families

across much of
the northern hemisphere.

Since the first European
settlers moved westward,

this land has been traversed

and cursed by travellers.

It's the place in between,
the Big Empty,

through which one must pass
to arrive somewhere else.

Only those who linger
will witness

the intricate balance
of this land.

The sagebrush steppe is
a geological masterpiece.

These basins
were shaped and lifted

by the same forces that built
the surrounding mountains.

Today,
ridges protrude like islands.

The rocks,
carved by eons of erosion,

provide a perfect
nesting perch.

It will be months
before the chick can fly.

For now, she watches
the world from up high.

On the flats below
lies the home of the grouse.

They've spent
the last eight months hiding.

But in early spring,
their genetic imperative

draws them to
these open stages.

Years of thaw
and evaporation

have left patches
of salty sediment.

The grouse use these clearings
as leks,

gathering sites for
their mating ritual.

Puffing their yellow air sacs,

they make a series
of popping sounds

to intimidate
the other males.

They used to display
in the hundreds.

Today,
they gather in the dozens.

Our male has been practicing
his display since February.

He's put on weight
over the winter.

Testosterone has
enlarged his neck pouch

for the breeding season.

He fills a balloon inside
with more than a gallon of air,

fans his tail,
and squeezes the air sac.

As other males approach,
the contest begins.

They only have a few weeks
before the females arrive

to establish their dominance
and a territory.

Pairs square off,

facing just past each other,

and then...

Fights are ferocious
and frequent.

Males battle
dozens of times a day.

Serious injuries are rare.

Mostly it's a battle
to exhaustion.

The chance to mate
only comes once a year,

and for grouse,
years are limited.

Most males won't live
more than four years.

They might well only get
two chances to breed,

if they survive.

They'll be back at daybreak.

Survival is pointless
without offspring.

Sage has sustained pronghorn

and mule deer
through the winter.

With the melt,

the deer head off to their
summer ranges in the mountains.

Pronghorn migrate
within the sage.

These antelope are the fastest
sprinters on the continent,

adapted to outrun
the American cheetah.

The cat is long extinct,
but the pronghorn still run.

They've been here
for millions of years,

unlike some newcomers.

We're actually late-comers
in terms of evolution,

and many of us
have failed to last

in this exposed environment.

The native wildlife
evolved with this landscape,

but their ancient
migratory paths

are now splintered.

Mule deer,
adapted for life

in the mountains,
can jump smaller fences.

Pronghorn evolved
on the open range

with few obstacles.

If there's no way under,
they must leap.

Eagles have few boundaries.

The parents are now
hunting for three.

Their eaglet will rely on them
for the next six months.

Roads turn
the mule deer migration

into a windfall for eagles.

When temperatures warm,
the high desert comes to life,

revealing the diversity
hidden through winter.

Hibernators surface
from below.

Prairie dog families
excavate new tunnels,

preparing for their pups.

A badger digs
her underground den

where she'll soon
give birth.

Short-horned lizards
emerge with the ants.

The timing is critical,

since ants are
their sole source of food.

And jackrabbits have shed
their winter white,

confirming that spring
has arrived.

The sage sea
is filling with new life,

and everyone is hungry.

Wind is a constant
in the high desert.

Facing steady speeds
of 20 miles an hour or more,

the sage hugs the ground.

Only the rocks have stood up
to the desert gales,

but over the eons,

even these have been
scoured and sculpted.

Each year,
migratory birds fly hundreds,

even thousands of miles
to raise their young here.

They synchronize their arrival
with the emergence of insects.

Some return to the exact
same spot year after year,

finding their small crevice
once again in this vast expanse.

For cavity-nesting birds,

rocks are the trees
of the desert.

Bluebirds use holes like these
in place of hollowed trunks.

Despite their brilliant blues,

females pick their mates mostly
for the quality of his shelter.

The tiny American kestrel
is the only falcon

in North America
that uses cavities.

With their ultraviolet vision,

they track rodents
by following their urine trails.

Rock wrens nest between stones
on the ground.

They're highly adapted to life
in the desert.

Like many other desert-dwellers,

they get all their water
from the insects they eat.

Once the sun
falls in the desert,

temperatures can drop
by 40 degrees,

and creatures of the day

give way to those of the
night.

At daybreak, our male is
already at the lek.

He's been here every day
for the past three weeks.

Weaker males
have dropped out,

leaving only those
with staying power.

He takes his place
on a small rise,

a spot he's fought hard
to secure.

A female steps onto the lek
and begins her inspection.

The males inflate,
tails spread,

but beyond displaying,
they're powerless.

It's the female
who holds the cards.

To a spectator,
males might all look alike,

but the females can
clearly distinguish.

Just what they're searching for
is not altogether clear.

Is choice based on
looks or sound,

stamina and strength?

Despite decades of study,
the jury's still out.

We do know
that successful males

display precisely
and repeatedly,

taking their cues
from the females.

They know not to be
too aggressive

and to mount only
when invited.

Surprisingly, most males
never get a chance to mate.

Nearly all the females select

only one or two males
on the lek each year.

In fact, 3/4 of females
often choose the very same male.

Clearly they see something

they want to pass on
to their offspring.

A female stands beside our male,
sizing him up.

She approves and gives
her solicitation display.

The best males can mate,

fight off competition,

then mate again
all in under a minute.

Scientists recently counted
a single male mating 37 times

with 37 females
in 37 minutes.

Once they've bred,

the hens have no further need
for the male.

They'll raise
their offspring alone.

Fanning out
across the landscape,

the females head away
from the lek.

Too many predators are drawn
to these open stages.

To find a safe spot
for her eggs,

a hen might travel
as far as ten miles.

It's easy to assume there's
plenty of open space for grouse,

but here in the desert,

resources are scarce
and far apart.

Grouse need to track down food,
water, and shelter,

which could be
30 miles in any direction.

This first-time mother has much
to consider as she searches.

She needs to build her nest

away from rocks or fences
where raptors can perch,

and she needs cover,
a place well-hidden by sage

and grass.

Grass also acts like a sponge,
holding water for

the smaller plants and insects
that her chicks will eat.

Here on the range,
grass is in high demand.

For millions of years,
bison fed on these grasses.

Today, livestock graze.

While bison roamed freely,
livestock is managed,

moved from
parcel to parcel.

If allowed to overgraze,

the grasses take years
to recover.

Settled on her nest,

the hen is nearly impossible
to spot.

She's built her nest
in a shallow depression

beneath the sage,
lining it with grass and leaves

and dozens of
her own feathers.

Now she and her eggs
must wait.

Unlike grouse,
ravens are adaptable,

nesting in
a variety of places.

They typically build
on rock ledges and in trees,

but they also take advantage
of manmade perches

like windmills
and storage tanks.

They can eat almost anything,
including human garbage.

Their ability to conform

gives them an edge
in this changing landscape.

Cliff swallows also build nests
in manmade structures,

but here they nest
in sandstone cliffs.

They've just arrived
from South America,

returning to the same spot
as last year.

They're hard at work
on their hanging village.

Males and females
work together,

mating during the process.

They swoop down to the river

and fill their mouths with mud,

then return to their nest.

With a quivering,
they add another brick.

A new home requires
over 1,400 trips to the mud.

Great-horned owls
share these cliffs.

Like golden eagles,
they breed in winter

because it takes months
to raise such large offspring.

Chicks need to learn how to fly
and hunt before the first snow.

They're the most widespread owl
in North America

since they nest
almost anywhere.

They also adjust their diet
to their surroundings.

Here they hunt the sage
for rabbits, prairie dogs,

and birds.

Ravens also feed their young
a wide variety of prey.

After discovering
another bird's nest,

the male delivers
a meal of eggs.

Down in the sage,

the scene reveals
the source of the feast.

Our hen has lost her clutch.

40% of grouse eggs are ravaged
before they even hatch.

There's nothing a hen
can do but move on.

She can wait for next year
or try for a second clutch.

On the lek,
males are still displaying.

They return every day,

hoping for females
who've lost their nests.

Our hen has returned,

but there's little time.

Her second clutch
will need to hatch

while there's still plenty
of food for her chicks.

She sifts through the males,
searching,

for the very same male
she chose before...

And finds him.

In a world where passing on
his genes means everything,

this male has succeeded.

The success of a male grouse
is not measured by his years,

but by his offspring.

Our hen is on the search again,

but this time,
there's even more urgency.

For second clutches,

nature makes up for lost time
by shortening the gestation.

She'll start laying
in just a few days.

She scans the landscape.

To the untrained eye,
it's an ocean of gray-green,

but to her,
there's nuance in the sage,

subtle distinctions in
the grasses between the brush.

The next generation
depends on her judgment.

She's found an area
with thicker cover.

She chooses a spot
and settles in for the wait.

If she's chosen well,

she'll hide here
for up to a month.

Unlike ravens and bluebirds,

grouse are tied to
unbroken expanses of sage.

Without it, the species
would cease to exist.

The sagebrush sparrow
would also disappear.

Each year they return here
to lay their eggs.

They breed nowhere else.

The sage thrasher

and brewer's sparrow
do the same.

Though their songs
are beautiful,

their feathers are drab,
to blend into this landscape.

Without the sage

and the nursery it provides,
these species would be lost.

Sagebrush is a nursery
for plants as well.

While it's toxic
for most animals to eat,

it's actually called
a nurse plant,

because its shade and roots
help other plants grow.

Sage survives in
this arid environment

through deep roots that reach
to the water below.

Like water,
most resources in the desert

are locked well beneath
its dry crust.

Coal, uranium, gas, oil.

We've drilled down
like deep roots

to tap these resources.

With our ever-increasing
demand for energy,

extraction has intensified
in the high desert.

As wells, pipelines,
and holding tanks proliferate,

the sage sea is becoming
more and more fragmented.

This one gas field was once

a migratory corridor
for pronghorn

and prime habitat
for sage grouse.

Many of the changes
we've made here

will remain long after
the resources are tapped out.

This is not an ecosystem
that regenerates quickly.

The hen has laid eight eggs,
a full clutch.

For the next month,
she'll rarely leave the nest.

Every few hours,

she carefully rolls her eggs
to even out the temperature.

It also prevents the chicks
from sticking to their shells.

[Thunder]

Throughout the summer,

electrical storms
roll across the desert,

often shedding
only drops of water.

The storms bring more bluster
and spark than rain.

Native plants have adapted
to these electrical storms.

But while sage
is fire-resistant,

highly flammable "cheatgrass"
has invaded the desert,

bringing a new threat.

Wildfires,
driven by fierce winds,

burn thousands of square miles
of sage each year.

After the storm,

neighboring thatching ants
repair their roof.

It's a happy fluke
when meals deliver themselves.

A burrowing owl stands sentry.

She and her mate
guard their nest,

a repurposed badger hole.

Here in the desert,

life takes advantage
of every opportunity.

Weighing only five ounces,

they're tiny for owls.

Great horned owls
are 15 times their size.

This couple has
nine chicks to raise.

They're excellent hunters,

specializing in
small rodents insects.

With this many mouths to feed,

the parents hunt
both day and night.

When fall sets in,
they'll fly as far as Mexico.

It's been 24 days.

At last, there's a sign
of life from below.

The first chick peers out
and snatches his first meal.

Less than an hour old,
he's already able to feed.

When the hen hears
a badger nearby,

she moves off to distract it,

revealing another five
newly hatched chicks.

They're at their most
vulnerable now,

still wet from the eggs.

It's been only two hours,

and all eight chicks
have hatched.

The moment they can walk,
they have to feed.

They can't digest sage yet,
so for the next few months,

they'll eat other plants
and insects.

For their safety,
as soon as they're dry,

the hen leads them
away from the nest

for good.

Ferruginous hawks stay
in their nest for six weeks.

Their parents harvest

a steady stream of prairie dogs
and ground squirrels

from the abundance around them.

Rodents are plentiful
and just the right size.

Now six weeks old,

the eaglet needs
much larger meals.

Cottontail and jackrabbits
are staples.

So are grouse.

[Calling]

Sensing danger above,
the hen gives a warning call.

Instinctively,
the chicks take cover.

She moves off,
away from the brood.

They'll stay put until
they hear from her again.

[Calling]

When the danger's past,

a contact call
brings the family back together.

For the next month,
they'll forage constantly.

In a couple of weeks,

their adult plumage
starts to come in.

Soon they'll blend in
with the grownups.

As long as they can find food,
they'll stay in the sage.

As the summer heat
dries the sage,

water is at its scarcest.

Seasonal plants,
with their deep roots,

have retreated back underground,

the insects are gone,
and the grouse are on the move.

They have to follow the green
in search of food and water.

Natural wetlands are scattered
across the high desert.

Like ribbons,

small streams
trickle from springs,

creating marshes.

Wetlands are a green magnet
for wildlife.

These oases host an entirely
different cast of characters

than the sagebrush.

These sandhill cranes
hatched at the very same time

as the grouse chicks.

While grouse
couple for only seconds,

these parents mate for life.

They might spend
as many as 20 years together,

migrating to and from Mexico.

This northern harrier has three
mates on three different nests

somewhere down in the reeds,
and each has chicks to feed.

He's been scanning
the sage for prey,

but now he has his eye
on the blackbirds.

Red-winged
and yellow-headed blackbirds

defend their territories
with a vengeance.

Their eggs lie hidden
in the grass below.

The steppe, now parched,

is a hostile place
for young grouse.

Over the last six weeks,

the hen has lost
three of her chicks.

They've traveled miles
from their nest.

What's left of the family
has joined up with other grouse

on their migration to water.

But it's not a pristine marsh
they're headed to.

Humans settled most of
the fertile areas long ago.

For more than a century,
we've battled sagebrush,

removing it so we could
harness the land.

Farms and ranches
have transformed

most of the wild wetlands.

But native wildlife
still need the moisture,

and many manage to coexist.

Grouse are safest
hidden in the sage.

On ranches and farms,
short grass means less cover.

But the grouse adjust,

when the human footprint
isn't too extreme.

These wetlands once supported
thousands of grouse.

Despite the alteration,
some still support hundreds.

Housing developments
are a different story.

They leave little for wildlife.

Parts of the high desert
have become some of

the fastest-growing areas
in the United States.

Wide-open habitat is quickly
being portioned off,

transforming the Big Empty.

Fall is fleeting
in the high desert.

The days shorten,
temperatures drop,

and creatures take their cue
to migrate.

The rock cavities,
recently full of life,

are now empty.

The songbirds have headed south
for the winter.

The eaglet has finally
left the nest.

She's still testing her wings.

The marshes have browned

and the grouse are headed back
to the safety of the sage.

The chicks are old enough now
to eat its leaves.

This will be their only food
for months to come.

As autumn settles on the range,

winter has already arrived
in the mountains.

The mule deer have been here
since spring.

It's here that they gave birth,
but food is scarce now.

They begin their descent,
leading their young.

Born in the mountains,
this is their first migration.

The adults will teach them
to navigate rivers

and fences.

They return just as
the first snow falls.

As harsh as winter is
on the plains,

it's milder here
than in the mountains.

Both mule deer and pronghorn

will feed on sage
through the winter.

This will be their refuge
for the next five months.

Half of the grouse
born this year

didn't make it
through the fall.

Three of our
hen's chicks survived.

While winter looks brutal,

it's a time of plenty
for the grouse.

They'll shelter in the sage

and grow stronger on their diet
of leaves and snow.

In this way,
the seasons pass,

just as they have for hundreds
of thousands of generations.

It's been two years,

and one of the chicks
has taken his father's place.

He's a strong male,

already defending a territory
for his spring display.

In the short time since
his father dominated his lek,

the horizon has changed.

A drill rig has sprouted
in the distance.

Only two years ago,
it wasn't here.

The howl of the wind

now mingles with
the hum of machinery.

200 years ago,

there were as many
as 16 million sage grouse.

Today, there may be fewer
than 200,000.

This land, which might at first
appear empty,

is far from just a place
in between.

It's 140-year-old sage brush

and a constant wind
that carries its scent.

It's the clatter of antlers

and the beating of wings
as migratory birds come and go.

It's a soaring raptor

and a rare performer
that takes a chance each year

on the open range,

an ancient stage where
evolution has slowly shaped

the lives of those
who live here.

It's a once-vast wilderness,
no longer untouched,

with a future as uncertain

as the survival
of an uncommon bird.

To learn more about what you've
seen on this "Nature" program,

visit pbs.org.