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Narrator: It is the most storied place in America--
California.
Still, its most amazing story has yet to be told--
a wealth of wildlife
that has adapted to every possible habitat.
Narrator: Human ingenuity made a Golden Gate.
Human need transformed wild spaces.
But Nature granted Planet California
its true gold...
the most biodiversity
in all the Americas...
all bound together
by vast rivers
on land
and sea and sky.
Rivers do not just run through California.
They are its very lifeblood,
and not just the ones you know about.
Other rivers--seldom seen--
also shape the Golden State.
There's the saltwater river in the sea,
the California Current...
traveled by wondrous creatures
and generating a climate that is the envy of the world.
And most surprising of all,
the river in the sky...
a flow of water vapor moving in from the coast,
carrying more water than the Amazon River.
It is the hidden juggernaut
of California's entire system.
Together, these waterways have nurtured a land of abundance,
for eons known only to the native peoples of the continent.
That began to change
less than a hundred years ago.
Many rivers on land no longer follow their ancient paths,
their water diverted to agriculture
and ever-growing cities, as California's population
ballooned to 40 million people.
Narrator: Fortunately, one river continued untamed--
the California Current--
a saltwater river in the sea.
It cools the coast
and generates vitality
where there would be a desert.
In the midst of the Pacific Ocean,
it runs the entire length
of the 1,800 miles of coastline
from Northern California
to the tip of Baja California.
We can't see it,
but animals can.
They sense it, taste it,
sniff it out,
and when they find it, they catch it like a train.
It is a river of nutrient-rich, cold water
that combines with upwellings
from the ocean floor.
The resulting plankton blooms
create a smorgasbord on the move.
Following the food,
gray whales,
hunted to near extinction
till just sixty years ago.
From their subarctic summer feeding grounds
to their mating grounds in Baja,
they cruise the California Current,
five thousand miles in all.
The California sea lion also catches the current
down from the north...
pursuing fellow travelers...
salmon.
Some exit the current to chase the fish
into the mouth of a freshwater river,
the Klamath,
a major salmon spawning ground.
In earlier times, millions of fish
made the run.
Now, their dwindling numbers spark confrontation.
These resident sea lions
guard their turf.
But as the concentration of predators grows
and the salmon decline,
the situation grows desperate for both.
A battle erupts over each precious fish.
To complicate matters more,
there's a new band of marauders in town...
Steller sea lions, coming from the far north.
Bigger and faster than the natives,
they dominate the beach.
The heavyweight champ, the Steller sea lion,
takes the meal.
A little harbor seal can't compete.
With competition so fierce,
it's a wonder any fish get through at all...
yet instinct drives the salmon to keep trying.
The harbor seal can hardly believe his good fortune--
all alone, with a trophy salmon.
It seems too good to be true...
'cause it is.
Gone are the days when this beach
provided fish for all.
When the pickings get too slim, the sea lions head back out
to the California Current.
Some lucky salmon slip through.
The legendary Klamath River stretches
more than 250 miles
from its headwaters in Oregon through the northern part
of California.
Traveling upstream, we follow
the arduous journey of the salmon.
For thousands of years, they returned to spawn and die,
seeking out protected streams and fast-flowing water.
All of the river's creatures are tied to the fate of the salmon.
The Yurok people have always known this.
Amy Cordalis has helped her people regain
thousands of acres of tribal lands.
For generations, they've fished the Klamath tributary
known as Blue Creek.
Cordalis: When the salmon are coming home
and headed up the river to their spawning grounds,
Blue Creek is one of the first places
that they rest, and they rebuild their strength
in order to head up the river to their spawning grounds.
One of my favorite memories is catching
one of my first fairly big fish.
Narrator: Without fish,
the Yurok nets and traditions are empty.
Cordalis: Salmon are at the heart of Yurok culture.
The salmon have supported the Yurok people
since the beginning of time, and because of that,
we have this deep, deep connection
to those fish.
So one of the things we're working on is bringing back
those salmon in ways that can continue to support
our fishing way of life.
Narrator: The next hurdle for the Yurok and the salmon--
four hydroelectric dams
barring the way to the spawning grounds.
Cordalis: We fight hard for river restoration.
We fight hard for salmon restoration.
Everything we do in some ways
revolves around the river.
Narrator: The decrease in flow makes the water
too shallow and warm.
What was once an epic journey
is now limited to just a few isolated sites
downstream of the dams.
Cordalis: When the dams are removed, we will restore
salmon access
to over 350 miles
of spawning habitat
in northern California and southern Oregon.
The salmon will finally go home again
after almost a hundred years.
Narrator: The salmon's long swim--
sometimes thousands of miles through the ocean
and then upstream against the river's current--
uses up every last ounce of energy,
draining even the fish's colors away.
Just south of Blue Creek,
in the cool shade of old-growth California Redwoods,
a few more small streams shelter little fish
from heat and predators.
Salmon parr imprint to their home stream
through its unique scent.
They will return here only once,
to die.
But out of the salmon's death
comes life,
for it fertilizes the trees
that protected its infancy.
Here be giants--
the redwoods,
the tallest trees on Earth.
Every year, more than 30 million tourists
visit California's redwood forests.
Because of their size, much of the life story
of the redwood remains a mystery.
It takes courage as well as curiosity
to unlock their secrets.
Only recently did scientists solve
a piece of the puzzle of their phenomenal height.
How do they manage to draw water
up 38 stories?
Turns out...they don't.
Instead, redwoods harvest moisture
from a flow of water vapor,
a river in the sky.
Throughout the year, a cold fog blowing east
from the California Current is pulled inland
by the hot interior,
covering the forest in a blanket of moisture.
The trees take as much as 40% of their liquids
directly out of the air.
The moist conditions foster yet another ecosystem
in the understory.
The fruiting body of a mycorrhizae fungus
is just the tip of the iceberg.
The little mushroom
and gigantic redwood are allies.
To find out about their extraordinary relationship,
we must go deeper.
Redwood roots can extend more than fifty feet
in any direction.
Locking roots with their neighbors,
they help hold each other up.
The fungus participates in this arrangement
by forming tips around the tree roots.
They pass along hard-to-reach soil nutrients,
as well as shielding the trees from disease.
In exchange, the tree supplies sugars to the fungus.
This cooperative system also acts
as a communications network, through which trees send alerts
to their neighbors about predators and other dangers.
Less than 5% of the Redwood Forest remains today.
Forests are critical to the existence
of another singular creature.
The California newt lives on land
much of the year, but she was born in water,
and to water she returns to breed.
Early summer brings her back to her natal stream,
where others have already left their eggs
hidden among the rocks.
Her extended belly shows she is bred
and will deposit her own eggs soon.
Three males hold an unmated female
in the center of their mating dance.
She passes by a ball of larvae
that will soon hatch.
She needs to place her eggs somewhere safe
from predators and rushing water.
The egg masses range from just a few to nearly 50,
and she lays up to six masses in a single day.
Survival is a numbers game.
Without a shell, little separates the developing larvae
from a hungry world.
Narrator: If conditions are right, the larvae will hatch
in as little as two weeks.
The eye of newt,
a notorious ingredient...
but it's her skin that belongs
in Shakespeare's witch's brew.
It contains a powerful neurotoxin,
hundreds of times more dangerous than cyanide.
Unlike the newt, the giant water bug doesn't abandon his brood.
He wears his eggs on his back
and tends them until they hatch.
The predatory water bug keeps an eye
on the developing juvenile newts.
His painful poison liquifies the innards of his victim,
which he then sucks out, avoiding its poisonous skin.
He poses no problem for the grown newt...
and the garter snake also knows better
than to tangle with this femme fatale.
As summer intensifies and ephemeral streams disappear,
back into the old-growth forest she goes.
The California newt thrives in two elements,
but there's one that all forest creatures,
and increasingly, all Californians, fear--
fire.
Triggered by lightning,
it has always been a part of the natural cycle.
But today, fire season lasts longer
and burns bigger,
with the vast majority of blazes started
by human folly or neglect.
In the last two years,
the six largest wildfires in California history
consumed over three million acres,
7,000 buildings,
24 human lives.
The prime suspect-- climate change,
with its intensified storms and prolonged droughts.
The Santa Ana winds, blowing from the interior,
also fan the flames,
drying out an already parched landscape.
As urbanites intrude on forests,
they move into danger's path.
Another devastating casualty...
the sequoia forest,
mountain conifers that are cousins to the redwood
and even larger in girth.
Ten percent of the mature giants--
many more than 2,000 years old--
perished in a single fire.
Nature's antidote has always been annual winter rains,
borne on California's most powerful river in the sky...
the Atmospheric River.
With land-based water sources drying up,
California increasingly relies on it
to put the fire out.
But shifting weather patterns have delayed the rains,
amplifying the danger.
500 miles south of the Redwoods,
the river in the sea-- the California Current--
continues to nurture a different sort of forest.
Stands of giant kelp mark the halfway point
for one of Earth's longest migrations.
A gray whale making her annual journey
has a calf in tow.
Whales sometimes use the kelp
to hide their babies from predators.
Sea otters make the forest their home year-round.
Resting on top of the floating canopy,
they forage shellfish and sea urchins
from the ocean floor.
The kelp is truly a lifeline for otters.
When sleeping, they even wrap themselves in it
so they won't float away.
On their strenuous journey to Baja,
the whales depend almost entirely on the fat
built up during the summer in their Arctic feeding grounds.
These are lean times,
contrasting sharply with the land of plenty
they now swim by--
Malibu.
How many casual beachgoers even notice
the 20,000 whales swimming just offshore?
Sometimes, they're hard to ignore.
Since 2019, a sudden die-off
of gray whales has mystified scientists.
Mother and calf push on through all hazards.
They still have another month
till they reach their destination.
The whales' passage heralds the arrival of early winter
and another long-awaited visitor...
the Atmospheric River...
the airborne current traveling from across the Pacific,
packed with warm, moist air.
Like jet fuel, it injects the fog
of the California Current with force and energy.
It pushes past the coastal areas
and ever eastward, flowing over the dry interior
until it meets the mountains.
There, it is corralled by jagged peaks
that reach 14,000 feet into the air.
As the warm, wet air mass meets the frigid mountain air,
the moisture is wrung out,
like a sponge being squeezed.
It falls as snow,
hundreds of inches annually in some places.
That snowpack stores the wealth of California,
upon which all the other riches depend.
In the heart of the Sierra Nevada Mountains
lies a region so breathtaking,
it inspired America's National Park system...
Yosemite.
Four million tourists make a pilgrimage annually
to see its wonders...
the granite faces that challenge
the world's greatest rock climbers
and dozens of waterfalls,
the gift of the Atmospheric River.
They feed California's priceless supply of surface water.
Much of this water will eventually end up
300 miles away, in Los Angeles,
with its eight million thirsty people.
Yosemite is encompassed by a wilderness
so vast and rugged, most of it
has been left to the wild things.
This is the kingdom
of the tenacious Sierra Nevada bighorn sheep.
Over hundreds of thousands of years,
it has adapted to the harshest of conditions,
allowing it to go where few animals can follow.
That includes scientists, who must be just as tough.
The sheep can range up to 60 miles,
much of it in craggy, inhospitable peaks.
They're a moving target that's hard to find.
To track them, Tom Stephenson and his team
use satellite and radio telemetry.
Stephenson: Sierra bighorn live
in this steep environment
because that's their primary defense against predators.
They have hooves that are unique
relative to the other hooved animals in that
their hooves are much softer. They're able to maintain
their grip in steep terrain, and so they live
up in this rugged environment
largely to avoid predators
so that if they feel threatened, they can run and escape
into that terrain.
Narrator: The snowpack is key to their survival, too,
for it fosters the forage and vegetation
that make this niche habitat possible.
Once, their sheer numbers made them
the symbol of the Sierras,
but, devastated by market hunting
and diseases from domestic sheep,
there are just 600 left.
Their unique adaptations may soon vanish
from the world,
especially if they fall prey
to one other tough, sure-footed animal.
Mountain lions are relentless in their pursuit.
Surprising their prey from behind,
they often take down animals larger than themselves
and can decimate a herd of bighorn in a single season.
This lioness goes to great lengths
to protect her hard-won prey,
dragging it hundreds of yards to hide it from scavengers.
To safeguard the few remaining bighorns,
sheep-killing lions have to be collared
and monitored for their own good.
One of a handful of people who have
the skill to follow lions in this vast terrain,
Jeff Davis has been tracking the big cats for decades.
Davis: Yeah, this is Blondie.
She, uh, she's got a really good mind.
She's good in bad country.
We get along good with mules.
We look for tracks and our dogs look for tracks,
and when they find them, they follow them, and we follow them.
Narrator: It's an exacting and perilous job.
But when he finds a track in soft soil,
Davis doesn't shy away.
Davis: I've never had an instance
with a mountain lion that I've ever felt threatened.
Normally, they're not as aggressive
or bold as a person would think.
Narrator: While the threat to sheep may be real,
lions themselves demand our sympathy.
Davis: Anybody that likes wildlife,
how can they not love lions?
Good gosh. They're so tough,
they travel so far, and if there's something to eat,
they will find it.
As long as we have sufficient habitat
and prey, there'll always be mountain lions in California.
Narrator: A mountain lion on the hunt
may cover hundreds of miles.
Its most common quarry is
the endemic California mule deer.
Tens of thousands roam the highlands and river valleys
of the central and southern part of the state.
When a predator is spotted, a mule deer
springs into the air to warn the herd.
Not all get the message.
She's brought down a huge buck
that could last a solo lion
a week...
but she is not alone.
With a family to provide for,
she hunts every few days.
Just a couple months old, this little one seems eager
to help, but it is, in fact, quite helpless.
The kittens take up to a year learning the skills
they'll need to make it on their own.
Sibling spats hone fighting chops
that will come in handy when they finally separate from Mom.
She spends nearly three-quarters of her life
either pregnant or raising
and protecting her young.
Davis: The threats to the kittens?
Obviously, the highway. Everything will kill 'em:
a coyote'll kill 'em, a bear'll kill 'em.
The closer she is to the kittens, the more secure
and the higher the likelihood
that they will survive.
Narrator: Hidden in their den by the river,
they're safe for now.
The deer mice are safe, too.
The inexperienced kitten
isn't quite sure what to do.
Still, it's only a matter of time
till they take their place as top predators.
Across the river,
in a quintessentially western landscape,
love is in the air.
Female sage grouse visit a breeding ground--
known as a lek--
to shop for a mate.
The girls are notoriously finicky.
At more than four pounds,
the male is substantial,
and his amorous display makes him even larger.
Swelling the twin air sacs on his chest
and swishing his feathers,
he's dressed to impress.
The males square off, defending their bit of turf.
The flashier fellow runs off the less-experienced bird,
hoping to catch the eye of the ladies.
His threatened species depends on it.
But populations can recover.
California's native Tule elk are proof.
Back from the brink of extinction, today's elk
are all descendants of a single breeding pair--
an Adam and Eve--
sheltered on one ranch.
Tom Stephenson and his California Fish
and Wildlife team would like to replicate that feat.
The urgency of the Sierra bighorn's decline
moves them to act.
Air Bighorn is a heavy and precious load.
For the last several years,
they've selected matrilineal family groups
from herds large enough to spare a few members.
They're relocated to new areas as seed stock.
Each moment counts,
and the crew works quickly to reduce the animals' stress.
The temporary discomfort is a small price for a chance
to restore the bighorn to its former range.
Stephenson: If we have them widely distributed,
then they're much more resilient to threats,
whether it's disease or climate change
or predation
that can heavily impact one herd.
Narrator: But first, the bighorn are thoroughly checked out.
All the measurements, data, and tracking devices
will help the scientists determine the success
of this ground-breaking experiment.
A sonogram reveals good news:
this ewe is pregnant.
Fifty years ago,
bighorn sheep could only be found
in two small regions of the Sierra Nevadas.
With the movement of this herd,
the number of ranges could expand to thirteen.
But only if the animals choose to adopt their new placement,
an hour away by truck.
The new location promises an ample snowpack,
supporting the vegetation the herd will need.
What will the sheep make of their brave new world?
Three hundred miles to the north,
another water story begins,
ironically, with fire.
Mt. Shasta is part of
the Pacific Rim's Ring of Fire,
last erupting in 1786.
Its lava tubes filter and refine rainfall,
snow, and glacier melt.
It also produces some of the purest water on Earth.
The ever-growing rivulets eventually fill pristine springs
while, below the surface,
lava tubes flow to distant aquifers.
Combined, they provide the drinking water
for about 20% of California's 40 million residents.
It offers respite for some beautiful visitors, too.
Every winter, more than a billion birds travel
the corridor known as the Pacific Flyway.
After a 3,000-mile journey,
enormous flocks of snow geese from the Arctic come to rest
in California's Central Valley, their winter home.
Their once vast marshes have been reduced to small refuges,
an attempt to divert the birds from farmers' fields.
Other migratory waterfowl arrive
to share the diminishing resources...
but the bulk of the water goes to one of
the richest agricultural regions in the world.
Today, farming soaks up nearly 40%
of California's fresh water.
A conflict looms between competing human stakeholders,
while wildlife has no voice.
With climate change spiraling, the crisis deepens.
Since 2010 alone,
there have been seven years of severe drought.
Once-productive lowland lakes become saline wastelands.
It's good for the brine flies, which gobble up algae
in the shallows and shores.
Other California landscapes demonstrate
what happens when the trend goes too far.
The apogee of high salinity is Mono Lake.
Long ago, trapped water dissolved the salt
in the rocks, creating the magical tufa towers.
They hold vigil over a deadly space.
Little survives here but algae and arsenic-eating bacteria.
Death Valley once held
a gigantic inland lake as well.
Its ghost is still limned
in rippling sands and vast salt fields.
Hundreds of feet below sea level,
the narrow valley circulates heat
like a convection oven.
The mercury can climb to 134 degrees Fahrenheit,
making Death Valley the hottest place on Earth.
A vision of a desiccated future?
But even here, life stubbornly holds on.
The Joshua tree perseveres through decades
of drought-like conditions, with adaptations
that harvest and store meager rainfall.
Water-loving palm trees are a clue
that this place holds a secret.
Underground rivers convey water from distant mountains.
They feed an aquifer so large,
it could fill two and a half million Olympic pools.
This is the miracle
that created Palm Springs--
an oasis in the desert.
Each of its famous golf courses
soaks up as much water in a day
as a family of four uses in a year--
an unsustainable luxury.
The arid lands extend hundreds of miles
to the south, all the way down
the Baja peninsula.
Off its southern tip,
the cold California Current
slows and dissipates
as it mixes with warm currents
flowing from the south.
The dynamic combination spawns stunning bays
and lagoons,
radiating with life on sand,
sea, and in the air.
Vast colonies of brown pelicans come here
for the bounty of the California Current.
A breeding pair builds a nest of grass and sticks
right on the rocky cliffs.
Unlike most birds that use their breasts
to warm their clutches, a pelican uses
its ample feet to make them cool.
Pelicans dive-bomb their prey,
stunning them with their bills.
Air sacs in their breasts cushion their fall
as they hit the water.
The pelican's famous pouch acts as a scoop.
Like a fishing net, it draws up water,
which drains out when they surface,
leaving only fish, to be swallowed whole.
Between the sand and waves, a glorious patch
of green--
mangroves.
And where there are mangroves,
the frigatebird is sure to follow.
Master fliers, they can soar up
to two and a half miles above the earth.
The male displays his red throat
to attract a mate.
They hatch but one chick,
and it is never left alone, lest the neighbors decide
to have it for a snack.
Soaring on wings that stretch seven feet tip to tip,
frigatebirds scour the river in the sea
for their youngsters' next meal.
Their sharp eyes spot prey from hundreds of feet below them.
They in turn are watched by sunbathing sea lions,
who know the birds will cue them when the game is afoot.
Things heat up with the arrival of the Ferrari of fishes--
the striped marlin.
Lightning-quick, these lovers of the bright blue water range
throughout the southern reaches of the California Current.
Together, they herd small schools
into an ever-growing, panicked mass.
When it gets excited, the marlin "lights up"
and changes color from silver
to electric blue.
Marlin turn black just before they eat.
When it is hunted by sharks, it wields its bill
like a spear and attacks the onrushing threat.
At last,
the great sojourner arrives
after a 5,000-mile trip.
The change of scene is radical.
Many gray whales have already given birth
in these warm waters.
Now, some begin their courtship.
For one of the very first times,
we witness two males engaging a female.
Using their pectoral fins
and massive heads, they encourage her
to roll over.
Only if she is receptive to their advances
will they manage to mate,
for the whales' embrace is belly to belly.
These rare images capture a moment of hope.
This magnificent species has beaten the odds,
coming back from oblivion's edge.
Even though we caused that disaster,
they seem pleased to make our acquaintance.
A gray whale urges her calf forward,
as if eager to bridge the gulf between species.
Wild places and human spaces
are bound together,
for water knows no boundaries.
Instead, it connects us all...
and connection is the key to coexistence.