Killer whales hunting in Olympic National Park | Full Documentary

Beyond its raw energy, Olympic National Park wows you with something only it can boast. Three enormous parks in one. Remote Pacific coastline, dense rainforest, and rugged mountain wilderness. But few witness the beat of this park's wild heart when drama unfolds in sea or sky. It's a place where giants roam, primal instincts spur grueling journeys, and stars shine in unexpected places, while killers lurk in the deep. Discover life behind the scenes in this unique adventure inside Olympic National Park. Beyond the breaking surf, the coastline of Olympic National Park may look calm, but just offshore, trouble is brewing. It's a pod of killer whales. To survive in these frigid waters, an adult can burn 200,000 calories a day, which means orcas always need to hunt. With their keen senses, they know what's going on for miles around them, and they've set their sights on a nearby colony of stellar sea lions. Sea lions are safe while lounging on the rocks where they breed and raise their young. But in the water, they have to watch their backs. Their energy-rich blubber makes them desired prey. Too late, they sense the danger. Out swimming the whales is impossible. Being faster than a fellow sea lion is the only ticket to survival. But this gang of orcas rolls fast and furious. The largest warm-blooded apex predators in the oceans, they have no intention of going hungry. The whales are masters of the sneak attack before charging in for the kill. They thrash their victim senseless or toss him in the air until he weakens. A half-ton sea lion is no match for a 10-ton killer whale, but a nasty hit like this still takes teamwork. Drowning puts an end to the misery. Sea lions are always at risk for whale and shark attacks, but they too hunt their share of smaller prey along the park's 73 miles of pristine coastline. The thing about orcas is that they never hold back. Forget the carnage, a successful hunt appears to be a reason for a victory celebration. But these are transient orcas. Like teamsters on long-haul ocean runs, they've got to hit the road. They'll continue to troll the coast from Alaska to Southern California in search of the next meal. Water is Olympic National Park's lifeline. It's a home, a freeway, and a 24-hour diner for the creatures that thrive in its three diverse environments. From ocean to rainforest to mountaintop, the park's isolation by the sea keeps it wild and untraveled. Unless you're heading inland on a seasonal passport, already during the winter, the first coho or silver salmon hurtle their way upstream to spawning grounds, deep in the park's old-growth rainforests. It's a punishing journey, and it's taken the salmon a couple of years to grow strong enough to leap many feet into the air, like true Olympic athletes. But the drive to reproduce is a powerful motivator. Some obstacles are deadlier than others, like a female black bear doing some evening fishing when her fur is less visible to the sharp-eyed salmon. She has to be patient and strike quickly. A successful catch means this mother can share a rich, high-calorie meal with her two hungry cubs, instead of foraging for plants or insects. Right now, food is everywhere. But the season's first salmon runs provide the best source of Fattening up now will help everyone get through next winter's hibernation. And with the family now well-sated, some lucky coho can speed on through, guided the final miles to their native streams by their sense of smell. For the salmon that make it home, life isn't getting any easier. They've got to sneak by some unwelcome and probably ravenous company. It's a family of North American river otters caught up in daily rituals. They groom their thick, waterproof fur to keep them insulated in cold water. They take time to play, rest, or daydream on the riverbank. The coho may just get by unscathed. After racing for miles, he crosses the finish line. Now he's ready to mate, if he can fend off a rival. With hook noses and flashy red flanks, these males bite and display to show they've got swagger. While the plain-looking dwarf male rockets up from the far side of the stream, where he's been spying, and stations himself behind the female. These small males mature faster than the hook noses and may be genetically superior mates. It's going to be brain versus brawn. It's no contest. The dominant male wastes no time muscling him out of the picture. The female builds a nest, or red in the gravel, that will protect her eggs. She's waiting for a victor to emerge and make his move. A little stroking to get her in the mood, a courtship dance, and after the final touches to her nest, she signals with her anal fin that she's ready to lay her eggs. The male hovers nearby to fertilize her hundreds of pea-sized eggs before his rival can. These shallow streams, where salmon life begins and ends, will serve as a nursery for the spawn over the months it will take the eggs to hatch. Meanwhile, the river otters are aware that something's fishy here. Chances are it's mealtime. Otters are expert swimmers, gliding through water with webbed feet and powerful tails. And fish are a favorite food. But the coho haven't swum this far to become someone's dinner. Too slow to outrun a hunter, this 10-pound salmon will make a feast for the otter and his entire family. Otters have a high metabolism, so they have to eat almost a fifth of their weight every day to generate proper body heat. As long as there's enough food, they're at home in almost any water environment. When it's time to relax, otters aren't beyond busting a few quirky moves. The scent marking isn't a way of claiming territory, as it is for many carnivores. It's just their way of telling others they're in the hood. But look to the sky, and Mount Olympus makes it clear this isn't just any old walk in the woods. The park is more than four times the size of New York City. Nearly 600 square miles of old-growth trees soak up more than 12 feet of rainfall each year. Plants and wildlife found nowhere else on Earth have made Olympic such an exceptional park that UNESCO designated it as a World Heritage Site. This is also the home of the world's largest unmanaged herds of Roosevelt elk. They're named after Teddy Roosevelt, the president who set aside this area as a national monument in 1909 to save the declining herds. Now they protect the rainforest by browsing on undergrowth, making room for new plants and animals. But this half-ton bull isn't someone you want to butt heads with. Sixty different species of mammals live in forests they help maintain. Even the smallest do their part. When a squirrel eats a fur cone, it scatters seeds. It's one way new generations of Douglas fir or Sitka spruce get their start. The cycles of new and old growth keep this forest healthy. So do Olympics' vast networks of fresh water. And its protected status keeps it safe from commercial clear-cutting, the timber harvesting that wiped out much of the old-growth forest beyond the park. Back on the coast, it's nesting season for America's national symbol, the bald eagle. And for this new father, life has suddenly gotten busy. Adult eagles don't have to eat every day, but their young do. Protected by his mother and well-fed, the eaglet can gain more than a pound every four days. The chick is only a few days old, doing what all babies do best, eat and eliminate. Being a good provider takes a sharp eye to spot the prey and the skills of a fighter pilot to snare it. Today, that may mean a showdown with a rival hunter. A true opportunist, the eagle takes advantage of a raft of sea lions stirring up supper. It's herring season on the Olympic Peninsula, a free-for-all for anyone who swims or flies. A scavenger like a bald eagle probably won't attack live sea lions, but he won't hesitate to steal their food if he can. The sea lions team up for an assault. While the fish do their best to leap out of harm's way, it's time for the eagle to seize the moment. A quick swipe of the talons, he collects his catch. A lucky break because it's been estimated that eagles snare prey only once every 18 tries. Guarded with tented wings, the snack will have to pacify the greedy chick for now. Harsh winds and strong Pacific currents constantly shape the Olympic National Park's dramatic landscape, creating spectacular formations like Point of the Arches. This 73-mile-long stretch of wilderness is one of the longest undeveloped coastlines in the lower 48. Most visitors experience only a fraction of the park's secret life because so much of the action happens underwater. Ochre sea stars lie low in the tidal pools. They're a key species here because they keep the mussel population in check and that keeps rocky real estate available for anemones and other small sea animals. But beauties can have a beastly side. This sunflower sea star has a three-foot-wide arm span and a taste for sea urchin. This one is hunting. It has 15,000 tube feet with suction for grasping victims. If need be, it can shoot its stomach outside its mouth to digest larger prey whole. Just offshore, the shallow coastal waters are also a refuge for marine mammals such as the sea lions that hang out on the rocks or hunt beneath the sea here in their own enchanted forest. The kelp beds are several stories deep. There are seals and the animal you might call the keeper of the kelp beds, the sea otter. They prey on clams, abalone, and sea urchins. Without them, small undersea life would overgraze, destroying the kelp forests that feed and protect marine mammals. It's rare to see a mother and pup with a male escort. Males are often a threat to the pair and might even keep the pup hostage until the female surrenders her food. For many years, being an otter was risky business. They have the densest fur of any mammal. By the early 1900s, they'd been hunted to extinction here on the Olympic coast and only a few thousand existed worldwide. Sea otters were reintroduced to the region in 1969. They're still endangered but rebounding thanks to recovery efforts. Today, nearly a thousand otters are getting by here with a little help from their friends. Gray whales were also hit hard by overharvesting, but now they're back in force. As the seasons change, they lead their calves north from Mexico to feeding grounds in the Bering Sea. The calves are only three months old and already marathon swimmers in one of the world's longest known mammal migrations. It's more than 10,000 miles to their destination, a perilous trip even for the adults. Because there are killers on the loose. Transient orcas, the only enemy smart and strong enough to turn a gray whale's journey into a nightmare. And they're closing in on the pond. Off the coast of the park, a pack of transient orcas hunting together can overpower even the largest animal on earth, the blue whale. But they also go after the grays with a vengeance. If they can, gray whales will escape to extremely shallow water beyond the breakers. They're in their comfort zone here where the orcas can't drown them. The killer whales might trap him here, but hiding was probably a good move on the part of this male. But the transients are already homing in on another target. Orcas stock their prey to exhaustion in high speed, long distance chases. They can easily wear out an adult gray whale, much less a young calf. As they close in, the mother thrusts her powerful tail at the orcas, trying in vain to drive them away. Can a lone female really outmaneuver this group of thugs? Wrapping a protective fin around her calf, she tries one last time to shield him. But the orcas ran his flanks. Using their weight, they force him deeper and hold him till he drowns. The calf didn't stand a chance. Tired and demoralized, the mother gray fought hard. Now saving herself is the only option. Far from this battleground and beyond the rainforest, spring has finally reached the park's upper reaches, the Olympic Mountains. Alpine meadows are snow free and ready for new life. Unlike any of the biospheres below, this third park within a park is all unforgiving edge. And its overlord is Mount Olympus. At a mile and a half high, it's the tallest peak in the park's glacier studded range, which is protected wilderness. It's a panorama most visitors see only from the heights of Hurricane Ridge, but far from prying eyes. Drama is brewing. The warm weather has awoken Olympic marmots, ravenous after months of hibernation. It's not too early to pack on the pounds that will get them through the next winter. These rodents may be the most extroverted mammals in the park. Adults are about the size of house cats. These little guys are world famous. Olympic marmots evolved in this park and live nowhere else. But they're not immune to predators. And nothing can ruin their day. Like a young bald eagle on a hunt. Like good eagle scouts, marmots do prepare for eagles. Guard duty is serious business. This piercing whistle sends an urgent message to the colony. Run for cover now. One youngster is oblivious to the danger. Despite the repeated alarms, it's a mistake that could cost him his life. The hunting eagle is hot on the marmot's heels, but he lucks out and makes a narrow escape. Timing is everything. Today, it's marmots one, eagle zero here in the Alpine meadow. Let no one underestimate the survival skills of the little guys. A bird's eye view of the Olympic mountain range shows the upside to nature's upheaval. The peninsula was shaped by the collision of tectonic plates, then by massive glaciers, all creating the dramatic features that makes this one of America's most geographically diverse parks. Here too, water contributes to the park's visual magic. But at these elevations, it's frozen in hundreds of stunning glaciers, many of them active. In July, the Alpine meadows come into full bloom. Even the black-tailed deer from the forest hike up for a meal with a view, vexing the year-round residents. For this very brief season, life at altitude is lush, not so in a few more weeks. Marmots are among the few that brave the harsh early winters here. Some have already doubled their weight and will soon disappear down their burrows. But winter's icy breath has a lighter touch in the lower reaches of the park. Down here on the west side, the misty hills are a sign that summer is still in full swing. Rainfall drenches these temperate forests, making Olympic one of the wettest spots in the U.S. Native Americans hunted and fished here thousands of years before European explorers arrived. And water, and the life that thrives around it, are still honored in tribal culture. One legend holds that when humankind was placed on Earth, water volunteered itself as a gift to help us survive. At low tide, someone is looking for a quick snack. Usually that means plants, but black bears are omnivores, good at sniffing out a meal almost anywhere. They're not picky, huckleberries in season, insects, young tree bark and salmon once they return in the fall. On today's menu, fresh crabs. Handling them takes some practice, but once you get the hang of it, you're in for some gourmet dining. The shells are a rich source of calcium for the old bear. And that's doubly true for these growing cubs. They're on their first crabbing expedition with mom further up the coast. Like any good mother, she places a high priority on their education. They'll need skill and instinct to survive once they're on their own more than a year from now. So it's time to watch and learn from the best. But sometimes dipping your paws into something new, especially something that can pinch back, takes a little nudging. First try, no luck. His boulder sibling is a quick study and savors the taste of success. But maybe there'll be leftovers. This mother may be a strict taskmaster, but she'll never let her cubs go hungry or stray into harm's way. Suddenly, she's on high alert. And for good reason. An adult male is a serious threat to bear cubs. These cubs may belong to a rival and he might kill and even eat them. Time to make a safe getaway. But a mouthwatering feast distracts the hungry male. Harbor seals trying not to lose their cool. So far offshore, there's no way he can get to them. But these roving gangsters are always out for fast food and they can. Trying to outrun a killer whale isn't a smart strategy for seals. Going into hiding in the dense kelp forests is. Transient orcas are great at terrorizing the neighborhood. The web of tangled kelp may conceal the seal from the sharp sonar vision of the whales. He's safe for now, but puzzled by a new trespasser. It's a research ROV dropping into a deep water canyon just north of the park in the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The ocean floor is an alien world full of creatures that go bump in the night. Like this plain fin midshipman. But the only way to explore the abyss is by submarine. This ratfish or chimera is out hunting for food like he's been doing for millions of years. While the plain fin midshipman digs in to avoid looking like a meal. He attracts his own prey with his luminous spots. The ratfish doesn't give him the time of day. He may be looking for shellfish, some crabs or shrimp. But the plain fin midshipman isn't taking any chances. Some call the ratfish a ghost shark for his otherworldly glow and enormous spooky eyes. His ancestors were around long before the dinosaurs. But can still strike like lightning when an unsuspecting victim comes his way. He must be doing something right. He hasn't changed his look or his ways in 150 million years. There are bright spots in this sea of darkness. But it's a place where terror can strike anyone, anytime. In the form of 12 foot monsters with massive jaws such as the spiny dogfish. Or the six gill sharks that keep everyone on edge. The sharks birth and raise their young here in the canyon. Then head for deeper waters beyond the coast. And the search for ocean life is left to science's roving eye. Up above and beyond the park's borders, the Pacific shows who's really at the helm. Near Cape Flattery and Tattoosh Island. Here at Washington's northwestern edge, the seas are always angry. But it's a surfer's paradise to this colony of common murre. They're seabirds that come ashore mainly to breed. It doesn't take them long to turn the sheer cliffs below the lighthouse into daycare for thousands of hatching eggs. Common murres are faithful, not only to their mates, but also to their breeding grounds, as long as the ocean remains rich and bountiful. Nature has engineered their pear-shaped eggs to stay put on these cliff sides, even in high winds. They can spin, but won't roll, and always return to perfect balance. Only minutes old, this chick is already famished. Herring and sand eels are there for the taking. But common murres have a laid-back approach to fishing, minus the shades and sunscreen. Sometimes you just have to let the banquet come to you. A shoal of sand eels may be worth the effort if you're a hungry seabird. But it's best not to startle the prey, because when sand eels panic, no one can match their disappearing act. And the common murres are left to scramble for another snack. But as long as the hatchlings get enough to eat, it's all good for the adults. High on the bluff, our baby eagle is now almost seven weeks old, and still needs constant care. In two months, he'll be ready to leave the nest for good. Until then, between making home improvements and keeping him fed, both parents have full-time jobs. This historic lighthouse stands at the tip of Tatush Island. It's isolation a magnet for nesting birds like the eagle. But live and let live is not how eagles see things. So even their feathered neighbors are potential prey. Neither parent nor chick realizes they're under attack. And by the time they do, it may be too late. Hungry eagles will always go for the expedient kill. It's nothing personal. But with no place to hide, that makes murres the perfect marks. In no time, it's total mayhem. The eagles are out to prove who's at the top of the food chain. Without a doubt, there are going to be casualties. Especially among the most vulnerable. The invaders show no mercy. They raid the colony with razor-sharp beaks and talons and make off with the doomed. Almost powerless to defend themselves, the murres can only mourn their losses. Against all odds, this little chick escaped harm and learned his first lesson in survival. Eagle chicks face different challenges. They grow at a faster rate than any other North American bird and need a lot of food. And constant parental supervision. Even so, only half will make it through their first year. It takes five years for the fledgling chick to become a sexually mature adult. That's when he'll develop his distinctive white head and tail feathers and his magnificent plumage. No one said the path to national celebrity would be easy. In early October, the first major storms signal that autumn is here. It's the season when the peninsula's normally turbulent seas pound the Olympic coastline with extra fury. But even in such brutal conditions, nature adapts and there's a method to her madness. In the storm's wake, the Strait of Juan de Fuca enjoys a little calm and a gift sent in on the tide for the area's resident orcas, salmon. So today they're going fishing. Unlike the transient orcas, residents don't hunt or eat marine mammals, just fish. They're following the autumn migration of Chinook or King Salmon to freshwater spotting grounds. The leader of this pod is a matriarch thought to be more than a hundred years old. The salmon are heading for the park's coastal rivers. That is, if they can end run a pod of whales with huge appetites and a system. The orcas work together using hunting techniques passed down over generations. They coordinate the attack with high pitched vocalizations and stun the fish with tail flukes before pouncing on their movable feast. It's a good day to be a resident and like their transient cousins, they too seem to celebrate their success. But each group's specialized feeding habits may be the reason that they don't clash over prey. Thanks to sheer numbers, many King Salmon do make it to their native estuaries to spawn. After years at sea, some weigh up to 50 pounds. They're the largest of Olympics five species, all with different migration patterns. The salmon make their last stand here, moving further upstream, laying and fertilizing eggs at intervals. The longer they spend in fresh water, the weaker they get. Most die soon after spawning and become food for animals downstream. Others like the American Dipper make good use of the salmon migrations, diving to steal their eggs and larvae. Each female Chinook lays about 5,000 eggs, timing her deposits to give her young the best chance at survival. But many of these tiny salmon fry will never mature and make it out to sea. Their huge nests are easy to find and would lead any hungry bird into temptation. But for all the casualties across this vast park, there are far more success stories playing out in isolated currents and cascades from sea to summit. Dramas hidden from all but the most adventurous eyes. Every autumn, the Roosevelt elk climb up to the mountains. It's mating season, and this rugged terrain is the perfect setting for seduction. This bull may look macho with his massive antlers, but will his love songs win him any hearts? Heads are turning, and hooves will follow. It's clear he knows how to impress. But a black bear could cramp his style. Best to rally the harem and head for the hills. He could care less. His only plan is to eat his fill of high-energy power food, ripe and juicy berries. With months of hibernation looming, who wouldn't take the time for a little more binging? All too soon, winter is here. Pacific winds surge through the mountains, dropping temperatures below freezing. Life at the top has closed its doors for the season, and the stragglers know it's time to leave the mountains to their brooding. Others will seek the less hostile climate of distant shorelines, and winter will cast a wide veil, keeping the secrets of these three parks within a park under wraps for now. The wildest may yet to be revealed. That's the strength and the timeless allure of Olympic National Park.