Thousands of years ago
During that period
Of geologic time
Known as the ice age,
The entire top of our globe
Was covered by a vast glacier.
Its icy fingers reached deep
Into north america,
Across the seas into europe,
And down along the frozen
Plains of siberia.
In fact, 1/4 of
The northern hemisphere
Was imprisoned
In its iron grip.
This gigantic ice cap
Was 2 miles thick,
And its crushing weight
Flattened whole mountain ranges
And gouged out deep valleys
On the face of the land.
The ice age changed not only
The physical features
Of the earth,
But all life existing
In those times.
Every species had to adapt
Itself to the bitter cold
Or perish.
Many creatures, of course,
Did not survive,
And we know them today
Only from pictures
Drawn by prehistoric man
In the caves
Of southern europe.
In these galleries
Of ancient art,
We find some surprisingly
Graphic portraits.
For instance,
There's an extinct rhinoceros,
Equipped with long hair
To withstand the cold,
And a fur-bearing elephant
Known as the woolly mammoth.
There are mastodons
Insulated with a thick hide
Characteristic
Of all pachyderms
And huge, shaggy bisons
Covered with a protective coat
Of thick fur.
In spite of these adaptations,
However,
The harsh conditions proved
Too much,
And these creatures
Gradually died out,
Leaving only these pictorial
Legends to mark their passing.
The arctic has forever been
A legendary land,
And even today, there exist
Here living legends,
Creatures about which
Man knows so little,
They seem a blend
Of myth and mystery.
In this true-life adventure,
We shall find them continuing
Their ice age existence.
This is a story of life meeting
And conquering the bleakest
Environment on earth.
In the hidden, unmapped valleys
Of this white wilderness,
The vast glaciers still lie
At rest, seemingly immobile.
And yet, over the years,
They inch themselves along
Just as they did ages ago.
Time is eternity here
And has little meaning.
Yet, in march,
The month of the equinox,
The sun lifts
Above the southern horizon.
This touch of warmth,
Weak as it is,
Causes this land of snow
And ice to undergo a change.
The annual thaw begins feebly,
Droplet by droplet,
Gradually increasing
In power and scope.
In time,
The droplets become rivulets,
Soon, the rivulets
Become streams.
Then the streams turn
Into fair-sized torrents,
All rushing
Toward the valleys below,
All destined eventually
To empty into the arctic sea.
High on the mountaintops,
The thaw takes on
Spectacular proportions.
These thundering avalanches are
Rarely viewed by human eyes,
And yet,
Ever since ancient times,
They've been a part
Of this annual phenomenon.
Indeed, this is what the
Ice age must once have been --
Gigantic waterfalls
Of living snow
Pouring into the valleys below.
Around the full sweep
Of the arctic circle,
The ice-bound rivers,
Like the yukon in alaska,
The mackenzie in northern
Canada, the lena in siberia,
All begin to feel
The thrust and push
Of the upland drainage.
Tiny probing trickles of water
Undercut their solid surface.
The first telltale cracks
Appear,
Signs of the stresses
And strains going on below.
The crevices widen and travel.
Something must give.
Now the rivers carry
Grinding tools of their own,
Great boulders of ice
That weigh hundreds of tons.
In their tumbling journey
Downstream,
These become
The battering rams
With which the rivers
Attack the glaciers.
The rivers have won the battle.
Winter's grip, at last,
Is broken.
And just as
These currents quicken,
So does the pulsebeat
Of life itself.
Now all things living
In this white wilderness
Must prepare for a period
Of hectic activity.
The time ahead must be lived
At a desperate,
Almost double-quick tempo,
For this ice age scene
Will be released for only
The briefest of summers.
It's in the arctic sea
That the first signs
Of life appear --
Families of walrus
Eager to take advantage
Of the reopened channels.
Like schools of oversized fish,
They swim and dive
In the dark depths,
Traveling through the water
With amazing skill and speed.
When the early-day
Norse sailors
First saw this strange beast,
They called it the hvalross,
Or whale horse,
And it's remained a sort of
Sea monster ever since.
Actually as large as a horse,
The walrus is one of those
Warm-blooded mammals
Destined to spend its days
In the ocean.
But to survive in this element,
It has developed fins for feet,
A thick layer of blubber for
Insulation against the cold,
And enormous tusks
For gathering food.
These serve
As a sort of clam rake,
For the walrus lives
On shellfish,
Which he gathers
On the ocean bottom.
His diet includes clams,
Starfish, shrimp, and mollusks.
Indeed,
To keep a walrus contented,
It takes a seafood c*ck
The size of a washtub.
In spite of the fact
That he lives in the sea,
The walrus likes
The feel of sunshine.
After all, he is warm-blooded,
And so these bare islands
Become a favorite
Basking ground.
He much prefers a sun-warmed
Rock, no matter how crowded,
To the most spacious
Of icebergs.
Besides, icebergs are tricky.
They have a way of rolling
Right out from under a fellow.
Even though he's perfectly
At home in the water,
The walrus can't swim
Indefinitely.
And the youngsters,
Especially,
Must stay close
To a good landing place.
This matter of going
Into dry dock
Calls for a good sense
Of timing
And a split-second decision
As to which wave to ride.
For the beginner at 100 pounds,
It isn't especially difficult.
But for the adults
At 2,000 pounds,
It takes a bit of huffing
And puffing.
The walrus is
A thick-skinned creature.
In fact,
His hide may be anywhere
From 1/2 an inch
To 3 inches through.
And in lounging around
On sharp rocks,
This tough exterior provides
Welcome protection.
It's not a completely unmixed
Blessing, however.
Sometimes a fellow gets an itch
Among all those wrinkles,
And when this happens,
He's got problems.
On these lounging rocks,
Space is definitely limited,
So a little overcrowding
Is to be expected.
But no bother.
Indeed, if a walrus can pillow
His head on a neighbor,
He rather prefers
The arrangement --
Sort of like sleeping on
A blubber-filled mattress.
It's not every neighbor
That enjoys being a mattress,
However,
And every once in a while,
Bitter arguments break out.
Now the tusks of the mighty
Bulls become slashing sabers
That can gouge
And tear and cut.
In fact, there's hardly
A mature bull in the colony
That doesn't bear
The wound stripes
Of these bad-tempered
Exchanges.
Suddenly, the squabbling stops.
Something bigger
Than a neighborhood brawl
Sends panic through the herd,
And in a single instant,
This lazy scene is changed
To one of seething turmoil.
The cause of it all
Is the polar bear --
King of the arctic and mortal
Enemy of the walrus tribe.
Of all the legendary creatures
Of the far north,
The polar bear is the one
Who seems the symbol
Of this ghostly land.
Like a white phantom,
He moves through his realm,
An ever-present menace,
For he does not hibernate.
He's been called
By many names --
The spirit bear of the north,
The ice bear,
The bear of the sea.
He's all of these and more --
The largest, most powerful,
Most ferocious carnivore
In the entire
White wilderness.
He's quite literally
An oceangoing bear
And thinks nothing of crossing
Vast stretches of open water
To reach his hunting grounds
Out on the ice pack.
Protected from the cold
By a waterproof coat of fur
And a thick layer of fat,
He can travel like this
For hours on end.
Indeed,
He'll often swim 20 miles
In order to get
From one iceberg to another.
Whenever a polar bear
Is in the vicinity,
The walrus are uneasy
And quickly routed
From their customary slumber.
Actually, the polar bear rarely
Takes on an adult walrus,
For the bulls outweigh him
By almost half a ton.
His proper prey is the seal,
And yet,
There's always the chance
He'll come upon a baby walrus
Or a cr*pple.
So he can't resist
This age-old chase.
Soon, the bear gives up
The pursuit.
It was only a sort of
Half-hearted effort
On his part, anyway.
He just wanted to test
His prowess.
There'll be another day.
For the king of the arctic,
There always is.
There is one occasion when the
Polar bears make an exception
To their general rule
Of not hibernating.
The female,
When expecting cubs,
Will pass the winter holed up
In a sheltered snow cave.
And here's a mother bear now
With a pair
Of newborn youngsters
That might well be twins.
Although mother still reposes
Deep in slumber,
Her new babies are wide awake
And now are interested
In breakfast.
From time to time
During the winter, in fact,
They've nursed like this
Without disturbing the
Maternal nap.
At birth,
They were practically naked
And have only managed
To survive the bitter cold
By burrowing into
Their mother's thick fur.
By now, however, they've grown
A respectable polar bear coat
Of their own,
And they feel
Perfectly prepared
To explore the great outdoors.
And so with the curiosity
Of all young animals,
They venture out
Into the strange arctic world
Which is to be their home.
This bleak setting could well
Be the face of the moon.
Yet, to these arctic children,
It's the most attractive
Playground
One could possibly desire.
On every downhill slope,
There's a place for fun.
In every ice formation,
There's a secret cave
Where a couple of small bears
Can play a game of ambush
And rough-and-tumble.
Cubs of all ages are to be
Found in this arctic wasteland,
And here, a slightly older pair
Is out for a stroll, too.
But even these haven't lost
The bear's
Innate sense of play.
Of all the animals in nature,
The bear is one of
The most intelligent,
And along with intellect
Comes what amounts to
A sense of humor.
Thus, when one cub
Can set up another cub
As a target for a snowball,
He's quick to see the humorous
Potential of the situation.
Oops! A near miss.
Well, perhaps he can maneuver
His pal within range again.
Now, ammunition ready.
Aim...
Bull's-eye!
Like his cousins
In other parts of the world,
The polar bear has inherited
Certain tree-climbing
Tendencies.
But his problem up here
Is there isn't a tree
Within 1,000 miles.
So he takes it out on
The biggest hill he can find.
There are many things
About mountain climbing
That these inexperienced
Youngsters have yet to learn --
How to test a footing,
How to choose
The angle of approach,
And, most of all,
How to stay out of trouble.
But when the long
Toboggan ride begins,
There's no place to stop
But the bottom.
And now another
Arctic youngster sets out
To explore
The surrounding ice pack.
This is the ringed seal,
The most common species found
In these northern wastes.
In its infancy, the pup wears
A coat of purest white
That serves
As a natural camouflage
In this domain of whiteness.
Camouflage alone, however,
Is small protection
Out on the ice.
And as he drags himself
Over the rough terrain,
This little traveler
Is painfully awkward and slow.
Indeed,
A seal on top of the ice
Is like a fish out of water.
He's not only clumsy,
But extremely vulnerable,
For here's the opportunity
All polar bears wait for.
And if the seal is discovered
In this situation,
He has no defense whatever.
Once in his element, however,
He becomes an entirely
Different creature.
Now he's the master
Of defensive maneuver.
His rear fins serve
As fine fish-tail paddles,
And his streamlined shape
Is the perfect design
For cutting through the water.
This pool of melted ice water
Becomes his personal
Swimming hole,
The place where he can amuse
Himself for hours on end.
Sometimes the bullies
From down the block
Come around
To try to spoil his fun.
Instinctively,
The polar bear cub recognizes
His natural prey,
And he makes a good try for it.
But for him to catch a seal
This early in his career
Is rather like a tugboat
Running down a torpedo.
There must be seals around here
That are easier to corner
Than this one.
Hmm.
The cubs decide maybe they're
Not doing something right.
Maybe they'd better go check up
With their mother.
Ah, now, this is more like it.
Here's real opportunity.
This is known as trading
On your father's reputation.
So strong is the terror
Inspired by the polar bear
That even his cubs
Can strike fear
Into the hearts of the walrus.
In spite of the fact
That they're a bit short
On weight and size,
The cubs have plenty of courage
To back up their bluff.
And soon,
They've made this huge bull
Give up
His favorite napping place.
With her cubs located at last,
The mother bear is ready for a
Hunting expedition of her own.
And since her youngsters have
Managed to scare all the prey
Out of this neighborhood,
She and her family must
Try their luck elsewhere.
The arctic ocean
Is a sea of mystery,
And because it's free of ice
Only part of the year,
Rarely can we gain a glimpse
Of the puzzles
Hidden in its dark depths.
But here
We may witness one now --
The amazing behavior
Of the white whales.
In the kingdom of the whales,
The beluga, or white whale,
Is not a large breed.
It grows to a maximum length
Of 16 feet
And rarely exceeds a ton
In weight.
It's actually a dolphin,
And thus a member
Of the same biological family
As the porpoise
And the k*ller whale.
In complete contrast to the
Vicious k*ller whale, however,
The white whale
Is a friendly creature
Who seems to like congenial
Company and rhythmic motion
And the good fun
Of swimming in formation.
Like gray ghosts
Come from the deep,
These strange creatures dive
And pivot
And turn in perfect unison.
Their matchless performance
Becomes a thing
Of unexpected beauty,
Creating its own
Unique patterns
On the face of the arctic sea.
In this land of many mysteries,
It's a strange fact
That the largest legends
Seem to collect
Around the smallest creatures.
One of these is a mousy little
Rodent called the lemming.
Here's an actual living legend,
For it's said
Of this tiny animal
That it commits mass suicide
By rushing into the sea
In droves.
The story is one of the
Persistent tales of the arctic,
And, as often happens
In man's nature lore,
It's a story
Both true and false,
As we shall see in a moment.
Ordinarily, lemmings
Are not found above ground
Before the snow is gone.
But winter's long period
Of starvation
Makes them finally take
Unusual risks,
And this mother lemming has
A special reason for being out.
She must feed well
That she may nurse the litter
She's left behind
In her burrow.
For a creature as tiny as this,
Every snowdrift
Is a mountain range
And every clump of bushes
A forest.
It can all get quite confusing.
Before she knows
How it's happened,
This little wayfarer
Is thoroughly lost.
Soon,
She finds herself wandering
Through a weird world
Of frozen chaos.
In this complex maze
Of chambered crystal,
Every turning
Becomes more bewildering.
It's like being lost
In a hall of mirrors.
In a moment,
You can't decide which is you
And which is your reflection.
Suddenly, she finds herself
Literally at sea
In this world of unreality
And floating off
Into the unknown.
When the perilous cruise
Ends like this,
There's only one thing to do --
Swim for it.
But when you find yourself
On an iceberg treadmill
And apparently getting nowhere,
It can become
Most discouraging.
Life is persistent
In the arctic, however,
Or it would not survive,
And the little lemming
Doesn't give up the battle.
Suddenly,
A solution suggests itself.
If she will just ride
The whirlpool full circle,
It may carry her back
To the shore.
So she does.
And sure enough, it does.
Near exhaustion by now,
She'd like to rest,
But if she stops,
She will freeze in her tracks.
Besides, her family has already
Been left unattended
For too long.
Now she seems
To have rediscovered
The correct compass bearing,
And soon, she finds herself
Back at her own front door.
The lemmings
Are burrowing animals
And, from long habit,
Live in an underground home.
In the frigid zone, however,
This poses something
Of a housing problem,
For only a few inches
Of topsoil ever thaw out.
Thus, these little rodents
Must live, literally,
At the grass roots.
They're a species of mouse,
And like most varieties
Of mice,
They breed
At a remarkable rate.
In fact, lemmings will produce
Several litters
Within the short span
Of an arctic summer.
Every year, the lemmings
Must cope with the problem
Of the spring thaw,
And every year
Finds them unprepared.
When the thaw comes,
As it always does,
The roof leaks.
In this one-room dugout,
There's no way to escape
The deluge.
Thus, a baby lemming
Sometimes has cause to wonder
Whether he's supposed to be
A mouse or a fish.
Mother takes the flood
Calmly enough, though.
After all,
It happens every year.
And it simply means that
If they'll all move outdoors,
They'll find the tundra
Cleared of snow at last.
At this time of year,
The tundra comes alive
With lemmings.
Each has a roving,
Ravenous appetite,
And each attacks the tundra
Vegetation with a vengeance,
Determined
To consume its share.
In a year of peak population,
There's hardly room
In which to turn around
Or so it seems.
The snowshoe rabbit
Finds himself
Surrounded
By these nosy neighbors.
Everywhere he looks,
There's another lemming.
With all this traffic
Underfoot,
It would seem a good time
For the ptarmigans
To take to the airways.
But they're rather lazy birds,
And they don't
Seem to mind hobnobbing
With these hungry hordes.
They learn to watch their step,
However,
Since there's no telling where
A lemming will decide to feed.
For some reason,
The grass always seems greener
In the most awkward places.
Sometimes it's a ptarmigan
Treading on a lemming,
And sometimes
It's the other way around.
Well, with things
As crowded as this,
Someone has to make room
For somebody somehow,
And so nature herself
Takes a hand.
A lemming migration
Is about to begin.
It's an actual fact
That lemmings do migrate.
Theirs is not
An annual exodus, however.
It happens only periodically,
About every 7 to 10 years
During the peak
Of their population cycle.
A time
Of tremendous reproduction
Generally means
A time of famine.
The lemmings quite literally
Eat themselves
Out of house and home.
Whenever this happens,
They find it necessary to move
To a new feeding ground.
It would appear that lemmings
Are a lot like sheep --
That one or two start
To go somewhere,
And the rest are determined
To go, too.
Once in motion,
None stops to ask why.
Instead, a kind of compulsion
Seizes each tiny rodent,
And carried along
By an unreasoning hysteria,
Each falls into step
For a march that will take them
To a strange destiny.
Once they begin to move
In formation,
They present
Their natural enemies
With an unique opportunity,
And almost automatically,
Predators seem to come
From everywhere.
The jaeger bird, for one,
Literally lies in wait
In midair,
Keeping a sharp eye
On the procession below.
At last, without warning,
He swoops.
In the face of death,
Even a creature
As small as a mouse
Will put up a desperate battle.
But this time,
Courage alone is not enough.
As birds of prey, in fact,
The jaegers rival
The arctic owl.
The raven
Is another opportunist
Who tries his hand
At this fascinating game.
It's soon apparent, however,
That he's not nearly as good
At it as the jaeger bird.
Generally,
It's the raven's way
To let somebody else do
This sort of thing.
He's a scavenger
By inclination,
And thus, when he has to cope
With a little fast footwork,
He's apt to end up looking
Foolish and still hungry.
Among the arctic hunters,
The one who might be called
"Old never miss,"
Is the ermine, now appearing
In his summertime coat.
A member of the weasel tribe,
The ermine inherits
The bloodthirsty temperament
Of his species.
When he finally decides
To strike,
It's in deadly earnest.
By natural law,
The predators take their toll,
Yet, in spite of them,
The migration goes on.
By now,
The lemmings have forgotten
The original idea of food.
They've become victims
Of an obsession.
A one-track thought --
Move on, move on,
Keep moving on.
If they come to a tiny stream,
They plunge right in.
Water doesn't faze them.
Indeed, they'll swim
Sizeable rivers and even lakes
In their determination
To push on.
Ahead lies the arctic shore
And beyond, the sea,
And still the little animals
Surge forward.
Their frenzy takes them
Tumbling down
The terraced cliffs,
Creating tiny avalanches
Of sliding soil and rocks
And seemingly
Indestructible lemmings.
They reach the final precipice.
This is the last chance
To turn back.
Yet over they go,
Casting themselves bodily
Out into space.
All seem to survive the ordeal,
For now, they begin to swim --
Not toward land, strangely,
But away from shore,
Toward the far horizon.
Others find the beaches
By roundabout ways,
And they, too,
Plunge into the waves.
It's not given to man
To understand
All of nature's mysteries.
But as nearly as he can
Surmise, it would appear
That the lemmings consider
This body of water just
Another lake.
And if it's a lake, then it
Must have a farther shore,
And so they strike out boldly.
But gradually, strength wanes.
Determination ebbs away.
And soon, the arctic sea
Is dotted
With tiny bobbing bodies.
And so is acted out
The legend of mass suicide,
And destruction of a species
It would seem to be,
Except that nature,
In her infinite wisdom,
Has spared a few.
Back on the arctic plain,
There remains the small handful
That did not make
This fatal journey.
And in time, new generations
Will take the place
Of those that have been lost.
And yet, when the population
Cycle mounts to another peak,
The lemming legend
Will be told again
And will come to this same
Amazing cl*max --
A final rendezvous with destiny
And with death.
With the spring thaw,
Lakes and lagoons by the
Thousands dot the landscape,
And these become the perfect
Haven for visiting waterfowl.
Every year, they come --
The flocks uncounted,
Species without number,
Temporary residents
In this empty land.
Here they find peace.
Here they can raise their young
Undisturbed by civilization.
But while the females tend the
Nests, the males, generally,
Are to be found showing off
Their fine feathers.
And in this department,
None can match
The king eider duck.
He is indeed nature's dandy --
Sartorial splendor personified.
For every new family, there's
Food to be found, of course,
And this little wading bird
Goes about the job
In a most unusual way.
It turns over the stones
Along the shore,
And so it's called -- well,
What else but the turnstone.
These are the phalaropes,
And they, too, have a method
Of getting food that's unique.
First, they swim in a tight circle
To create a small whirlpool.
Then they let
Its natural suction
Bring up from the bottom
The edibles they're seeking.
As a nesting ground, the tundra
Is not without its drawbacks.
There isn't a tree
Within miles,
And so all nests must be laid
Flat on the earth.
This, of course, makes them
Accessible to every predator
Who comes along,
And during
The incubation period,
Birds like this arctic gull
Practically never know
A moment's sleep.
Sometimes the polar bears
Decide to raid this sanctuary.
But when they do, it generally
Means real trouble.
Here the bear has actually
Succeeded in capturing a loon.
It'd gladly sit down to enjoy
The peace and quiet
Of a simple meal,
Except for the fact that
He seems to have gotten hold
Of more fuss and feathers
Than he bargained for.
If he's not careful,
He may lose an eye,
For the bird's sharp bill
Can be a vicious weapon
At close quarters.
In fact, if this keeps up
Much longer,
He may lose both eyes.
At last, the bear decides
He'd rather eat crow,
And he releases his catch.
From now on, he'll take
His birds like this -- as eggs,
Not nearly the wear and tear
On the nerves.
Here's another egg snatcher
Who has to be watched
Every minute.
Leave a nest unattended,
And the ermine
Is sure to turn up.
The bigger the egg, the bigger
The meal, he figures,
Without paying much attention
To the incidental matter
Of cracking it.
But in a moment, the problem
Begins to come into focus --
How to get round object
Into square corner
In order that angle of bite
May encompass more of
Circumference.
It's as simple as that.
At last, he finds a place
Where he can pin it down
And apply some leverage.
Now to the feast.
Southward from the tundra,
In the forests that bound
The arctic wasteland,
There lives yet another legend
Of the north,
A strange duck
That nests in hollow trees.
This is the goldeneye,
A duck that violates
All the usual rules
For pond-loving waterfowl.
No nest among the reeds
For her.
She chooses to live
In the abandoned quarters
Of the woodpeckers,
And here she hatches out
Her brood of downy ducklings.
Now, it happens that these
Babies must leave the nest
Before they've learned to fly.
Thus, mother's problem is
How to get them safely down
From their penthouse apartment.
By way of example, she drops
To the ground herself
And gives a maternal call.
In response, the youngsters
Climb up the inside of the tree
To the opening.
Nature, it seems,
Has given them tiny spurs
For this part of the journey.
But beyond here,
They're on their own.
Well, tallyho.
Look out below.
Nature's solution for this
Problem in aerodynamics
Is both simple and unorthodox.
Lacking wings for things,
You add more bounce
To the ounce.
Last to go is tail-end charlie,
Master of the timid takeoff.
There's always one
In every squadron.
My, that's a long way down.
Finally, the entire brood
Is on the ground,
All accounted for
And all in one piece,
Amazing as that may seem.
Their troubles aren't over,
However,
For, strangely, this is
The most dangerous moment
Of the entire maneuver.
Since they can't fly, having
Just proved that beyond doubt,
They're vulnerable
To any number of predators.
And it behooves them to make
A beeline for the nearest pond,
And so, off they go
On the double.
Besides being a nesting place
For the birds,
The limitless tundra
Is also a natural pasture
For the arctic grass eaters.
And among these, none is more
Arctic than the musk-ox.
Here again is a species
That's a living legend.
In fact, this is the one animal
That has actually survived
From the ice age.
He looks today, in reality,
Exactly as he does
In the caveman's paintings
Of long ago.
The musk-ox has endured
The harsh centuries
Of arctic climate
Largely because of the
Protective coat of long hair
He developed in the beginning.
Almost touching the ground,
This generous blanket
Has meant the difference
Between survival
And extinction.
Among the oxen of the world,
The musk-ox
Is rather a small breed.
He stands only 4 feet high
At the shoulders
And weighs about 600 pounds.
But he's stocky and strong,
And he's equipped with
A formidable pair of horns
For self-defense.
Let a wandering wolf appear
On the horizon,
And the bulls are immediately
On the alert.
Herd animals by habit,
The musk-oxen react to danger
By a prearranged plan.
All rush to a central
Rallying place.
Here, they group themselves
In a defensive circle --
Cows and calves in the center,
Bulls along the outer edge --
All horns pointing outward.
From past experience,
The wolf has learned that this
Is an unassailable position,
And so he passes on by,
Pretending disinterest.
When the wolf is gone,
The herd will often retire
To another defense --
These castle-like formations
That dot
The far-reaching tundra.
Here, all trails lead upward
To a kind of natural fortress
And safety.
Of all of nature's
Near-legendary animals,
The wolf is the one
Around whom the most folklore
Seems to cling.
In fairy tales the world over,
He's invariably made out
The villain
And symbol
Of all things wicked.
He is a predator, to be sure,
But one who serves
A useful purpose
In nature's scheme of things.
And in comparison
With his legend,
He's surprisingly well-behaved.
It's only in the remote refuge
Of this arctic wasteland
That wolves can raise
Their families in peace,
For this much-maligned species
Has been driven out of
Great areas of the globe.
The progenitor of the dog clan,
The wolf possesses
Many of the canine virtues,
Among them,
Loyalty to his kind.
Wolves mate for life,
And the male is
An unusually good provider.
Often, he'll return from a hunt
To disgorge part of his k*ll.
In this way,
The pups are weaned
On food already predigested.
As a parent,
The male is surprisingly
Patient with his youngsters
And willingly submits
To the playful mauling
That fathers
Are expected to undergo.
When discipline is called for,
It's a mere nip
With his steel-trap jaws.
These are the jaws
That can bring down
Full-grown reindeer
And caribou.
Yet, for the moment,
Their crushing power
Is held in check.
Soon, the schooling
Of these youngsters must begin,
And the first subject is music.
Every wolf pup that aspires
To his full credentials
Must, of course,
Learn to howl at the moon.
Next come the lessons
In hunting.
In these wide open spaces,
It's not exactly easy
To find a meal,
And the art of tracking
And trailing
Must be constantly practiced.
Working together as a family,
The youngsters get used to
The feel of the group
And thus are trained
Toward the time when
They will hunt with the pack.
From centuries of experience,
The wolves have learned that
There is one hunting territory
Where success
Is practically guaranteed,
And this is at the entrances
To the mountain passes.
Through these gateways must
Pass the great caribou herds
On their way
To the tundra grazing grounds.
And so the pack sets up
A system of sentries,
Constantly on watch
From these ramparts.
Sure enough, without fail,
The lead bulls appear,
Signaling the approach
Of the caribou vanguard.
The caribou and their
Close cousin the reindeer
Are the arctic members
Of the deer family
And thus are the natural prey
Of the wolves.
Each summer, these tremendous
Herds migrate northward
Bound for their habitual
Grazing ground
On the open tundra.
This annual trek
Is a flowing tide of animals
That moves toward the pole
Just as surely as the rivers
That seek the arctic sea.
Sometimes,
The two currents cross
At fording places
Along the bottomlands.
At this time of year,
These flood-swollen streams
Are swift and treacherous.
Yet even the newborn fawns
Must make the crossing
Or be left behind.
Nothing can be allowed to halt
The herd's progress.
As the caribou come
Within range,
The wolves move
Down to the valley floor.
The surrounding mountains
Crowd the herds
Into a single
Narrow passageway --
Terrain that is decidedly
To the wolves' advantage.
They take their stations
With an almost casual air.
Today the caribou
Must run the gauntlet,
And today, for sure, the wolves
Will know a time of abundance.
The chase begins.
The wolves run the herd
In relays,
Spelling each other
From time to time.
As the wolves knew it would,
Fatigue begins to tell,
And soon, the laggards
Find themselves overtaken
And dragged down.
And so begins
A succession of kills.
This is nature's way
Of culling out the herd.
Generally speaking,
The predators pull down
The cripples and the weaklings,
And one by one, the unfit
Come to the end of the trail.
It would seem that no animal
Could drive the wolf
From his hard-earned dinner,
And yet there is one that can,
And does, do just that.
He's a member
Of the weasel tribe
Called the wolverine.
True to the bloodthirsty
Tradition of his kind,
He can lick his weight
In wolves, wildcats,
Or anything else
That might come along.
The wolverine is a creature
Whose ways are cloaked
In mystery.
And this camera record
Is perhaps the first
To reveal his habits in detail.
As we watch him
Make his rounds,
We shall come to know
An animal
Who even outdoes the tall tales
Told about him,
And these are legion --
Tales of his strength,
His cunning, his ferocity,
And his appetite.
In the wolverine, fact does
Indeed surpass fiction.
The wolverine
Is rather a surly character
And, by custom,
A solitary traveler.
He not only
Doesn't like company,
It appears he can't stand it,
Even members of his own kind.
When aroused,
He not only sounds dangerous...
...but manages
To look dangerous, too.
The truth is he's exactly
What he appears to be --
A demon as a fighter,
Ready and willing
To take on all comers.
He weighs on the average
About 30 pounds,
Yet he can easily handle
Five times his own weight
In rough-and-tumble combat.
The wolverine
Is always on the move.
He has amazing endurance
And can cover a lot of ground
With his tireless lope.
He and his kind
Wander all over the arctic,
From the southern forests
To the northern shoreline.
And it's his habit to cover
The same hunting territory
In a sort of
Great circle tour.
Since he's
An accomplished climber,
He checks
Every treetop lookout
To see just what might be
Stirring in his territory.
There's a lot of the bear
In the wolverine
As well as the raccoon,
Whom he resembles
In the use of his paws.
In fact, he seems to be a
Combination of several animals.
Wherever he spies activity,
No matter what kind,
It means food,
For if it's alive,
He'll eat it.
His voracious appetite
Knows no satisfying.
He's quite literally
Hunger on the prowl.
In the scandinavian countries,
In fact,
This animal is commonly known
As "the glutton."
His prodigious strength
Comes into play
When he finds
Something tempting
Hidden underneath a rock.
He never stops to consider
The weight of a boulder.
He simply moves it
Out of his way.
For the reward
Of a tiny grub or two,
He'll exert enough energy
To dislodge an entire quarry.
In man's book
Of backwoods lore,
There's a story to the effect
That the wolverine can eat
A whole moose in one sitting.
It's an old story
Long accepted as truth,
And it pays tribute
To this animal's ambition
Even if it overestimates
His capacity.
Yet, the legend does have
A certain factual basis,
For it is true that
The wolverine will continue
Feeding on a large carcass
For several days
Until he's disposed of it.
He's not one to let food
Go to waste, mouse or moose,
Unless something better
Turns up.
Occasionally, that something
Is the snowshoe rabbit.
Once he's on a rabbit's trail,
The wolverine is hard to shake,
For among
All his accomplishments,
He can count speed, too.
This becomes a place of safety
Only if it's too small
For the wolverine to enter.
At the same time,
It must be too strong
For him to tear apart,
And as a last
Safety requirement,
The rabbit must be able to hide
Beyond the reach
Of the wolverine's sharp claws.
This is a case of escaping
The claws of death
By a rather narrow margin.
But for the moment,
The rabbit seems safe.
At least he thought he was,
Until he gets
The strange feeling
That all is not quite
As it should be.
For some reason,
The poor rabbit clan
Seems to attract persecution.
And if it isn't the wolverine
Making life unbearable,
It's that pesky raven,
Still poking his sharp nose
Into somebody else's business.
About the time
It begins to look as though
This might go on forever,
The wolverine reappears.
At first, he doesn't pay
Too much attention
To these goings-on.
Who wants to catch a raven?
He wouldn't be
Much of a prize, anyway.
Still, if this clown
Is going to hang around
And try
To make a fool out of him,
Well, there's his pride
To think of,
To say nothing
Of his reputation.
Maybe he'd better tend to him
Once and for all.
Oops!
It would appear that the raven
Fooled him that time,
But to prove that he was
Onto the trick all along,
The wolverine proceeds to play
A game of his own
With this improvised
Teeter-totter.
With the raven gone,
The wolverine can now get back
To the serious business
Of making a living.
Suddenly, directly overhead,
He spies
A most-intriguing nest,
And if he's not mistaken,
There should be a fledging
Osprey in residence here
About this time of year.
At the sight
Of the wolverine below,
The mother bird grows alarmed
And leaves the nest.
But sure enough,
Here's the baby --
Fully feathered,
Yet still unable to fly.
A member of the hawk family,
The osprey has the murderous
Talons of the birds of prey,
And she's always ready
To use them.
But the wolverine doesn't
Give this a second thought.
He's up the tree in an instant.
The mother bird recognizes
His intentions immediately
And begins defensive tactics.
Using a desperate
Dive-bombing attack,
She tries to knock him
Out of the tree,
Or, failing in that, to drive
Him back to the ground.
Meanwhile, the young bird
Watches all this
With growing apprehension,
And in spite of all
Its mother can do,
It finds itself
Staring death in the face.
And so tragedy strikes.
And so a grieving mother is
Left to mourn an empty nest.
In the arctic, the frosty
Breath of the cold season
Comes suddenly,
And when it does,
All the inhabitants
Instantly know its meaning.
Winter is about to reclaim
Its kingdom.
To some of these
Arctic residents,
This ice age setting
Remains a permanent home,
And the coming of winter
Makes little change
In their normal routine.
The polar bear
Patrols his beat as usual,
Unmindful of the cold.
Winter and summer,
He remains what nature
Intended him to be --
Lord and sovereign
Of this frozen domain.
His cubs inherit
All his hearty endurance
And, with it, a lofty disdain
For the cold.
Only a polar bear, it seems,
Could make a plaything
Of an iceberg.
And snowballs, it would appear,
Are as much fun as ever.
The walrus is another of the
Arctic's year-round residents.
The white whales, too,
Will remain in the polar sea,
Continuing
Their formation swimming
For as long as there's open
Water in which to perform.
But for some,
Winter on the exposed
Arctic shore is too much,
And they must retreat
To warmer regions.
The caribou and the reindeer
Must leave the open tundra
And seek the shelter of
The deep forests farther south.
But this late in the season,
They find a new hazard
At the river crossings.
And their old enemies
Are in for a surprise, too.
It seems that some new rules
Of the chase are in effect.
For both hunter and hunted,
It's a time
To make haste slowly,
Yet it's a time for speed, too,
For there's always
The grim possibility
That the arctic blizzards
May come too soon
And trap them in these
Rugged mountain passes.
And so the great herds plod on,
Stopping neither for food
Nor drink.
At last,
The summit is achieved,
The farther slopes reached.
And now the desperate animals,
Sensing their victory,
Race for the sheltering trees.
Once again,
They're safely returned
To their ancestral forests.
And none too soon,
For now the blizzard comes.
Now winter takes back
Its arctic domain.
The bitter cold of the ice age
Returns to this frozen land.
Time and eternity
Once more become one.
And the long black shadow
Of the arctic nights
Steals across
The highest peaks.
And yet, life will not vanish
With the fading light
But, with the changing of
The seasons, will come again.
Polar bear and walrus,
Musk-ox and wolf,
Wolverine and lemming,
Caribou and reindeer --
All in time will reappear
To re-create their
Strange patterns of survival
On the desolate reaches
Of nature's white wilderness.
Welcome to our World! Where we serve you cookies to ensure you get the best viewing experience on our site.
Did you know that you can remove censorship board-wide, use our advanced search functions, be notified when new content is posted, join our memberships, set episodes to show in any order you want & more if you are logged into your account?
Register or sign in here: ucp.php?mode=register
Did you know that you can remove censorship board-wide, use our advanced search functions, be notified when new content is posted, join our memberships, set episodes to show in any order you want & more if you are logged into your account?
Register or sign in here: ucp.php?mode=register
White Wilderness (1958)
Moderators: Maskath3, sidolanters, GabrielAlejo2341
Watch on Amazon Merchandise Collectables
The older Classic's that just won't die. Everything from before 1960's.
The older Classic's that just won't die. Everything from before 1960's.