Oh dear, the cleaning lady in my office keeps looking at me because I am laughing so hard. Regarding my part of the U.S., we aren't much for deadly animals, but I suppose we make up for it a bit when the earth itself tries to kill us. [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1980_eruption_of_Mount_St._Helens] The deadliest thing in my part of the country is the people. We are the serial killer capital of the U.S. We do a lot of familial murder too, but that wouldn't affect tourists at all. BUT! as far as emblematic animals, for my area, it's probably the Pacific salmon, which is pretty damn impressive.
They start is wee little smolts in mountain streams, swim all the way from the stream to the creek to the tributary river to the big river to the sea, where they spend a few years getting big, anywhere from 10 to 135lb, then they swim back to the stream bed where they were born, spawn, and die. Now, keep in mind that the swim back can be hundreds of miles, all upstream. They swim past bears, they swim through dams, they swim over mountains. Then they get where they are going, make a batch of baby salmon and die. You would die too, I bet, if you swam over the Coast Range, over the Cascades, through canyons full of rapids, all the way from the ocean to freakin' Idaho. Then they die and their bodies get washed back downstream.
This all creates a huge influx of protein in the spring and autumn, to the salvation of our modest collection of predators, who are either getting ready for winter and are trying to fatten up (oh, yeah, winter-that will kill you too, but that's a topic for another time) or coming out of winter and recovering from borderline starvation.
But really, when you are talking about deadly stuff you can go see in my area for which Australia has no counterpart, you are talking about things made of rocks and water. You are talking about mountains and snow.
Now, as I mentioned before, periodically, the mountains around here totally lose their cool and blow their tops in the most literal way imaginable. Imagine that lovely white form on the horizon--scenic, symmetrical, unchanging--starts to shake and grumble and fume. You know it's pissed. Like a fight with your spouse, you know it's coming but you don't know when and you don't know how bad it will be. So you try and go about your ordinary life, keeping an eye on the seismograph, trying to judge its mood, and you might have the kind of history together where you know generally how it will behave, you can make an educated guess, but no matter how closely you watch it, it will always come as a surprise when, instead of a white silhouette on the horizon, you have a mushroom cloud [http://www.olywa.net/radu/valerie/erupt.jpg].
The blast wave strips the trees of all their branches and knocks them over so that aerial photos of entire forests look like close-up photos of the fur on a dogs back. The avalanche of rock, and by rock, I mean the top third of the mountain [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bgRnVhbfIKQ], completely fills lakes below and, basically, relocates them. By the way, the footage in the link is real.
Now the water. The thing is, all that white? That was snow. All that snow? That was water, thousands and thousands of gallons of it, enough to supply whole cities. When that water was snow, it stayed put and didn't bother anyone, but when the eruption hits, the superheated gas from the volcano flash melts that water. OH NOEZ! FLOODS! Well, yes and no. See, the gas is so hot it literally vaporizes the water on contact. That steam mixes with the rock that is carried in the blast wave to form pyroclastic flows. [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pyroclastic_flow]
Now a pyroclastic flow isn't, as it often looks in the news footage of the time, a mudslide. It is a superheated mass of steam and pulverized rock a couple thousand degrees in temperature, about the consistency of freshly mixed cement, and it's coming roaring down the mountain at you. The mudslide, an combination of snowmelt and volcanic ash, comes later.
Oh, the ash, can't forget about that. It's so thick, it turns day into night for cities downwind. The mushroom cloud reaches all the way to the upper air currents, so the ash gets deposited over 11 states. And the ash isn't like the stuff out of your fireplace, all fluffy and light. It is silica ash. Essentially, it is powdered volcanic glass, and there is a blizzard of it falling on you. It gets into your lungs and your eyes if your face isn't covered. It gets sucked into your car's air intakes and slowly grinds the engine to death. And of course, it smothers plant and animal life, and though it looks like gray snow, it won' ever melt. Years later, that drift will be there, in that sheltered corner of your house where the wind and rain couldn't wash it away.
Now, admittedly, this doesn't happen very often. If it did, we wouldn't live here. Most of the time, the earth gets a little irritated and tries to shake us off [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nisqually_Earthquake] like a dog shaking off flies.
I'll make a deal with you Joe. If I ever go to Australia, I will go to the Reptile Park. If you ever come to the U.S., go the the Mt. St. Helens National Monument.
By the way, did you know that we actually have three small, extinct volcanoes within the city limits? At least, we think they are extinct. The haven't done anything. Recently.