BLUE ALCHEMY: INDIGO

Natural dyes are colourants derived from plants, invertebrates, or minerals — gifts from the natural world that have brightened human life for millennia. 

Their hues range from earthy and subdued to gloriously vivid, bringing warmth and richness to our textiles and art since time immemorial.

Most natural dyes are vegetable in origin, drawn from roots, berries, bark, leaves, and wood, though some come from more unusual sources such as fungi and lichens. 

I have been experimenting with lichen dyes for some time and have found one — growing on the rocks that surround the parking lot of the Banff Centre for the Arts — that turns a lovely pink or pale blue depending on whether it oxidizes in the light. Serendipity!

One of the most celebrated fungi in the dyer’s world is the dyer’s polypore, Phaeolus schweinitzii, also known as the velvet-top fungus. This striking, shelf-like fungus grows at the base of conifers, particularly pines and spruces, and is instantly recognisable by its rich golden-brown surface and velvety texture. 

Phaeolus schweinitzii

When used in dyeing, it rewards the maker with an earthy palette that ranges from sunlit yellows and warm golds to deep olives and browns, all depending on the mordant employed. 

Found across much of the temperate Northern Hemisphere, Phaeolus schweinitzii has long been a favourite of mine for its generous colour yield and its connection to the forest — from beautiful decay, beauty continues to bloom.

Archaeological evidence of textile dyeing stretches back to the Neolithic period. Evidence comes from a combination of archaeological textiles, mineral residues, and microscopic analysis of ancient fibres. 

Although few prehistoric fabrics survive, some remarkable finds give us direct proof that humans were colouring textiles thousands of years ago.

• Çatalhöyük, Turkey (c. 7,000 BCE): One of the earliest known uses of colour on textiles comes from this Neolithic settlement. Fragments of woven cloth show traces of red ochre (iron oxide), a natural pigment likely used to dye or paint the fibres.

• Nahal Hemar Cave, Israel (c. 6,000 BCE): Archaeologists discovered preserved fibres and textiles that had been treated with plant-based dyes, possibly derived from madder (Rubia tinctorum), which produces red hues. Chemical analyses revealed organic colourants consistent with early dyeing.

• Swiss Lake Dwellings (Egolzwil and Robenhausen, c. 3,500 BCE): These waterlogged Neolithic sites preserved linen textiles dyed with plant-derived pigments, including blue from woad (Isatis tinctoria) and yellow from weld (Reseda luteola).

These finds show the talents of Neolithic peoples spinning and weaving fibres and experimenting with natural pigments — a fusion of art and chemistry that marks the very beginnings of textile dyeing.

In China, the use of plants, barks, and insects for dyeing can be traced to more than 5,000 years ago — by all accounts, one of humanity’s earliest experiments in the art and science of chemistry.

The essential method of dyeing has changed little through the centuries. The dyestuff is placed in a pot of water, the fabric added, and the mixture heated and stirred until the colour binds to the fibres. In some traditional practices, the stirring was once accomplished not by tools, but by workers with strong, marching legs — an image as lively as the colours they helped to create.

Traditional dye works still operate in many parts of the world. There is a revival of using natural indigo in modern Egypt — although their indigo dye is mostly imported. The same is true further south in Sudan. They've been importing cloth from Upper Egypt as far back as we have written records and continue the practice of the cloth and dye imports today. Clean white cotton is more the style of western Sudan and Chad, but they still like to throw in a bit of colour.

Traditional Dye Vats

So do the folk living in North Africa. Years ago, I was travelling in Marrakesh and saw many men with noticeably orange, blueish or purplish legs. It wasn't one or two but dozens of men and I'd wondered why this was.

My guide took me to the top of a building so I could look down on rows and rows of coloured vats. In every other one was a man marching in place to work the dye into the wool. Their legs took on the colour from their daily march in place in huge tubs of liquid dye and sheared wool. 

This wool would be considered textile fibre dyed before spinning — dyed in the wool — but most textiles are yarn-dyed or piece-dyed after weaving. In either case, the finished product is quite fetching even if the dyer's legs are less so. 

Many natural dyes require the use of chemicals called mordants to bind the dye to the textile fibres; tannin from oak galls, salt, natural alum, vinegar, and ammonia from stale urine were staples of the early dyers.

Many mordants and some dyes themselves produce strong odours. Urine is a bit stinky. Not surprisingly, large-scale dyeworks were often isolated in their own districts.

Woad, Isatis tinctoria

Plant-based dyes such as Woad, Isatis tinctoria, indigo, saffron, and madder were raised commercially and were important trade goods in the economies of Asia and Europe. 

Across Asia and Africa, patterned fabrics were produced using resist dyeing techniques to control the absorption of colour in piece-dyed cloth.

Dyes such as cochineal and logwood, Haematoxylum campechianum, were brought to Europe by the Spanish treasure fleets, and the dyestuffs of Europe were carried by colonists to America.

Throughout history, people have dyed their textiles using common, locally available materials, but scarce dyestuffs that produced brilliant and permanent colours such as the natural invertebrate dyes. Crimson kermes became highly prized luxury items in the ancient and medieval world. Red, yellow and orange shades were fairly easy to procure as they exist as common colourants of plants. It was blue that people sought most of all and purple even more so.

Indigofera tinctoria, a member of the legume or bean family proved just the trick. This lovely plant —  named by the famous Swedish botanist Carl Linneaus, the father of formalized binomial nomenclature — grows in tropical to temperate Asia and subtropical regions, including parts of Africa.

The plants contain the glycoside indican, a molecule that contains a nitrogenous indoxyl molecule with some glucose playing piggyback. 

Indigo dye is a product of the reaction of indoxyl by a mild oxidizing agent, usually just good old oxygen.

To make the lovely blue and purple dyes, we harvest the plants and ferment them in vats with urine and ash. The fermentation splits off the glucose, a wee bit of oxygen mixes in with the air (with those sturdy legs helping) and we get indigotin — the happy luxury dye of royalty, emperors and kings.

While much of our early dye came from plants — now it is mostly synthesized — other critters played a role. Members of the large and varied taxonomic family of predatory sea snails, marine gastropod mollusks, commonly known as murex snails were harvested by the Phoenicians for the vivid dye known as Tyrian purple.

While the extant specimens maintained their royal lineage for quite some time; at least until we were able to manufacture synthetic dyes, it was their fossil brethren that first captured my attention. There are about 1,200 fossil species in the family Muricidae. 

They first appear in the fossil record during the Aptian of the Cretaceous. Their ornate shells fossilize beautifully. I first read about them in Addicott's Miocene Gastropods and Biostratigraphy of the Kern River Area, California. It is a wonderful survey of 182 early and middle Miocene gastropod taxa.

References:

George E. Radwin and Anthony D'Attilio: The Murex shells of the World, Stanford University press, 1976, ISBN 0-8047-0897-5

Pappalardo P., Rodríguez-Serrano E. & Fernández M. (2014). "Correlated Evolution between Mode of Larval Development and Habitat in Muricid Gastropods". PLoS ONE 9(4): e94104. doi:10.1371/journal.pone.0094104

Miocene Gastropods and Biostratigraphy of the Kern River Area, California; United States Geological Survey Professional Paper 642  

THE SCIENCE OF SHELLS, CALCIUM AND COASTAL PRESERVATION

These past few years, I have found myself exploring the western edge of central Vancouver Island—the traditional, unceded territory of the Kʼómoks First Nation more and more.

This is a land where the forest meets the sea in a symphony of cedar, fir, and arbutus, their driftwood limbs worn smooth by the relentless rhythm of Pacific waves.

It’s easy to see why people have called this rugged coastline home for millennia.

Anyone who lives by the ocean knows the magnetic pull of natural treasures—smooth stones, curious fossils, and shells that beg to be picked up and admired.

These are nature’s souvenirs, tokens of geologic and biological processes that have been shaping our planet for hundreds of millions of years. My own home, a small shrine to these curiosities, features several abalone shells that now serve as nacre dishes for ceremony and collections of beach-found beauty.

But shells are far more than decoration. In coastal archaeology, they tell a story—of diet, settlement, and preservation. For countless generations, Indigenous coastal communities left behind shell middens—accumulations of discarded shells, bones, and other remnants of daily life. Far from simple refuse, these middens are time capsules.

Comox Foreshore, Kʼómoks First Nation / Photo: Kat Frank

As the shells break down, calcium carbonate (CaCO₃) leaches into the surrounding material, creating an alkaline environment that slows decay and can “embalm” organic matter like bone and antler. 

This remarkable natural chemistry is one reason we know so much about early toolmaking traditions—antler needles, for instance, survive beautifully in such conditions.

Calcium carbonate is one of Earth’s most abundant compounds, forming chalk, limestone, and marble. It’s the same substance that makes up seashells, coral skeletons, and even the exoskeletons of tiny marine plankton. In chemistry, CaCO₃ is a mild base—it neutralizes acids, which is why it’s found in antacids like Tums.

When exposed to stronger acids, it reacts to release carbon dioxide, as in the reaction:

CaCO₃(s) + 2HCl(aq) → CaCl₂(aq) + CO₂(g) + H₂O(l)

At high heat (above 840°C), calcium carbonate decomposes into quicklime (CaO) and carbon dioxide—a reaction used for thousands of years in lime kilns.

In a more natural setting, decaying bone absorbs calcium carbonate from surrounding shells.

The process gradually replaces the bone’s original organic components, strengthening it and making it more resistant to decay—a miniature version of fossilization.

Over centuries, the shells even enrich the soil, increasing alkalinity and preserving a record of meals, tools, and lives once lived along these shores.

Abalone have a surprisingly ancient and fascinating lineage in the fossil record! These marine gastropods belong to the genus Haliotis, within the family Haliotidae, and are part of the larger molluscan class Gastropoda—the same great evolutionary family that includes snails, limpets, and whelks.

The oldest confirmed Haliotis fossils appear in rocks from the Cretaceous, roughly 100 to 70 million years ago. Fossils have been found in marine deposits in places such as Europe, Japan, California, and New Zealand, showing that by the Late Cretaceous, abalones were already widely distributed across the world’s shallow coastal seas.

Comox Glacier viewed from the foreshore

Their distinctive ear-shaped shells and the characteristic row of respiratory holes (used for breathing and expelling waste) make them relatively easy to identify in the fossil record. 

While the earliest fossil abalone were generally smaller and less ornamented than modern species, their overall body plan hasn’t changed much—a testament to a highly successful design.

Abalones descend from ancient archaeogastropods, an early and primitive lineage of marine snails.

Over millions of years, they specialized for life clinging to rocky shorelines, developing their broad, muscular “foot” and strong grip to withstand crashing surf.

Their shell structure—a mix of aragonite and protein arranged in microscopic tiles—became one of the toughest biological materials known, inspiring modern materials science.

Because abalone shells are made of nacre (mother-of-pearl), they fossilize beautifully when conditions are right, sometimes preserving their iridescence even after tens of millions of years.

That shimmering interior you see in a beach-found abalone shell? It’s built of the same mineral layers that have been dazzling paleontologists since the age of the dinosaurs.

The second/central photo of shells from Comox, shared here by my cousin Kat Frank of the Kʼómoks First Nation, captures that same enduring beauty—a reminder that science, art, and culture are all written in the language of nature’s chemistry.

THE BLACK SANDS OF VESTRAHORN: MIST, WHALE BONE AND A VIKING VILLAGE

The wind sweeps low across the Stokksnes Peninsula, carrying with it the hiss of the North Atlantic and the scent of salt and volcanic ash. 

Ahead, rising like a serrated crown from the sea, stands Vestrahorn — Iceland’s most cinematic mountain. 

Its jagged peaks slice into the moody sky, the rock shifting from obsidian to gunmetal gray as clouds churn overhead. In the early morning, they are often pink shading to orange, capturing the best of the sky here. 

At its feet lies a stretch of black sand so stark, so primal, that it feels like stepping into another world — a place where Earth’s raw power is laid bare. There are dunes with hardy beach grass that contrast spectacularly with the black sand. 

And, if you are very lucky — and I was on this most recent trip — you can find whale bones on the beach.

Whale Bones at Stokksnes

The beach at Stokksnes is no ordinary shore. Instead of white or golden sand, the ground is composed of fine volcanic grains — pulverized lava from ancient eruptions that shaped this corner of southeastern Iceland. 

Underfoot, the sand is soft but heavy, absorbing light like velvet. When the tide pulls back, the wet surface mirrors the mountains perfectly, turning Vestrahorn upside down in a glassy reflection that seems too symmetrical to be real. 

It’s one of the most photographed scenes in the country, yet no image can fully capture the living drama of standing there, feeling the wind claw at your jacket as the surf crashes in slow, thunderous bursts.

Vestrahorn itself rises about 454 meters above sea level, its dark ridges composed primarily of gabbro and granophyre — intrusive igneous rocks formed deep within the Earth’s crust. 

Over millions of years, glacial erosion carved its sharp ridgelines and spires, leaving behind the distinct horn-like shapes that give the mountain its name. 

To the east, a smaller but equally brooding peak called Brunnhorn is sometimes referred to as “Batman Mountain,” thanks to its twin pointed ridges that resemble the caped silhouette of Gotham’s hero. Together, these peaks form a dramatic amphitheatre for the ocean’s endless performance.

But it’s not just geology that makes this place magnetic — it’s the atmosphere. On some days, the air is so still that the beach becomes a mirror, every dune and ripple duplicated in the wet sand. On others, storms roll in from the Atlantic, shrouding the mountains in fog and turning the world monochrome. 

The mood shifts by the hour, so you'll want to linger for days, waiting for the moment when the light breaks through — when the low Arctic sun glows amber across the dunes and the peaks ignite with colour.

The moody rust view you see here of the Viking Village was taken at first light. You can see how dense the mist is before it burns off, creating a Zen, off world feel.

In summer, the long daylight hours cast a golden halo that lingers late into the night. The coastal grasses, which grow in tufts among the black dunes, turn bright green and dance in the wind, creating waves of colour that contrast beautifully with the darkness of the sand. 

In winter, Vestrahorn becomes a place of deep stillness and magic. 

Snow drapes the mountain’s ridges while the beach remains bare, creating a striking juxtaposition of white and black. When the Northern Lights shimmer across the sky, the entire landscape becomes electric — the aurora’s green ribbons reflecting off the wet sand in surreal, shifting patterns.

The Stokksnes Peninsula, where this scene unfolds, lies near the town of Höfn in southeastern Iceland. It’s part of a headland that juts into the sea, guarded by a narrow causeway and a small radar station that dates back to the Cold War. 

Visitors pay a small entrance fee to cross the private land and walk the beach — a ticket that also gives access to the nearby Viking Café, a cozy stop at the foot of the mountain. The café serves steaming coffee, hot chocolate, waffles, and homemade soups, perfect for warming up after braving the coastal winds. 

Beside it lies a fascinating replica Viking village — originally built as a film set — with turf-roofed wooden houses, carved beams, and an authentic Old Norse atmosphere that feels like stepping back a thousand years.

For travelers wishing to linger, camping is permitted on site near the Viking Café, making it one of the most unique wild-like camping experiences in Iceland. The small campground overlooks the dunes and offers basic facilities — showers, restrooms, and access to the café during opening hours. 

Waking up here is unforgettable: imagine unzipping your tent to see Vestrahorn glowing in the dawn light, the first rays of sun painting the peaks while seabirds wheel overhead and the tide whispers across the black sand. In the evening, you can sit by your tent or campervan watching the last light fade behind the mountains, with nothing but the sound of the wind and waves for company.

The isolation adds to the mystique — there are no crowds here, only the rhythm of the sea, the cries of Arctic terns, and the occasional fox padding across the dunes. Vestrahorn is a place to feel small, to stand between sea and sky and sense the ancient heartbeat of the Earth. The combination of volcanic black sand, razor-edged peaks, and shifting Icelandic light makes it one of the most visually arresting landscapes on the planet.

As the sun dips low, painting the horizon in shades of copper and violet, the waves creep forward once more. Vestrahorn stands unshaken — a monument to time and fire, watching over the restless sea. And as darkness gathers on the black sands below, you realize that this is Iceland distilled: wild, raw, and achingly beautiful.

Know Before You Go

This site is one of my personal favs. You can camp here overnight. They have showers and cabins to rent. There is a cooking area in the parking lot with a microwave and hot plates. 

The overnight fee includes the showers (no need to have change), washrooms open 24 hours and access to the beach sites for parking to walk to the Viking Village or take amazing photos at sunrise and sunset on the beach. Beach access is 24 hours but the best photos for light are the beginning and end of day. 

Viking Village Cafe: Awesome service, friendly staff and the 2nd Best Coffee in Iceland at 900 Kr for a latte. 

Of interest, the very BEST coffee in Iceland (hands down) is at Skool Beans Cafe in Vik at Klettsvegur, 870 Vík, Iceland. Check them out at skoolbeans.com or @skool_beans.  They were the best part of several mornings on my trip. They have wonderful specialty coffees, hot chocolate variations and teas.   

Eating at Höfn

I recommend two places in Höfn to enjoy a meal, Pakkhús Restaurant at Krosseyjarvegur 3, 780 Höfn í Hornafirði, Iceland and Kaffi Hornid at Hafnarbraut 42, 780 Höfn í Hornafirði, Iceland.

If you head to Kaffi Hornid, try their Monster Burger (with delicious mushrooms) or the steak sandwich. Both are hearty and very satisfying, especially after a day hiking in the wilds of Iceland. 

PAPIKA MOUNTAIN WHISTLERS: MARMOTS

High in the misty alpine meadows of British Columbia’s Coast Mountains, the much beloved marmot, Marmota vancouverensis, whistles its name to the Pacific wind. 

These plump, chocolate-brown rodents—often mistaken for oversized squirrels by first-time hikers—are Canada’s most endangered mammal and one of the rarest in the world. 

With their expressive faces, social chatter, and luxurious fur coats, they’ve become beloved mascots of the region, yet their story stretches far beyond the ski hills—deep into the Ice Age and the fossil record.

Marmots live only in a few scattered pockets of alpine habitat on Vancouver Island. 

They’re burrowers by trade, digging deep tunnels into the rocky soil of meadows that blossom with lupines and sedges in summer. Above ground, they’re social creatures—touching noses, grooming one another, and giving high-pitched warning whistles whenever a golden eagle or wandering cougar appears on the horizon. 

They fatten themselves through the brief mountain summer, storing energy for their long, seven-month hibernation beneath the snow.

Each colony is a close-knit family unit, with older marmots helping younger ones learn where to dig and when to hide. They even recognize one another’s voices, an important trick when you’re living in echoing valleys where one chirp can bounce for kilometres.

The marmot’s lineage reaches far back into the Pleistocene, around 2.6 million to 11,700 years ago. Fossil evidence from North America shows that their ancestors, early marmotine rodents, thrived across cooler steppe and tundra landscapes when glaciers waxed and waned over the continent. 

Fossilized marmot bones—particularly jaw and skull fragments—have been found in Ice Age deposits in Yukon, Alaska, and Alberta, revealing that marmots were already well adapted to cold, alpine life long before modern humans reached the Pacific Northwest.

The Whistler marmot’s closest relatives today include the hoary marmot (Marmota caligata) and the Olympic marmot (Marmota olympus), both descendants of those hardy Ice Age pioneers. Genetic studies suggest that the Whistler marmot’s ancestors became isolated on Vancouver Island after sea levels rose at the end of the last glaciation, creating an island-bound species uniquely suited to its misty mountaintop home.

A Comeback Story

Once reduced to fewer than 30 individuals in the wild, the Whistler marmot is making a slow but steady comeback thanks to dedicated breeding and reintroduction programs. Today, over 200 roam the high meadows once more. Their cheerful whistles echo through the alpine air—sometimes feeling like a bit of heckling as you meander up the trails or stop to photograph the scenery—but always a welcome sound.

In Kwak'wala, the language of the many Kwakwaka'wakw First Nations of Vancouver Island, marmots are known as papika — the perfect word to describe these cute, fuzzy, chunky monkeys!

KELP FORESTS AND CARBON SINKS

Walk along any rocky beach on the Pacific coast after a storm, and you’ll likely find a treasure trove of kelp washed ashore—long ribbons of glossy brown seaweed, glistening in the sunlight like strands of mermaid hair. 

Some pieces stretch for meters, still tangled with small shells and bits of driftwood, while others hold tight, bulbous floats that once kept them buoyant in the underwater forests just offshore. 

When the tide recedes, the air fills with the unmistakable scent of iodine and salt—an ancient perfume carried by the sea.

Kelp is a brown alga, part of the group Phaeophyceae, which evolved roughly 150 to 200 million years ago. 

While kelp itself doesn’t fossilize easily (it’s soft-bodied and decomposes quickly), its ancient lineage can be traced through molecular and microfossil evidence. The earliest relatives of kelp likely appeared in the Jurassic seas, when dinosaurs ruled the land and the oceans teemed with ammonites. 

Microscopic spores and chemical biomarkers in sedimentary rocks tell scientists that brown algae were already photosynthesizing in shallow coastal waters long before the first mammals appeared.

Giant kelp, Macrocystis pyrifera, holds the title for the fastest-growing marine organism on Earth—it can shoot up more than half a meter a day under ideal conditions! 

These towering underwater forests provide shelter and food for thousands of marine creatures, from tiny snails to sea otters, who wrap themselves in the fronds to sleep without drifting away.

Back when I used to scuba drive a lot around Vancouver Island, they were one of my favourite places to explore as those underwater forests were teeming with life.

If you’re beachcombing in British Columbia, Alaska, or California, you might find bull kelp, Nereocystis luetkeana, recognizable by its long, whip-like stipe and single round float. It’s edible and surprisingly tasty. The blades can be dried and used like seaweed chips, while the bulb can be sliced thin and pickled—an oceanic delicacy with a salty, citrusy crunch. 

Other edible seaweeds you might encounter include sugar kelp, Saccharina latissima, which has a slightly sweet flavor, and ribbon kelp, Alaria marginata, often used in soups and salads.

On the foreshore near where I live on Vancouver Island, we have loads of sea lettuce. Sea lettuce, Ulva spp., is one of the ocean’s most vibrant and inviting greens—a delicate, translucent seaweed that looks like bright green tissue paper fluttering in the tide. 

Sea Otter in a Kelp Bed

When you find it washed ashore or swaying just below the surface, it shines an almost neon hue, catching the sunlight in shimmering waves of jade. 

Its thin, ruffled fronds are only a few cells thick, soft to the touch, and often cling to rocks, shells, or docks in intertidal zones where saltwater and freshwater mingle.

Unlike the giant brown kelps that form towering underwater forests, sea lettuce is part of the green algae group (Chlorophyta), sharing pigments more closely related to land plants. 

It grows worldwide in temperate and tropical waters and thrives wherever nutrient-rich water flows—estuaries, tide pools, and shallow bays. When the tide goes out, you might see it draped over rocks like sheets of emerald silk, drying slightly in the sun and releasing a faint, oceanic scent.

Sea lettuce is entirely edible and a favourite among foragers and coastal chefs. Fresh from the sea, it has a mild, slightly salty flavour with a hint of sweetness—similar to spinach or nori. It can be eaten raw in salads, lightly fried until crisp, or dried into flakes and used as a natural salt substitute. 

In many coastal cultures, from Ireland to Japan, Ulva has long been part of traditional cuisine. It’s also rich in vitamins A, C, and B12, along with iron and calcium—proof that sea greens can be as nutritious as they are beautiful. When my little sister was living in County Cork, she shared pictures of folk bathing in tubs of icy sea water and seaweed as a briny health spa treatment.

From a scientific perspective, sea lettuce plays an important ecological role. It provides shelter for small marine creatures like snails, shrimp, and juvenile fish, and it helps absorb excess nutrients from the water, which can help reduce harmful algal blooms. 

However, when too many nutrients enter the ocean—often from agricultural runoff—sea lettuce can grow explosively, creating dense “green tides” that blanket shorelines.

Its lineage stretches deep into the fossil record as well. While soft-bodied algae like Ulva rarely fossilize, green algal relatives appear in rocks over 1.6 billion years old, making them some of Earth’s earliest photosynthesizers.

Beyond their culinary and ecological roles, kelp forests act as powerful carbon sinks, pulling CO₂ from the atmosphere and storing it in the deep ocean. They also buffer coastlines from storms and provide nurseries for fish populations that support global fisheries.

As you stroll the shoreline and your toes brush against that slippery tangle of golden-brown ribbons, remember—you’re touching the living descendant of an ancient lineage that’s been swaying in Earth’s oceans since the age of dinosaurs—beautiful, ancient and tasty!

DINOSAUR RIDGE: DENVER, COLORADO

Tucked along the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains, just outside Denver, Colorado, lies one of the world’s most famous fossil localities: Dinosaur Ridge. 

This epic landscape is a place where deep time is etched into stone, where dinosaurs left their mark 150 million years ago, and where modern visitors can step directly into prehistory. It is a little like heaven!

The ridge is part of the Morrison Formation, a Late Jurassic rock unit renowned for its abundance of dinosaur fossils. Many of the first specimens that shaped our understanding of North American dinosaurs—including Stegosaurus, Apatosaurus, Diplodocus, and Allosaurus—were discovered here in the late 1800s during the feverish days of the Bone Wars — the famous fossil hunting fighting days of Cope and Marsh. 

Today, Dinosaur Ridge serves as both an outdoor museum and a natural classroom, where geology and paleontology meet fresh mountain air.

The main attraction is the Dinosaur Ridge Trail, a 1.5-mile paved walk (shuttle service is also available). Along the way, interpretive signs and viewing points highlight the ridge’s fossil treasures:

• Dinosaur tracks: Hundreds of fossilized footprints line the sandstone, most famously those of Iguanodon-like ornithopods and fearsome carnivorous theropods. Standing where a dinosaur once strode is both humbling and exhilarating.
• Ripple marks and mud cracks: These ancient impressions show that the area was once a shallow shoreline, where dinosaurs waded and water receded, leaving behind patterns still visible millions of years later.
• Bone quarries: Exposed rock layers reveal the same fossil-rich beds where early paleontologists extracted bones of long-necked sauropods and armored Stegosaurus.

The site also features striking geology, with tilted rock layers rising dramatically at an angle, giving visitors a clear glimpse into Earth’s shifting crust.

The Visitor Center Experience

Before or after the trail, the Dinosaur Ridge Visitor Center is worth a stop. Inside, you’ll find fossil replicas, hands-on activities for kids, and exhibits that tell the story of the dinosaurs and the scientists who first uncovered them. The staff and volunteers—many of them seasoned interpreters—bring the ridge’s history to life with enthusiasm.

What It Feels Like to Be There

Visiting Dinosaur Ridge gives all the "feels" you could ever ask for in a paleo field trip. The air is filled with the mingled scent of sagebrush and sun-warmed stone, while meadowlarks call from the surrounding grasslands. Standing beside a line of fossilized tracks, you can almost hear the splash of giant feet in mud, the rustle of prehistoric vegetation, and the low rumble of sauropods moving in herds. 

The contrast between Denver’s skyline in the distance and the Jurassic world beneath your feet makes for a surreal and unforgettable moment.

Planning Your Visit

• Location: Just off C-470 near Morrison, Colorado, about 25 minutes from downtown Denver.
• Best time to go: Spring and fall for cooler weather, though summer mornings can be pleasant.
• Accessibility: The paved trail is walkable, with shuttles available for those who prefer not to hike.
• Events: Check the Dinosaur Ridge website for guided tours, fossil festivals, and kids’ programs.

To stand on those rocks is to place yourself in a continuum of discovery, from the dinosaurs themselves, to the fossil hunters of the 19th century, to today’s scientists still uncovering new secrets. 

Whether you’re a lifelong paleontology fan or just curious about Earth’s story, Dinosaur Ridge offers a rare chance to literally walk in the footsteps of giants.

ANKYLOSAURS: ARMOURED, PLANT-EATING DINOSAURS

Ankylosaur — Armoured Plant-Eating Dinosaur

Ankylosaurs were armoured dinosaurs. We find their fossil remains in Cretaceous outcrops in western North America. They were amongst the last of the non-avian dinosaurs.

These sturdy fellows ambled along like little tanks all covered in spiky armour. They munched on foliage and were the original lawn mowers — 68 - 66 million years ago.

They reached about 1.7 m in height and weighed in at 4,800 – 8,000 kg. You can see the club at the end of their tail that they used to defend against predators. It would have packed quite the wallop.

The lovely illustration you see here is by the supremely talented Daniel Eskridge, shared with permission. You can see more of his work at www.fineartbydaniel.com.

GOLDEN TREASURES OF THE FOREST: CHANTERELLES

Chanterelle Mushrooms

Few things bring such joy to a forest wanderer as spotting the golden glow of a Chanterelle mushroom peeking through moss and salal — though most often, I find myself digging for them in the humus layer as they can be shy about being found. 

These fragrant fungi—Cantharellus cibarius and its Pacific cousin Cantharellus formosus—are some of the most beloved wild mushrooms in the world, prized for their apricot aroma, delicate texture, and buttery, nutty flavour.

Here on Vancouver Island, particularly in the mossy forests around Cowichan Lake, and along the slopes of Mount Prevost, Chanterelles thrive in symbiotic partnership with the island’s towering Douglas fir, hemlock, and western red cedar. 

Step into the forest after autumn rains, and you’ll find them nestled among sword ferns, huckleberry, and the deep green duff of centuries-old woodland. 

Their curved, ruffled caps and forked gills make them easy to spot once your eyes adjust to their warm, golden hue against the cool greens and browns of the forest floor.

Chanterelles are a modern forager’s delight but harken back to an ancient lineage with roots deep in fungal evolution. Fossil evidence of their broader group, the Basidiomycota, dates back at least 90 million years to the Cretaceous Period, when dinosaurs still roamed. 

Chanterelle Mushrooms

While fossils are rare—soft-bodied fungi don’t fossilize easily—amber-preserved fungal spores and mycorrhizal traces show that these forest partnerships between trees and fungi were already well established by then. 

Their ancestors were likely forming underground alliances with early flowering plants, exchanging nutrients in the soil long before humans walked the Earth.

Today, these same networks still hum beneath our feet in the Cowichan Valley, binding trees together in a web of life. So the next time you’re out after the rains on Vancouver Island, follow your nose—when you catch that sweet, fruity scent drifting through the forest air, you might just be standing above a patch of ancient gold.

Chanterelles are one of the few mushrooms that resist insect damage thanks to natural compounds they produce—so your forest find is often as pristine as it looks!

Foraging Tips: Respect the Forest and Your Find

If you’re venturing out to collect Chanterelles, tread lightly—these mushrooms are slow to grow and play a vital role in the forest ecosystem. 

Be patient! It can take a fair bit of poking about exploring the landscape to finally find your first tasty bit of gold!

Only harvest what you can use, cutting the stem rather than pulling from the ground to protect the delicate mycelium underground. 

Watch out for lookalikes, such as the False Chanterelle (Hygrophoropsis aurantiaca), which has deeper orange tones and true gills rather than the forked ridges of a real Chanterelle. 

With a keen eye, a respectful approach, and a sense of adventure, you can enjoy these golden treasures while keeping the forest thriving for years to come.

NUNAVUT: LAND OF ICE AND SNOW

A lone polar bear moves with quiet power across the snow and sea ice of Nunavut, its massive paws spreading its weight to keep it light atop the frozen surface. 

These apex predators have roamed the Arctic for hundreds of thousands of years, evolving from brown bear ancestors to master the shifting icescapes of the Pleistocene. 

Their range once spread wider during colder glacial ages, but Nunavut remains a stronghold of their territory, a place where bears still hunt seals, den in snowdrifts, and continue an ancient lineage intertwined with the rhythms of ice, ocean, and sky.

Nunavut, Canada’s northernmost territory, is a land that wears deep time on its sleeve. Its stark landscapes—wind-scoured ridges, icy fjords, and tundra plains—may appear empty at first glance, but beneath this silence lies one of Earth’s richest archives of geological and paleontological history. 

Stretching across nearly two million square kilometers of Arctic terrain, Nunavut preserves rocks that span more than three billion years, recording the birth of continents, the rise of early life, and the survival of animals through ancient seas and ice ages.

Nunavut’s remarkable geology and paleontology, from the planet’s earliest beginnings to Ice Age megafauna, tracing how this northern land has shaped and preserved Earth’s story.

Nunavut’s rocks are among the oldest on Earth. Much of its bedrock belongs to the Canadian Shield, a vast geological core of North America composed of Archean and Proterozoic rocks more than 2.5 to 3.9 billion years old. 

In regions such as the Acasta Gneiss Complex, which straddles the Northwest Territories and Nunavut, scientists have found rocks dated to around 4.0 billion years—nearly as old as the Earth itself.

These rocks tell the story of Earth’s early crustal formation, long before the emergence of complex life. They preserve the remnants of volcanic arcs, ancient oceans, and the slow suturing of microcontinents into larger continental plates. 

The geology of Nunavut is not uniform but instead a patchwork quilt of greenstone belts, granitic intrusions, and sedimentary basins, each marking different chapters in the planet’s tectonic evolution.

During the Paleozoic Era (541–252 million years ago), much of Nunavut lay beneath shallow tropical seas. Thick accumulations of limestone and shale from this time preserve fossils that record the explosion of marine biodiversity—from trilobites and brachiopods to early corals and cephalopods. Later, in the Mesozoic and Cenozoic Eras, tectonic shifts, rifting, and glaciation sculpted the modern Arctic landscape. 

Glacial scouring during the Pleistocene left behind U-shaped valleys, moraines, and eskers, reshaping the terrain and influencing how fossils are exposed today.

Cambrian Seas and the Rise of Early Life — Some of Nunavut’s most important paleontological treasures come from the Cambrian Period (541–485 million years ago). At sites such as Northwest Ellesmere Island, researchers have uncovered trilobites, archaeocyathids (reef-building sponges), and early echinoderms that once thrived in warm equatorial seas. These fossils highlight Nunavut’s role in documenting the Cambrian Explosion, the evolutionary burst when most major animal groups first appeared in the fossil record.

Devonian Coral Reefs — During the Devonian Period (419–359 million years ago), the region hosted extensive reef systems, comparable to modern-day Great Barrier Reef environments. Fossil corals, stromatoporoids (sponge-like reef builders), and early fishes—including the armored placoderms—have been found in the limestone deposits of Nunavut’s Arctic islands. These fossils provide insights into marine biodiversity during the so-called “Age of Fishes,” when vertebrates began diversifying rapidly.

Qikiqtania, a remarkable fossil fish discovered on southern Ellesmere Island in Nunavut, closely related to Tiktaalik, the famous “fishapod” that represents a key step in the transition from water to land is one of Nunavut's most significant Devonian fossils. Dating to about 375 million years ago in the Late Devonian, Qikiqtania wakei had a streamlined body and fins built for swimming, but unlike Tiktaalik, it lacked the robust limb bones that could have supported it on land. 

This begs the question of what those early vertebrates were up to and it seems their evolutionary path was experimenting with shallow-water or terrestrial habitats, while Qikiqtania remained fully aquatic, showing the diversity of evolutionary pathways at this pivotal moment in vertebrate history. Its name honors both the Qikiqtaaluk Region of Nunavut, where it was found, and the late evolutionary biologist David Wake, linking local geography with global science.

Jurassic and Cretaceous Dinosaurs of the Arctic — One of the most striking aspects of Nunavut’s fossil record is the presence of dinosaurs at high latitudes. On Bylot Island and Axel Heiberg Island, paleontologists have discovered hadrosaur (duck-billed dinosaur) remains dating to the Late Cretaceous, about 75 million years ago. These finds demonstrate that large herbivorous dinosaurs lived well within the Arctic Circle, enduring months of seasonal darkness and cooler climates than their relatives farther south.

Tracks preserved in sandstone also reveal the presence of theropods (predatory dinosaurs) that stalked these northern landscapes. The question of how dinosaurs adapted to Arctic conditions—whether through migration or physiological adaptations such as warm-bloodedness—remains an active field of study.

Fossil Forests of the High Arctic — Perhaps Nunavut’s most evocative paleontological record comes not from bones but from trees. On Axel Heiberg Island, paleontologists have uncovered the remains of Eocene-aged fossil forests dating to about 50 million years ago. These forests, preserved in remarkable detail, include upright stumps, leaf litter, and even mummified wood that still retains organic compounds.

At that time, the Arctic was much warmer, with a greenhouse climate that supported redwoods, dawn sequoias, and ginkgo trees. The fossil forests demonstrate that the Arctic once hosted lush ecosystems, challenging our assumptions about polar environments and providing crucial analogues for studying climate change today.

Marine Reptiles and Ancient Whales — The Cretaceous and early Cenozoic deposits of Nunavut also preserve marine reptiles such as plesiosaurs and mosasaurs, apex predators of the inland seas. Moving into the Cenozoic, fossils of early whales, including basilosaurids, have been recovered, highlighting the transition of mammals from land back to the ocean. These finds place Nunavut within the global story of marine evolution during a time when the Arctic Ocean was ice-free and biologically rich.

Fast forward to the Pleistocene (2.6 million–11,700 years ago), and Nunavut was home to a range of Ice Age megafauna. Fossils and subfossil remains of muskoxen, mammoths, caribou, and giant beavers have been found across the territory. These animals grazed tundra and steppe ecosystems during glacial cycles, coexisting with early human populations that migrated into the Arctic.

Human History and Fossil Knowledge — Nunavut’s paleontological heritage is intertwined with Indigenous knowledge. Inuit communities have long encountered fossils while traveling across the land, recognizing bones and shells as part of the natural history of their environment. Some fossils, like petrified wood or unusual stone shapes, carry cultural meanings and have been used in tools, carvings, or storytelling.

Nunavut’s population are Inuit, whose traditional language is Inuktut, which includes several dialects such as Inuktitut and Inuinnaqtun, still widely spoken across communities alongside English and French. Inuit knowledge of the land, sea, ice, and animals is profound, extending to fossils and unusual stones encountered on the tundra, which are often recognized and woven into oral traditions. 

Visitors interested in seeing fossils and learning more about Nunavut’s natural and cultural history can explore the Nunatta Sunakkutaangit Museum in Iqaluit, which preserves Inuit art and heritage alongside natural history exhibits, or the Canadian Museum of Nature in Ottawa, which holds important fossil collections from Nunavut that are not always displayed locally due to preservation and accessibility challenges.

A wave of scientific exploration of Nunavut’s fossils began in earnest in the 19th and 20th centuries with expeditions by geologists and paleontologists. Today, fossil research in Nunavut requires collaboration with Inuit communities, recognizing their stewardship of the land and the cultural importance of these discoveries.

Climate Change and the Future of Arctic Paleontology — As the Arctic warms, melting permafrost and retreating glaciers are exposing fossils at an unprecedented rate. While this accelerates discoveries—such as well-preserved Ice Age bones—it also threatens the long-term preservation of delicate specimens. Increased accessibility has also raised ethical and legal questions about fossil collection, ownership, and conservation.

Nunavut stands at the forefront of these challenges. Its fossils not only record the history of life but also offer lessons for the present: how species adapt (or fail to adapt) to climate shifts, how ecosystems respond to warming, and how biodiversity rebounds after mass extinctions. Protecting this paleontological heritage is essential for both science and culture. It is a remote part of the world that I would love to explore more of and see its rugged, natural beauty in all its splendor.

ROCK TO MUSEUM: THE JOURNEY OF A FOSSIL

Finding a fossil is like time-traveling with your hands. One moment you’re walking along a riverbank or quarry, scanning the ground, and the next—a fragment of bone, a whorl of an ammonite, or the outline of a fern leaf catches your eye. That thrill? It never gets old.

But the real magic happens after discovery. Fossils are often locked away in hard rock, fragile as porcelain and millions of years old. 

Paleontologists and citizen scientists use delicate tools—dental picks, air scribes, and fine brushes—to slowly free them, grain by grain. In some cases, a fossil is encased in plaster field jackets to keep it safe during transport, like a mummy wrapped for a journey through time.

Once back in the lab, preparation becomes part science, part art. Stabilizing cracks, cleaning away stone, and sometimes even using microscopes to reveal the smallest details—all of this ensures the fossil tells its story clearly. For research, every surface and feature matters: teeth reveal diets, bone growth shows age, and even microscopic scratches whisper about ancient ecosystems.

When the work is done, fossils can either stay in collections for study or move into museum galleries. There, preparators mount them with custom armatures or create casts so the originals remain protected. Under lights and glass, these specimens connect us to their history—turning silent stone into storytellers. 

Sometimes we see the specimen in isolation and other times we see who that creature was living amongst, how it made a living and what the environmental conditions were like. We might look at the pollen in the rock next to the fossil or bits of debris that help share these clues. 

Every fossil in a museum has taken this long journey: discovered in the field, carefully freed in the lab, then shared with the world. Next time you stand before a towering dinosaur skeleton or a delicate trilobite, remember—you’re looking at the results of both nature’s patience and human care.

DINOSAUR EGGS: FRAGILE LINKS TO DINOSAUR REPRODUCTION

Hadrosaur Eggs

Standing before a clutch of fossilized dinosaur eggs for the first time is a deeply moving experience. Unlike towering skeletons or fearsome teeth, eggs speak to vulnerability and the quiet promise of life that never came to be.

I have found many fossil feathers (another personal fav) but have yet to find dino eggs or any egg for that matter. While my track record here is beyond sparse, dinosaur eggs have been found on nearly every continent, from the deserts of Mongolia to the floodplains of Montana and the nesting grounds of Patagonia. 

The discovery of dinosaur eggs offers one of the most intimate glimpses into the life history of these long-extinct animals. Unlike bones or teeth, eggs preserve direct evidence of reproduction, nesting strategies, and even embryonic development. 

Over the last century, paleontologists and citizen scientists have uncovered thousands of fossilized eggs and eggshell fragments across the globe, revealing that dinosaurs laid their clutches in diverse environments ranging from deserts to floodplains.

Early Discoveries — The first scientifically recognized dinosaur eggs were discovered in the 1920s by the American Museum of Natural History’s Central Asiatic Expeditions to Mongolia’s Gobi Desert. 

Led by Roy Chapman Andrews, these expeditions unearthed clutches of round, fossilized eggs in the Djadokhta Formation. Initially misattributed to Protoceratops, later discoveries showed they belonged to the bird-like and immensely cool theropod Oviraptor. This corrected attribution changed the understanding of dinosaur nesting, particularly with the revelation of adults preserved brooding on nests.

Asia: The Richest Record — Asia remains the richest continent for dinosaur eggs.

Mongolia: The Gobi Desert has yielded numerous oviraptorid and hadrosaurid eggs, often preserved in nesting sites.

China: The Henan and Guangdong Provinces have produced abundant eggs, including complete clutches of hadrosaurs, theropods, and titanosaurs. Some sites, such as the Xixia Basin, contain thousands of eggshell fragments, telling us that these were long-term nesting grounds. Embryos preserved within eggs, like those of Beibeilong sinensis, provide rare developmental insights.

India: Extensive titanosaur nests from the Lameta Formation demonstrate colonial nesting behavior and some of the largest known egg accumulations.

North America has also yielded important dinosaur egg sites. Montana: The Two Medicine Formation preserves fossilized nests of hadrosaurids like Maiasaura peeblesorum, discovered by Jack Horner in the late 1970s. These finds gave rise to the concept of “good mother lizard,” as evidence suggested parental care and extended nesting.

Utah and Colorado: Eggshell fragments and isolated eggs of sauropods and theropods have been reported, though less commonly than in Asia.

South America: Sauropod Hatcheries — Argentina is home to some of the most significant sauropod nesting sites. In Patagonia, the Auca Mahuevo locality preserves thousands of titanosaur eggs, many with fossilized embryos inside. This site demonstrates large-scale nesting colonies and offers clues to sauropod reproductive strategies, including shallow burial of eggs in soft sediment.

Europe: A Widespread Record — Europe has produced diverse dinosaur egg finds, particularly in France, Spain, and Portugal. In southern France, sauropod egg sites such as those in the Provence region reveal clutches laid in sandy floodplains. Spain’s Tremp Formation contains both hadrosaurid and sauropod eggs, some associated with trackways, linking nesting and movement behavior.

Africa: Expanding the Map — Egg discoveries in Africa are less common but significant. In Morocco and Madagascar, titanosaur eggs have been recovered, suggesting a widespread distribution of sauropod nesting across Gondwana.

Dinosaur eggs fossilize under specific conditions. Burial by sediment soon after laying, mineral-rich groundwater for permineralization, and relative protection from erosion. Eggshell microstructure, pore density, and arrangement allow paleontologists to infer incubation strategies, from buried clutches similar to modern crocodilians to open nests akin to modern birds.

These fossils are remarkable for their beauty and rarity but also for the wealth of biological information they provide. These elusive fossils help us to understand dinosaur reproduction, nesting behaviour, and evolutionary ties to modern birds. I will continue my hunt and post pics to share with all of you if the Paleo Gods smile on me!

GULLS ON THE FORESHORE: T'SIKWI

A gull cries in protest at not getting his share of a meal

Many of us have the good fortune to live near the sea. It is one of the places I seek out to reset my energy and soak up the atmosphere.

I love the feeling of the wind on my face as I take my best-loved path down towards the water —the sand and shells under my feet.

In those moments, the foreshore is alive with the harsh, laughing cries of seagulls, their calls slicing through the steady hush of the tide. 

Wings flash white in the sunlight as they wheel and dive, squabbling over scraps, webbed feet slapping wet sand with a slap-slap before they lift again. The air is thick with the briny tang of seaweed and salt, mingled with the faint sourness of rotting kelp and shells cracked open by the tide. 

Each wave leaves behind a shining film on the rocks, and the gulls pick and probe at it with sharp yellow beaks, clattering and clucking in between their shrieks. The smell of the ocean mixes with the dry, feathery musk of the birds themselves, grounding the scene in a rhythm as ancient as the sea. This is the domain of the seagulls who call these shores home. 

Gulls, or colloquially seagulls, are seabirds of the family Laridae in the suborder Lari. The Laridae are known from not-yet-published fossil evidence from the Early Oligocene — 30–33 million years ago. 

Three gull-like species were described by Alphonse Milne-Edwards from the early Miocene of Saint-Gérand-le-Puy, France. 

Another fossil gull from the Middle to Late Miocene of Cherry County, Nebraska, USA, has been placed in the prehistoric genus Gaviota. 

These fossil gulls, along with undescribed Early Oligocene fossils are all tentatively assigned to the modern genus Larus. Among those of them that have been confirmed as gulls, Milne-Edwards' "Larus" elegans and "L." totanoides from the Late Oligocene/Early Miocene of southeast France have since been separated in Laricola.

Gulls are most closely related to the terns in the family Sternidae and only distantly related to auks, skimmers and distantly to waders. 

A historical name for gulls is mews, which is cognate with the German möwe, Danish måge, Swedish mås, Dutch meeuw, Norwegian måke/måse and French mouette. We still see mews blended into the lexicon of some regional dialects.

In the Kwak̓wala language of the Kwakwaka'wakw, speakers of Kwak'wala, of the Pacific Northwest, gulls are known as t̕sik̕wi. Most folk refer to gulls from any number of species as seagulls. This name is a local custom and does not exist in the scientific literature for their official naming. Even so, it is highly probable that it was the name you learned for them growing up.

If you have been to a coastal area nearly everywhere on the planet, you have likely encountered gulls. They are the elegantly plumed but rather noisy bunch on any beach. You will recognize them both by their size and colouring. 

Gulls are typically medium to large birds, usually grey or white, often with black markings on the head or wings. 

They typically have harsh shrill cries and long, yellow, curved bills. Their webbed feet are perfect for navigating the uneven landscape of the foreshore when they take most of their meals. 

Most gulls are ground-nesting carnivores that take live food or scavenge opportunistically, particularly the Larus species. Live food often includes crab, clams (which they pick up, fly high and drop to crack open), fish and small birds. Gulls have unhinging jaws which allow them to consume large prey which they do with gusto. 

Their preference is to generally live along the bountiful coastal regions where they can find food with relative ease. Some prefer to live more inland and all rarely venture far out to sea, except for the kittiwakes. 

The larger species take up to four years to attain full adult plumage, but two years is typical for small gulls. Large white-headed gulls are typically long-lived birds, with a maximum age of 49 years recorded for the herring gull.

Gulls nest in large, densely packed, noisy colonies. They lay two or three speckled eggs in nests composed of vegetation. The young are precocial, born with dark mottled down and mobile upon hatching. Gulls are resourceful, inquisitive, and intelligent, the larger species in particular, demonstrating complex methods of communication and a highly developed social structure. Many gull colonies display mobbing behaviour, attacking and harassing predators and other intruders. 

Certain species have exhibited tool-use behaviour, such as the herring gull, using pieces of bread as bait with which to catch goldfish. Many species of gulls have learned to coexist successfully with humans and have thrived in human habitats. 

Others rely on kleptoparasitism to get their food. Gulls have been observed preying on live whales, landing on the whale as it surfaces to peck out pieces of flesh. They are keen, clever and always hungry. Near where I live along the west coast, I hear their calls and they always bring a smile to my day.

THE SPIRIT BEARS OF CANADA'S WEST COAST

Mist clings to the moss-draped cedars, and the river below churns with the silver flash of salmon fighting upstream. 

Then, out of the shadows, a pale figure steps onto the slick stones—a spirit bear, its coat glowing against the emerald forest like a ghost made flesh. 

Each movement is unhurried, deliberate, as if the forest itself pauses to watch. Water beads and slides down its fur, its great head lifting to catch the scent of fish on the wind. 

In that moment, the rainforest hushes—ravens fall silent, even the river seems to soften—leaving only the sound of your breath and the soft trickle of a nearby stream as you realize you are witnessing something few people on Earth ever see.

On the temperate rainforests of British Columbia’s central and north coast, a rare white-furred black bear (Ursus americanus kermodei) roams among towering cedars, moss-draped hemlocks, and salmon-rich rivers. 

Known scientifically as the Kermode bear but more commonly called the spirit bear, this unique subspecies of the American black bear holds both biological and cultural significance. Their pale coats, the result of a genetic variation, have captured global fascination while remaining deeply rooted in the traditions of local First Nations peoples.

Spirit bears are not albinos; rather, their distinctive white coat results from a recessive allele in the melanocortin 1 receptor (MC1R) gene. 

To display the white fur, an individual must inherit the allele from both parents. Roughly 10–20% of the Kermode bear population in some regions are white-coated, though overall only about 1 in 10 black bears in the subspecies carries this trait. The remainder are typically black-furred, indistinguishable from other American black bears at a glance.

Spirit bears inhabit the Great Bear Rainforest, one of the largest remaining intact temperate rainforests in the world, stretching along British Columbia’s remote central and northern coast. 

They are most frequently found on Princess Royal Island and Gribbell Island, as well as smaller portions of the surrounding mainland. These regions offer a rich mosaic of old-growth conifer forests, rivers teeming with salmon, and sheltered estuaries that provide food and cover.

Like other black bears, spirit bears are omnivorous generalists. Their diet changes seasonally:

• Spring: young vegetation, grasses, sedges, and roots.
• Summer: berries (salmonberries, huckleberries, blueberries), insects, and carrion.
• Autumn: spawning Pacific salmon (Oncorhynchus spp.), which form the most critical food source for building fat reserves before winter denning. Salmon runs sustain the bears and also fertilize the forest. Bears often carry fish into the understory, leaving behind nutrients that enrich soil and feed trees, mosses, and invertebrates—a classic example of nutrient cycling.

Spirit bears are generally solitary, though feeding grounds such as salmon streams may bring multiple individuals together. Unlike coastal grizzlies, they tend to avoid confrontations, relying on patience and stealth while fishing. Interestingly, recent research suggests that spirit bears may enjoy a fishing advantage: their pale coats are less visible to salmon in bright daylight, allowing them to capture fish more efficiently than darker bears.

In late autumn, spirit bears retreat to winter dens, often dug into hollow logs, root systems, or natural rock shelters. They enter a state of torpor rather than true hibernation, slowing their metabolism while occasionally rousing during warmer spells. Cubs are born during this denning period, usually in January, and remain with their mothers for 1.5–2.5 years.

For millennia, the white bear has held deep spiritual and cultural meaning for First Nations peoples of the Pacific Northwest, including the Gitga’at, Kitasoo/Xai’xais, and Heiltsuk Nations. 

Known as moksgm’ol among the Gitga’at, the spirit bear is revered as a reminder of the Ice Age, when the land was blanketed in snow and ice. Oral traditions tell that Raven made one in every ten bears white to remind people of the time when glaciers ruled the earth, teaching humility and respect for nature.

Today, First Nations guardians continue to play a central role in protecting spirit bear habitats, leading stewardship programs, guiding visitors, and sharing cultural teachings. Their leadership was instrumental in the establishment of conservation agreements that limit industrial development and preserve the Great Bear Rainforest.

Though not classified as endangered, spirit bears are vulnerable due to their limited genetic distribution and reliance on intact rainforest ecosystems. Logging, habitat fragmentation, and declining salmon populations pose risks. The protection of their habitat through the 2016 Great Bear Rainforest Agreement and ongoing Indigenous stewardship has been critical in ensuring their survival.

Viewing Spirit Bears — Because of their rarity and remote habitat, spirit bears are challenging but not impossible to see in the wild. Some of the best-known viewing opportunities include:

• Princess Royal Island – the largest concentration of spirit bears.
• Gribbell Island – often called the “mother island” of the white bear.
• Kitasoo/Xai’xais territory near Klemtu – guided spirit bear tours led by Indigenous stewards.

Tourism is strictly managed to reduce disturbance and ensure that viewing supports conservation and local communities.

The spirit bear is a striking example of how biology and culture intertwine. Its unique genetics, ecological role in the rainforest, and place in Indigenous oral traditions make it an emblem of both natural wonder and cultural heritage. 

Protecting the spirit bear means safeguarding the Great Bear Rainforest itself—a living system where salmon, cedar, eagle, wolf, and bear are inseparably linked.

SPINOSAURUS: BIGGER THAN T-REX. APEX. ALIEN

Spinosaurus the Spine Lizard of the Cretaceous

This beautiful big boy painted in yellow, green and blue is Spinosaurus aegyptiacus. 

Bigger than T. rex, armed with crocodile-like jaws and a towering sail, it ruled both land and water.

Picture it slicing through ancient swamps, fish thrashing in its jaws, its sail cutting the horizon like a ship’s mast of bone. Apex. Alien.

Unstoppable.

Spinosaurus (meaning "spine lizard") is a genus of spinosaurid dinosaur that lived in what now is North Africa during the Cenomanian to upper Turonian in the Late Cretaceous— 99 to 93.5 million years ago. 

The genus was known first from Egyptian remains discovered in 1912 and described by German palaeontologist Ernst Stromer in 1915. 

The original remains were destroyed in World War II, but additional material came to light in the early 21st century.  It is unclear whether one or two species are represented in the fossils reported in the scientific literature. The best known species is S. aegyptiacus from Egypt, although a potential second species, S. maroccanus, has been recovered from Morocco. The contemporary spinosaurid genus Sigilmassasaurus has also been synonymized by some authors with S. aegyptiacus, though other researchers propose it to be a distinct taxon. 

In 2014, Ibrahim and his colleagues suggested that Spinosaurus aegyptiacus could reach over 15 metres (49 ft) in length. 

In 2022, however, Paul Sereno and his colleagues suggested that Spinosaurus aegyptiacus reached a maximum body length of 14 metres (46 ft) and a maximum body mass of 7.4 metric tons (8.2 short tons) by constructing an adult flesh model "with the axial column in neutral pose."

Spinosaurus is the longest known terrestrial carnivore; other large carnivores comparable to Spinosaurus include theropods such as Tyrannosaurus, Giganotosaurus and Carcharodontosaurus. This was a big fella. S. aegyptiacus reached 14 metres (46 ft) in length and 7.4 metric tons (8.2 short tons) in body mass and was a terrifying predator in his day. 

The skull of Spinosaurus was long, low, and narrow, similar to that of a modern crocodilian, and bore straight conical teeth with no serrations. It would have had large, robust forelimbs bearing three-fingered hands, with an enlarged claw on the first digit. 

The distinctive neural spines of Spinosaurus, which were long extensions of the vertebrae (or backbones), grew to at least 1.65 meters (5.4 ft) long and were likely to have had skin connecting them, forming a sail-like structure, although some have suggested that the spines were covered in fat to form hump. I would definitely exit the water if I knew that these was the hunting grounds of these stealthy predators.