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.

ASAPHISCUS WHEELERI TRILOBITE: WHISPERS FROM THE WHEELER FORMATION

This beauty is Asaphiscus wheeleri, one of the most beloved trilobites from North America's Cambrian seas.

This elegant species lived roughly 505 million years ago during the Middle Cambrian, a time when complex animal life was blossoming in what is often called the Cambrian Explosion. 

The landscapes we know today did not yet exist. There were no forests rustling in the wind, no birdsong, no flowers, and certainly no dinosaurs. Much of western North America lay beneath warm, shallow tropical seas teeming with unfamiliar life.

Asaphiscus wheeleri is most famously found in the Wheeler Formation of Utah, particularly in Millard County. These dark shales and limestones have yielded some of the most extraordinary windows into Cambrian marine ecosystems. 

The Wheeler Formation is renowned not only for its abundance of trilobites but also for preserving the softer-bodied creatures that rarely survive the passage of deep time.

The Wheeler Formation has attracted many bright minds to its enticing strata. Researchers, including Harry B. Whittington of Cambridge University, helped revolutionize our understanding of Cambrian life by re-examining many of these enigmatic creatures and revealing that the Cambrian seas were far more diverse and experimental than previously imagined. 

More recently, scholars such as Richard A. Robison of the University of Kansas devoted decades to studying Utah's Cambrian strata, refining the biostratigraphy of the Wheeler Formation and illuminating the lives of its trilobites, including Asaphiscus. 

The formation has also benefited from the careful work of countless museum curators, collectors, preparators, and researchers whose combined efforts continue to expand our understanding of this remarkable slice of deep time — curious minds piecing together the story of life from fragments of ancient seas.

Like many trilobites, Asaphiscus wheeleri wore its skeleton on the outside. Its broad cephalon, or head shield, segmented thorax, and neatly rounded pygidium gave it a graceful, balanced appearance. 

It likely spent much of its life moving across the seafloor, feeding on organic material and whatever morsels it could gather from the soft sediment beneath those ancient waves. And what company it kept.

Swimming overhead were strange predators such as Anomalocaris, one of the largest animals of its day, armed with grasping appendages and a circular mouth that has fascinated us for generations. 

Nearby drifted jellyfish-like organisms and delicate sponges anchored to the seabed. Worms burrowed through the mud, leaving behind trace fossils that still tell their stories today. Other trilobites shared these waters as well, each occupying their own ecological niche in this increasingly complex marine world.

The Wheeler Formation also preserves enigmatic creatures such as Peytoia, the spiny worm-like Ottoia, and beautifully preserved algae and soft-bodied animals that help us reconstruct life during this remarkable chapter in Earth's history. It was a world both alien and familiar — ecosystems beginning to take on the intricate relationships we recognise in modern oceans.

Asaphiscus wheeleri lived during a time of tremendous evolutionary innovation, navigating seas filled with both opportunity and danger. 

Yet here it is, half a billion years later, resting in stone and offering us a glimpse into a world long vanished.

Photo: Asaphiscus wheeleri, Middle Cambrian, Wheeler Formation, Utah, USA. ~505 million years old.

BOOMERANGS, BATH TUBS & BIZARRE HEADGEAR: MEET DIPLOCAULUS

The Permian Amphibian Diplocaulus

If evolution had a sense of humour—and I strongly suspect it did—then Diplocaulus would be one of its finest punchlines.

This wonderfully peculiar amphibian paddled through the rivers, swamps and shallow waterways of North America during the Late Carboniferous and Early Permian, roughly 300 to 270 million years ago. 

Long before dinosaurs strutted onto the scene, Diplocaulus was already making questionable evolutionary choices with absolute confidence, sporting a head shape like a V-Wing Airspeeder.

Oh, what a look it had.

Its most striking feature was an enormous, boomerang-shaped skull, with dramatic horn-like projections extending out to either side of its head. Adults reached about a metre (three feet) in length, though much of their visual impact came from those extravagant cranial "wings." If you've ever wondered what would happen if a salamander and a stealth bomber had a baby, well... here we are.

Naturally, paleontologists have spent more than a century asking, "Why the head?"

One leading idea suggests those broad extensions acted like hydrofoils, helping Diplocaulus maintain stability in flowing water and perhaps even generating lift as it swam. Another possibility is that the odd shape made it difficult for predators to swallow. Imagine trying to gulp down a living barbell sideways. Some researchers have also suggested the horns may have played a role in display or species recognition.

Whatever their purpose, they worked well enough for Diplocaulus to persist for millions of years.

Despite its crocodilian silhouette, Diplocaulus was not a reptile but a lepospondyl amphibian, part of an ancient lineage that has long since vanished. Its fossils are best known from Texas and Oklahoma, where Permian red beds have yielded beautifully preserved specimens. 

These ancient floodplains were home to a cast of strange creatures, including sail-backed Dimetrodon, heavily armoured amphibians and some of the earliest relatives of mammals.

It was a world in transition.

The Carboniferous forests that had given rise to vast coal deposits were fading. The climate was becoming drier. Evolution was experimenting wildly, trying out new body plans and ecological strategies. Some lineages flourished. Others quietly disappeared.

And then there was Diplocaulus, gliding through muddy waterways looking as though it had wandered in from an entirely different planet.

One of the great joys of paleontology is discovering that the past was never dull. For every sleek predator or towering dinosaur, there was something delightfully weird lurking in the undergrowth or drifting through ancient streams.

Frankly, if someone told me they'd seen one while paddleboarding at dusk, I'd have a lot of follow-up questions... but I wouldn't rule it out entirely.

There is something irresistibly charming about Diplocaulus and its apparent evolutionary strategy: commit wholeheartedly to being gloriously, unapologetically odd.

Fossil age: Late Carboniferous to Early Permian (approximately 300–270 million years ago)

Known from: North America, especially Texas and Oklahoma

Most Diplocaulus fossils hail from the Permian Red Beds of Texas and Oklahoma, where ancient rivers meandered across broad floodplains beneath a hot, seasonal climate. It was here, in formations such as the Arroyo, Vale and Choza of Texas, that this gloriously odd amphibian made its home some 280 million years ago.

A wee fossil-hunting note: many of these classic localities are on private land, so collecting requires landowner permission or participation in authorised scientific work. 

While the Castle Doctrine is not an invitation to recreate the Wild West, I'd still recommend avoiding unscheduled appearances on someone else's land — full stop. Ask permission, mind your manners, and save the heart-pounding excitement for the fossils themselves.

And no, I have never been shot at in Texas, but I have received some rather enthusiastic ballistic encouragement to move along while fossil hunting in Alberta. 

End Note: Had Ridley Scott grown up in the Permian, I would have placed the blame for Diplocaulus squarely on his shoulders. The eerie silhouette of the Derelict—also known as the Juggernaut—from Alien (1979) and later Prometheus (2012) is creepily reminiscent of this boomerang-headed amphibian. Coincidence? Almost certainly. But once you've seen it, you can't unsee it.

CREAMY PERFECTION: MUSASHIA FOSSIL GASTROPOD

Fossil Gastropod: Musashia

If you’ve ever set foot on Washington’s Olympic Peninsula, you know it feels like walking into awe inspiring nature—towering evergreens breathing fog, lush moss, the surf lapping at her shores and rivers that coil like dragons guarding secrets. 

What most visitors don’t know is that beneath all that soft green wizardry lies one of the wildest geologic patchwork quilts on the continent, stitched together from bits of wandering seafloor, ancient islands, and the sorts of rocks that only a subduction zone could love.

Let’s start with the big mover and shaker: the Juan de Fuca Plate, Earth’s most polite tectonic dinner guest, eternally slipping under North America with the quiet persistence of someone trying not to disturb the table. 

For millions of years, the seafloor has been bulldozed downward, its sediments scraped off, rolled up, smushed, and plastered onto the edge of the continent. 

This collection of recycled deep-ocean debris—sandstones, shales, basalts, the occasional volcano gone rogue—forms the Olympic Subduction Complex, a name that sounds like a niche gymnastics event but is, in fact, the bedrock of the peninsula.

Now here’s where it gets juicy: among all that tectonic tumbleweed lie fossils. Unexpected fossils. Delightful fossils. 

Fossils that survived a one-way trip toward the mantle and still managed to hang on long enough for you to admire them.

Take the Makah Formation along the peninsula’s rugged northwest edge—a dramatic stretch where Eocene-age marine rocks (think 35–40 million years old) preserve the remains of ancient deep-water creatures. 

Here you can find the ghostly traces of prehistoric whales, fish, and even the occasional bird that took one wrong turn over the Pacific. 

These fossils are often so beautifully preserved that they look like they’ve been waiting under the waves for their close-up. 

Look at the amazing preservation in the picture perfect gastropod, Musashia, a type of fossil snail or gastropod, belonging to the subgenus Fulgoraria (Musashia) and are part of the larger family Volutidae. 

The beauty in my hand here is from the Lower Miocene, Clallam Formation from Washington state's oh-so-purdy Olympic Peninsula. 

It is a wonderful place to collect as the beach exposures are pure beauty in their own right.

FEED ME, SEYMOURIA: PERMIAN SHENANIGANS

Seymouria baylorensis

Feed me, Seymouria!" No, not the man-eating plant from Little Shop of Horrors — though life in the Early Permian had its fair share of drama. 

Meet Seymouria baylorensis, an evolutionary troublemaker that spent decades confusing us by looking suspiciously reptilian while secretly being an amphibian.

Named for Seymour, Texas, where its fossils were first discovered in the famous Permian red beds of Baylor County, Seymouria baylorensis lived roughly 280 million years ago. 

At that time, North America sat much closer to the equator, and the landscape was a seasonally dry floodplain threaded with rivers and ponds. Dragonflies zipped through the warm air, sail-backed predators such as Dimetrodon prowled the landscape, and amphibians of every shape and size made the most of a world still finding its footing after life first ventured onto land.

At around 60 centimetres (two feet) in length, Seymouria was no giant, but it had presence. With sturdy limbs, a robust body, and well-developed vertebrae, it looked every bit like an early reptile striding confidently across the Permian countryside. For years, scientists classified it as exactly that — one of the first true reptiles.

Plot twist: it wasn't.

The answer came, as it so often does in paleontology, from the youngsters. Juvenile Seymouria fossils revealed evidence of aquatic beginnings, including features associated with external gills. While the adults may have spent much of their lives exploring the drier side of the floodplain, their early life stages still depended on water.

Seymouria baylorensis

Rather than being an early reptile, Seymouria turned out to be a close amphibian relative experimenting with a more terrestrial lifestyle. It was an evolutionary in-betweener — an amphibian dressed in reptilian clothing, testing out what life away from the pond might have to offer.

I have a soft spot for these wonderfully awkward creatures. We often imagine evolution as a neat procession: one group gives rise to another in a tidy, orderly fashion. The fossil record cheerfully disagrees. It is filled with experiments, side branches, doors that lead off to nowhere and organisms trying on new adaptations like last season's fashions.

Seymouria was one of those experiments.

Nature is less interested in our categories than we are. Evolution tinkers. It improvises. It throws ideas at the wall and occasionally comes up with something extraordinary.

So, should some little darling ask whether Seymouria was an amphibian or a reptile, you can smile knowingly and say, "Well, that's where things get interesting." 

Because 280 million years ago, on the sun-baked floodplains of what is now Texas, Seymouria baylorensis was busy blurring the lines.

And let's be honest, any fossil that gives people an excuse to mentally picture a two-foot-long Permian amphibian belting show tunes while trundling across a Texas floodplain is a win in my books. 

Evolution isn't always neat and tidy. Sometimes it's just 280 million years of Permian shenanigans.

SPISULA FOSSIL CLAMS FROM HAIDA GWAII

Some lovely Spisula praecursor (Dall) fossil clams from the Skonun Formation of Haida Gwaii, British Columbia, captured from the Miocene when this coastline looked very different from today. 

These fossil bivalves belong to the surf clam lineage, a group well adapted to shallow, energetic marine environments with shifting sands and strong wave action. 

Their robust, equivalve shells and streamlined form speak to a life spent burrowed just beneath the sediment surface, filtering seawater for food while riding out constant motion above.

The Skonun Formation preserves a rich snapshot of nearshore marine life along the northeastern Pacific margin during the Miocene, roughly 23 to 5 million years ago. 

At that time, Haida Gwaii lay along an active tectonic edge, with sediments accumulating in coastal and shelf settings influenced by currents, storms, and abundant nutrient flow. 

Fossils such as Spisula praecursor help us reconstruct these dynamic environments, offering clues about water depth, substrate type, and even paleoclimate.

These particular specimens came from a single block only accessible on a falling tide. Timing, as ever, was everything—and the tide had other ideas. 

The excavation involved equal parts determination and seawater, leaving both collector and fossils thoroughly soaked. Still, there is something fitting about getting wet while freeing marine clams from their ancient shoreline, a small reminder that fieldwork often mirrors the environments we are trying to understand.

MISTY SHORES AND DAPPLED LIGHT: HAIDA GWAII

Misty shores, moss-covered forests, dappled light, and the smell of salt air—these are my memories of Haida Gwaii, a land where ancient stories are written in stone.

Formerly known as the Queen Charlotte Islands, the archipelago of Haida Gwaii lies at the far western edge of Canada, where the Pacific Ocean meets the continental shelf. 

These islands—steeped in the rich culture of the Haida Nation—are not only a cultural treasure but a geologic and paleontological wonderland.

Geologically, Haida Gwaii is part of Wrangellia, an exotic tectonostratigraphic terrane that also includes parts of Vancouver Island, western British Columbia, and Alaska. The region's complex geological history spans hundreds of millions of years and includes volcanic arcs, seafloor spreading, and the accretion of entire landmasses.

The Geological Survey of Canada (GSC) has long been fascinated with these remote islands. 

Their geologists and paleontologists have led numerous expeditions over the past century, documenting the diverse sedimentary formations and fossiliferous beds. 

Much of the foundation for this work was laid by Joseph Frederick Whiteaves, the GSC’s chief paleontologist in Ottawa during the late 19th century.

In 1876, Whiteaves published a pioneering paper on the Jurassic and Cretaceous faunas of Skidegate Inlet. This work firmly established the paleontological significance of the archipelago and cemented Whiteaves’ reputation as a global authority in the field. His paper, "On the Fossils of the Cretaceous Rocks of British Columbia" (GSC Report of Progress for 1876–77), remains a key early reference for West Coast palaeontology.

Later, Whiteaves would go on to describe Anomalocaris canadensis from the Burgess Shale—an “unlike other shrimp” fossil that would later be recognized as one of the most extraordinary creatures of the Cambrian explosion.

Whiteaves' early work on the fossil faunas of Haida Gwaii, particularly in the Haida Formation, created a foundation for generations of researchers to follow.

One of our most memorable fossil field trips was to the Cretaceous exposures of Lina Island, part of the Haida Formation. We considered it one of our “trips of a lifetime.” 

With great sandstone beach exposures and fossil-rich outcrops dating from the Albian to Cenomanian, Lina Island offered both scientific riches and stunning natural beauty.

Haida Fossil Fauna

Our expedition was supported and organized by John Fam, Vice Chair of the Vancouver Paleontological Society, and Dan Bowen, Chair of the British Columbia Paleontological Alliance and the Vancouver Island Paleontological Society. 

Their dedication to fostering collaborative research and building relationships with local Haida communities was key. 

We were warmly welcomed, and field trips to fossil sites were arranged in partnership with community members and cultural stewards.

The Haida Formation yielded beautifully preserved specimens embedded both in bedding planes and in concretions—hard, rounded nodules that often house exceptionally preserved fossils. 

Collecting in the mists along the foreshore, our finds included:

• Douvilleiceras spiniferum
• Brewericeras hulenense
• Cleoniceras perezianum
• Fossil cycads, evidence of rich Cretaceous plant life

These fossils offered a rare glimpse into an ancient marine ecosystem that once teemed with life. Douvilleiceras, a spiny ammonite, is particularly striking. 

Douvilleiceras spiniferum, Haida Gwaii

This genus, first identified by Whiteaves from Haida Gwaii, ranges from the Middle to Late Cretaceous and has been found across Asia, Africa, Europe, and the Americas.  

The Haida specimens, from the early to mid-Albian, to my eye are the most beautiful—and beautifully preserved.

  Douvilleiceras is one of my favourite ammonites of all time and I was blessed to find several good examples of that species from our expeditions to these fossil-rich outcrops.

All of the fossils I collected from Haida Gwaii have been skillfully prepped and donated to the Haida Gwaii Museum in Skidegate, British Columbia. 

It is a privilege to contribute in a small way to the scientific and cultural understanding of these extraordinary islands.

References and Further Reading:

Whiteaves, J.F. (1876). On the Fossils of the Cretaceous Rocks of British Columbia. Geological Survey of Canada, Report of Progress.

Jeletzky, J.A. (1970). Paleontology of the Cretaceous rocks of Haida Gwaii. Geological Survey of Canada, Bulletin 175.

Haggart, J.W. (1991). New Albian (Early Cretaceous) ammonites from Haida Gwaii. Canadian Journal of Earth Sciences, 28(1), 45–56.

Haggart, J.W. & Smith, P.L. (1993). Paleontology and stratigraphy of the Cretaceous Queen Charlotte Group. Geological Survey of Canada Paper 93-1A.

Carter, E.S., Haggart, J.W., & Mustard, P.S. (1988). Early Cretaceous radiolarians from Haida Gwaii and implications for tectonic setting. Micropaleontology, 34(1), 1–14.

ANCIENT ELEGANCE: UINTACRINUS OF KANSAS

There is a particular kind of quiet magic in the world, the sort that sends a small shiver of awe through you when all the elements of deep time align. 

Every so often, nature grants us a perfect moment: minerals seep gently into ancient flesh, sediments cradle a creature’s delicate form, and the slow choreography of preservation captures a life in astonishing detail. 

For me, nothing embodies that magic quite like crinoids. These elegant echinoderms—equal parts flower and animal—feel like whispers from an ancient sea, caught forever in stone.

The specimen before us is no exception. If you lean in close and let your eyes wander across its intricate geometry, you will find yourself face to face with a stunning representative of Uintacrinus socialis. 

This Upper Cretaceous beauty, hailing from the Santonian roughly 85 million years ago, was first named nearly a century and a half ago by O.C. Marsh in honour of the Uinta Mountains of Utah. 

This specimen hail from the soft chalky layers of the Smoky Hills Niobrara Formation in central Kansas—a region that once lay beneath the warm, shallow waters of the Western Interior Seaway. Here, entire colonies of Uintacrinus drifted like living chandeliers, their feathery arms extended into the sun-dappled currents.

Crinoids are the quiet dancers of the animal kingdom. Although they appear plant-like—an underwater blossom swaying gracefully in the tide—they are very much animals, part of the illustrious echinoderm clan that includes sea stars, brittle stars, and urchins. 

Imagine a lily turned sentient: a cup-shaped central body holding a mouth on its upper surface, surrounded by delicate, branching arms that sweep food particles from the water. 

And, in true echinoderm fashion, add an anus inconveniently positioned right beside the mouth. Evolution, it seems, has a sense of humour.

The anchored species, traditionally called sea lilies, rise from the seafloor on slender stalks composed of stacked calcite rings—columnals—that resemble beads fallen from some ancient necklace. In shallower waters, the stalks can be short and sturdy, but in deeper seas they may stretch a metre or more, holding the crinoid aloft like the mast of a living ship, swaying gently with each passing current.

Yet most crinoids in today’s oceans are not anchored at all. The feather stars, or comatulids, break free from their juvenile stalks and spend their adulthood drifting, crawling, or even swimming with slow, balletic strokes of their arms. 

They cling to rocks and coral with tiny curved structures called cirri—delicate as eyelashes yet strong enough to grip firmly in swirling water. These cirri also allowed many fossil crinoids to hold fast to the Cretaceous seafloor, weathering tides and storms in the vast expanse of the Western Interior Seaway.

Like all echinoderms, crinoids exhibit pentaradial symmetry: a five-fold architecture expressed in their plates, arms, and feeding grooves. The aboral, or underside, of the calyx is encased in a mosaic of calcium carbonate plates that form their internal skeleton—robust enough to fossilize beautifully. 

The top surface, the oral area, is mostly soft tissue in life, opening into five deep ambulacral grooves where tube feet once reached outward like tiny graceful fingers. Between these lie the interambulacral zones, together forming the elegant star-like pattern that both living and fossil crinoids display.

Their fossil record is ancient and abundant. Crinoids first appear in the Ordovician over 450 million years ago—unless one counts Echmatocrinus, that strange and controversial form from the Burgess Shale whose affinities still spark debate among paleontologists. 

Through the Paleozoic, crinoids flourished in such numbers that their disarticulated columnals often blanket limestone beds. In some places, these columnals form the very fabric of the rock itself, creating entire cliffs built from the remnants of ancient underwater meadows. To run your fingers along such a rock is to touch a community that lived hundreds of millions of years before humans ever drew breath.

And yet, crinoids endure. They survive today in tropical reefs, deep ocean slopes, and soft-bottomed basins, their lineage stretching unbroken from those early Paleozoic seas to the modern oceans. 

Some cling to the seafloor in twilight depths; others drift like feathered ghosts, arms unfurling in silent, rhythmic pulses. 

When a fossil like Uintacrinus socialis emerges from the chalk of Kansas or the limestone of Utah, we are granted a rare window into that vanished age. 

And for those of us who spend our days searching riverbeds, quarries, and sea cliffs for such wonders, as I am sure you do, it is for the thrill of having a satisfying split and letting the past shine through.

That, to me, is pure magic.

FERNIE, BRITISH COLUMBIA: FOSSIL AMMONITE AS LARGE AS A SMART CAR

Titanites occidentalis, Fernie Ammonite

The Fernie ammonite—long known as Titanites occidentalis—has officially been given a new name: Corbinites occidentalis, a fresh genus erected after a meticulous re-evaluation of this Western Giant’s anatomy and lineage. 

What hasn’t changed is its breathtaking presence high on Coal Mountain near Fernie, British Columbia, where this colossal cephalopod has rested for roughly 150 million years.

This extraordinary fossil belongs to the family Lithacoceratinae within the ataxioceratid ammonites. 

Once thought to be a close cousin of the great Titanites of Dorset, new material—including two additional large specimens discovered at nearby mine sites—reveals ribbing patterns and growth-stage features that simply didn’t match Titanites. 

With these multiple overlapping growth stages finally available, paleontologists had the missing pieces needed to correct its identity.

So, Titanites occidentalis no more—meet Corbinites occidentalis, a giant ammonite likely endemic to the relatively isolated early Alberta foreland basin of the Late Jurassic.

Fernie, British Columbia, Canada

The Fernie ammonite is a carnivorous cephalopod from the latest Jurassic (Tithonian). 

The spectacular individual on Coal Mountain measures 1.4 metres across—about the size of a small car tire and absolutely staggering when you first see it hugged by the mountainside.

The first specimen, discovered in 1947 by a British Columbia Geophysical Society mapping team at Coal Creek, was initially mistaken for a “fossil truck tire.” 

Fair enough—if a truck tire had been forged in the Jurassic and left on a mountaintop. It was later described by GSC paleontologist Hans Frebold, who gave it the name Titanites occidentalis, inspired by the giant ammonites of Dorset. 

For decades, that name stuck, even though paleontologists suspected the attribution was shaky due to poor preservation of the holotype’s inner whorls.

Recent discoveries of two additional specimens at Teck Resources’ Coal Mountain Mine finally provided the evidence needed for reassessment. 

With intact inner whorls and beautifully preserved ribbing—including hallmark variocostate and ataxioceratoid ornamentation—researchers Terence P. Poulton and colleagues demonstrated that the Canadian ammonite does not belong in Titanites. 

Their work (Volumina Jurassica, 2023) established Corbinites as a brand-new genus, with C. occidentalis as its type and only known species.

These specimens—one exceeding a metre, another about 64 cm—confirm a resident ammonite population within this basin. And as of now, these giants are unique to Western Canada.

A Journey Up Coal Mountain

If you’re keen to meet Corbinites occidentalis in the wild, you’ll want to head to Fernie, in southeastern British Columbia, close to the Alberta border. 

As your feet move up the hillside, you can imagine this land 10,000 years ago, rising above great glaciers. Where footfalls trace the steps of those that came before you. This land has been home to the Yaq̓it ʔa·knuqⱡi ‘it First Nation and Ktunaxa or Kukin ʔamakis First Nations whose oral history have them living here since time immemorial. Like them, take only what you need and no more than the land offers — packing out anything that you packed in. 

Active logging in the area since 2021 means that older directions are now unreliable—trailheads have shifted, and a fair bit of bushwhacking is the price of admission. Though clear-cutting reshaped the slope, loggers at CanWel showed admirable restraint: they worked around the fossil, leaving it untouched.

The non-profit Wildsight has been championing efforts to protect the ammonite, hoping to establish an educational trail with provincial support and possible inclusion under the Heritage Conservation Act—where the fossil’s stewardship could be formally recognised.

HIKING TO THE FERNIE AMMONITE (IMPORTANT UPDATE: TRAIL CLOSED)

From the town of Fernie, British Columbia, you would traditionally head east along Coal Creek Road toward Coal Creek, with the ammonite site sitting 3.81 km from the road’s base as the crow flies. 

The classic approach begins at a roadside exposure of dark grey to black Cretaceous plant fossils, followed by a creek crossing and a steep, bushwhacking ascent.

However — and this is critical — the trail is currently closed.

The entire access route runs straight through an area of active logging, and conditions on the slope are extremely dangerous. Between heavy equipment, unstable cutblocks, and altered drainages, this is not a safe place for hikers right now.

Conservation groups, including Wildsight, continue working toward restoring safe public access and formalising the site under the Heritage Conservation Act. 

Their long-term goal is to reopen the trail as a designated educational hike with proper signage, but at present, the route should not be attempted. 

Once logging operations move out of the area and safety assessments are done, the possibility of reopening may return.

For now, the safest—and strongly recommended—way to view this iconic fossil is via the excellent cast on display at the Courtenay & District Museum on Vancouver Island, or at the Visitor Information Centre in Sparwood.

Photo credit: Vince Mo Media. Vince is an awesome photographer and drone operator based in Fernie, BC. Check out his work (and hire him!) by visiting his website at vmmedia.ca.

FOSSILS AND FIRST NATIONS HISTORY: NOOTKA

Nootka Fossil Field Trip. Photo: John Fam

The rugged west coast of Vancouver Island offers spectacular views of a wild British Columbia. Here the seas heave along the shores slowly eroding the magnificent deposits that often contain fossils. 

Just off the shores of Vancouver Island, east of Gold River and south of Tahsis is the picturesque and remote Nootka Island.

This is the land of the proud and thriving Nuu-chah-nulth First Nations who have lived here always. 

Always is a long time, but we know from oral history and archaeological evidence that the Mowachaht and Muchalaht peoples lived here, along with many others, for many thousands of years — a time span much like always. 

While we know this area as Nootka Sound and the land we explore for fossils as Nootka Island, these names stem from a wee misunderstanding. 

Just four years after the 1774 visit by Spanish explorer Juan Pérez — and only a year before the Spanish established a military and fur trading post on the site of Yuquot — the Nuu-chah-nulth met the Englishman, James Cook.  

Captain Cook sailed to the village of Yuquot just west of Vancouver Island to a very warm welcome. He and his crew stayed on for a month of storytelling, trading and ship repairs. Friendly, but not familiar with the local language, he misunderstood the name for both the people and land to be Nootka. In actual fact, Nootka means, go around, go around. 

Two hundred years later, in 1978, the Nuu-chah-nulth chose the collective term Nuu-chah-nulth — nuučaan̓uł, meaning all along the mountains and sea or along the outside (of Vancouver Island) — to describe themselves. 

It is a term now used to describe several First Nations people living along western Vancouver Island, British Columbia. 

It is similar in a way to the use of the United Kingdom to refer to the lands of England, Scotland and Wales — though using United Kingdom-ers would be odd. Bless the Nuu-chah-nulth for their grace in choosing this collective name.  

An older term for this group of peoples was Aht, which means people in their language and is a component in all the names of their subgroups, and of some locations — Yuquot, Mowachaht, Kyuquot, Opitsaht. While collectively, they are the Nuu-chah-nulth, be interested in their more regional name should you meet them. 

But why does it matter? If you have ever mistakenly referred to someone from New Zealand as an Aussie or someone from Scotland as English, you have likely been schooled by an immediate — sometimes forceful, sometimes gracious — correction of your ways. The best answer to why it matters is because it matters.

Each of the subgroups of the Nuu-chah-nulth viewed their lands and seasonal migration within them (though not outside of them) from a viewpoint of inside and outside. Kla'a or outside is the term for their coastal environment and hilstis for their inside or inland environment.

It is to their kla'a that I was most keen to explore. Here, the lovely Late Eocene and Early Miocene exposures offer up fossil crab, mostly the species Raninid, along with fossil gastropods, bivalves, pine cones and spectacularly — a singular seed pod. These wonderfully preserved specimens are found in concretion along the foreshore where time and tide erode them out each year.

Five years after Spanish explorer Juan Pérez's first visit, the Spanish built and maintained a military post at Yuquot where they tore down the local houses to build their own structures and set up what would become a significant fur trade port for the Northwest Coast — with the local Chief Maquinna's blessing and his warriors acting as middlemen to other First Nations. 

Following reports of Cook's exploration British traders began to use the harbour of Nootka (Friendly Cove) as a base for a promising trade with China in sea-otter pelts but became embroiled with the Spanish who claimed (albeit erroneously) sovereignty over the Pacific Ocean. 

Dan Bowen searching an outcrop. Photo: John Fam

The ensuing Nootka Incident of 1790 nearly led to war between Britain and Spain (over lands neither could actually claim) but talk of war settled and the dispute was settled diplomatically. 

George Vancouver on his subsequent exploration in 1792 circumnavigated the island and charted much of the coastline. His meeting with the Spanish captain Bodega y Quadra at Nootka was friendly but did not accomplish the expected formal ceding of land by the Spanish to the British. 

It resulted however in his vain naming the island "Vancouver and Quadra." The Spanish captain's name was later dropped and given to the island on the east side of Discovery Strait. Again, another vain and unearned title that persists to this day.

Early settlement of the island was carried out mainly under the sponsorship of the Hudson's Bay Company whose lease from the Crown amounted to 7 shillings per year — that's roughly equal to £100.00 or $174 CDN today. Victoria, the capital of British Columbia, was founded in 1843 as Fort Victoria on the southern end of Vancouver Island by the Hudson's Bay Company's Chief Factor, Sir James Douglas. 

With Douglas's help, the Hudson's Bay Company established Fort Rupert on the north end of Vancouver Island in 1849. Both became centres of fur trade and trade between First Nations and solidified the Hudson's Bay Company's trading monopoly in the Pacific Northwest.

The settlement of Fort Victoria on the southern tip of Vancouver Island — handily south of the 49th parallel — greatly aided British negotiators to retain all of the islands when a line was finally set to mark the northern boundary of the United States with the signing of the Oregon Boundary Treaty of 1846. Vancouver Island became a separate British colony in 1858. British Columbia, exclusive of the island, was made a colony in 1858 and in 1866 the two colonies were joined into one — becoming a province of Canada in 1871 with Victoria as the capital.

Dan Bowen, Chair of the Vancouver Island Palaeontological Society (VIPS) did a truly splendid talk on the Fossils of Nootka Sound. With his permission, I have uploaded the talk to the ARCHEA YouTube Channel for all to enjoy. Do take a boo, he is a great presenter. Dan also graciously provided the photos you see here. The last of the photos you see here is from the August 2021 Nootka Fossil Field Trip. Photo: John Fam, Vice-Chair, Vancouver Paleontological Society (VanPS).

Know Before You Go — Nootka Trail

The Nootka Trail passes through the traditional lands of the Mowachaht/Muchalat First Nations who have lived here since always. They share this area with humpback and Gray whales, orcas, seals, sea lions, black bears, wolves, cougars, eagles, ravens, sea birds, river otters, insects and the many colourful intertidal creatures that you'll want to photograph.

This is a remote West Coast wilderness experience. Getting to Nootka Island requires some planning as you'll need to take a seaplane or water taxi to reach the trailhead. The trail takes 4-8 days to cover the 37 km year-round hike. The peak season is July to September. Permits are not required for the hike. 

Access via: Air Nootka floatplane, water taxi, or MV Uchuck III

• Dan Bowen, VIPS on the Fossils of Nootka: https://youtu.be/rsewBFztxSY
• https://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/sir-james-douglas
• file:///C:/Users/tosca/Downloads/186162-Article%20Text-199217-1-10-20151106.pdf
• Nootka Trip Planning: https://mbguiding.ca/nootka-trail-nootka-island/#overview

NA GEH! OODLES OF FOSSILS IN VIENNA

There are museums that politely suggest you admire science from a respectful distance… and then there are places like Vienna’s Naturhistorisches Museum, which wraps you in dark polished wood, marble staircases, glass cabinets and enough deep-time wonder to make you forget what century you’re in.

When I work in Eastern Europe, I route through Vienna just to visit this lovely place.

The Natural History Museum in Vienna opened its doors in 1889, originally built to house the extraordinary collections of the Habsburg dynasty. 

Those collections were built over centuries by emperors, archdukes, scholars and enthusiastic royal collectors who apparently looked at the world and collectively decided, “Yes, we shall keep all the shiny things.” 

Their vast holdings included rare gemstones, exotic animal specimens, fossils, minerals, scientific instruments, archaeological treasures and meteorites gathered from across Europe and far beyond. 

Expeditions, trade networks and scientific exchanges fed the ever-growing imperial cabinets of curiosity. By the 18th and 19th centuries, the Habsburgs were assembling one of the most significant natural history collections in the world — equal parts science, prestige and unapologetic treasure hoarding. 

Thankfully for the rest of us curious raccoons disguised as adults, those treasures eventually became one of the world’s great natural history museums — a sprawling celebration of fossils, meteorites, minerals, evolution and the glorious weirdness of our planet.

And ohhh, the atmosphere.

Some museums feel sleek and modern, all chrome and touchscreens. Vienna feels like stepping into the study of a Victorian natural philosopher who perhaps owned twelve magnifying glasses and definitely had strong opinions about trilobites. 

The galleries glow warmly beneath ornate ceilings, the old wood display cases creak with history, and every cabinet seems to hold another marvel waiting quietly behind glass. It smells faintly of polished timber, old books and discovery.

You wander from hall to hall half expecting Charles Darwin to appear around a corner muttering, “Na geh!” because someone has mislabeled a brachiopod.

The fossil galleries are particularly lovely — packed with ancient beasts, delicate shells, Ice Age mammals and creatures that once swam through vanished seas long before the Alps rose skyward. 

There are towering dinosaur skeletons, marine reptiles, fossil fishes and beautifully preserved ammonites curled like ancient cosmic cinnamon buns. It is the sort of museum where you start by casually admiring one fossil and forty-five minutes later find yourself emotionally attached to a prehistoric sea urchin.

“Schau ma mal,” you tell yourself. Just a quick peek at one cabinet.

Three hours later you are still there squinting lovingly at Devonian fish while whispering “Oida…” under your breath and wishing you hadn't worn new shoes. 

And then there are the meteorites.

Vienna houses the largest meteorite display collection in the world, which is frankly a wildly unfair flex. Cabinet after cabinet gleams with stones that fell from space — fragments of asteroids older than Earth itself. Tiny iron worlds. Chondrites filled with the building blocks of planets. Visitors quietly shuffle about trying to process the fact that they are standing inches away from objects that travelled millions of kilometres through the cold dark vacuum before crash-landing on our little blue world.

Austrian grandmothers somewhere nearby are probably saying, “Heast, des is jo uralt,” and honestly, they are not wrong.

Beyond the fossils and meteorites, the museum sprawls into galleries devoted to minerals and gemstones, anthropology, human evolution, Ice Age life, prehistory and the natural sciences. Statues and allegorical figures throughout the museum celebrate scientific discovery itself — a reminder that this grand building was created during a time when humanity was enthusiastically cataloguing the world and trying desperately to understand its place within it.

What I adore most about the Naturhistorisches Museum is that it still feels wonderfully human. You can breath in the history, the lived in, built out over time of the place. 

It has not polished away its age or character. The old cabinets remain. The labels feel delightfully scholarly. The architecture insists you slow down and look carefully. It reminds you that science is not only data and specimens — it is curiosity, wonder and generations of people trying to piece together the story of life on Earth.

Also, somewhere between the ammonites and the Ice Age mammals, there is a very real chance you will become emotionally overwhelmed and need a coffee and a sachertorte immediately. 

This is Vienna. It is practically the law.

If you find yourself in Vienna, give yourself several hours here — preferably with comfortable shoes and absolutely no rigid schedule. Drift through the galleries. Open every mental drawer of curiosity you possess. Admire the gemstones. Stare at meteorites. Fall in love with an ammonite. Get delightfully lost among the wooden cases and ancient bones. 

This is a museum built by many hands with care and loads of love! As the Austrians say: “Passt scho.” Everything is exactly as it should be.

Natural History Museum, Burgring 7, 1010 Vienna, Austria

Photo Credit: Nowaczyk #2685053829

DIGS, DISCOS AND DINOSAURS: FOSSIL PREP IN MIAMI

Phillip and Patricia Frost Museum PaleoLab

If you find yourself wandering through downtown Miami with a coffee in one hand and a healthy appreciation for ancient dead things in the other, make your way to the Phillip and Patricia Frost Museum of Science. 

Tucked inside this sleek, sunshine-soaked palace of science is one of my favourite museum features anywhere — a living, breathing fossil lab called The Dig. And yes, it is exactly as wonderful as it sounds.

And now, the Frost Museum has dug up something especially exciting — the PaleoLab. 

Visitors can watch a chasmosaur emerge from its rocky tomb alongside a still-unidentified hadrosaur slowly revealing itself bone by bone beneath the careful hands of fossil preparators. 

That is the sort of sentence that makes paleontology folk spill their tea with excitement.

This is not one of those dusty back-room museum spaces where fossils disappear behind closed doors, never to be seen again. 

Oh no. 

The Frost Museum throws open the curtains and lets visitors peer directly into the delicate, painstaking work of paleontology in real time. 

You can watch South Florida’s first research paleontology program in action as Fossil Preparation Technicians meticulously clean and prepare fossils collected in the field by Curator of Vertebrate Paleontology Dr. Cary Woodruff and his team.

Tiny air scribes buzz softly as technicians remove stubborn matrix grain by grain. Brushes sweep delicately over bones that have not seen daylight in tens of millions of years. 

It is equal parts science, surgery, archaeology, and wizardry. One wrong move and a specimen that survived asteroid impacts, shifting continents, and geological chaos could snap like a stale biscuit. No pressure there then.

The stars of the show are often Florida’s ancient marine fossils — enormous prehistoric fish, marine vertebrates, and beautifully preserved skeletons pulled from sediments that tell stories of warm shallow seas teeming with life millions of years ago. 

Florida may not be the first place folk think of when they picture fossils, but the Sunshine State is an absolute treasure chest of ancient marine life. 

During much of the Cenozoic, much of Florida lounged beneath warm tropical seas while giant sharks, dugongs, whales, rays, and schools of strange prehistoric fish cruised overhead like some beautifully chaotic underwater ballet.

And here is the lovely bit: you are not just staring at fossils trapped behind glass after all the fun is done. You are witnessing the actual process of discovery and preparation. 

Fossils emerge slowly from stone like ancient secrets, finally deciding they are ready to gossip.

The Dig also leans beautifully into hands-on learning. Visitors can explore tactile displays and even try digital fossil preparation activities themselves. 

Which is excellent because many of us secretly believe we could prepare fossils professionally after watching exactly six minutes of someone else doing it. The digital prep stations are a wonderfully safe way to test that theory without accidentally obliterating a 15-million-year-old fish skull.

The museum itself sits at 1101 Biscayne Boulevard in downtown Miami, all gleaming architecture and waterfront views. 

It is worth setting aside a good chunk of your day because Frost Science is packed with delights beyond paleontology — aquariums, planetarium shows, and enough science goodness to make your inner nerd very happy indeed.

If you go, check museum hours and tickets ahead of time as lab activity schedules can vary. And do give yourself time to linger at The Dig. 

There is something deeply magical about watching ancient life emerge slowly from stone under the careful hands of modern scientists. 

One moment, you are standing in humid, modern Miami, surrounded by traffic and palm trees… and the next, your mind is drifting through vanished seas filled with horned dinosaurs, hadrosaurs, giant fish, and creatures that vanished millions of years before humans arrived to marvel at them.

. . . . . 

As a funny aside, the last time I found myself in Miami, I was only meant to be passing through on my way to Nassau and Mayaguana Island. A missed connecting flight forced an unexpected overnight stay. 

The hotel clerk informed me — somewhat suspiciously — that only one room remained available on the 22nd floor. There was a great deal of awkward hesitation and “Are you sure?” energy at the front desk, which naturally made me think the room might be haunted, flooded, or home to a mildly aggressive iguana. 

What they neglected to mention was that directly above my room sat the hotel disco, where enthusiastic dancers in stilettos were hammering the floorboards like caffeinated woodpeckers attempting to excavate for oil. 

After lying awake for an hour trying to determine why the ceiling was experiencing tectonic activity, I finally gave up, got dressed, strolled upstairs, and joined the party. 

Which, honestly, feels very much in keeping with Miami’s general energy. That city is relentless. Resistance is futile...

CERATIOCARIS, YE KEN

Well now, would you have a look at this bonnie wee beastie. 

This braw Scottish lad is Ceratiocaris papilio (Salter in Murchison, 1859), a pod shrimp from the Silurian mudstones of the Kip Burn Formation in Scotland’s Midland Valley. 

About 430 million years ago, he would have paddled through warm rising seas teeming with crinoid meadows, coral reefs, brachiopods, trilobites, and some of the newest show-offs on the evolutionary stage — fish sporting jaws for the very first time. Imagine the drama. 

Up until then, most fish were essentially gummy wee vacuum cleaners. Suddenly, evolution hands out teeth and the oceans become a much rowdier pub on a Saturday night.

Ceratiocaris belongs to an extinct group of Paleozoic phyllocarid crustaceans found in marine rocks from the Upper Ordovician through the Silurian. They were tidy little armoured swimmers with eight short thoracic segments, seven longer abdominal somites, and an elongated pretelson that gave them a sleek, shrimpy silhouette. 

Their carapace was gently oval-shaped with elegant ridges running along the ventral margin, plus a jaunty horn projecting from the front — because apparently even Silurian arthropods appreciated a bit of flair.

This handsome specimen comes from the dark laminated silty mudstones of the Kip Burn Formation, famous amongst fossil folk for its richly fossiliferous “Ceratiocaris beds.” These layers are packed with extraordinary arthropods including Ceratiocaris, Dictyocaris, Pterygotus, and Slimonia, alongside early fishes such as Birkenia and Thelodus. 

Higher in the formation, the so-called “Pterygotus beds” preserve great hulking sea scorpions — eurypterids large enough to give you pause before dangling your toes in a Silurian estuary — together with brachiopods like Lingula and more Ceratiocaris.

The Kip Burn Formation captures a fascinating ecological shift as Scotland’s ancient environments moved from fully marine settings toward brackish and near non-marine conditions. 

It is a world caught mid-change — tides shifting, habitats evolving, and strange creatures experimenting with new ways to survive. Scotland was positively heaving with wonderfully odd life at the time, and the Midland Valley preserves it all beautifully beneath those dark ancient mudstones.

And while Ceratiocaris is proudly Scottish royalty in the fossil world, these crustaceans also turn up across the pond in the Silurian Eramosa Formation of Ontario, Canada — another legendary locality famous for gorgeous eurypterids and exquisitely preserved Paleozoic life.

Photo credit / collection of: York Yuxi Wang and Tianyi Zhang

Joseph H. Collette; David M. Rudkin (2010). "Phyllocarid crustaceans from the Silurian Eramosa Lagerstätte (Ontario, Canada): taxonomy and functional morphology". Journal of Paleontology. 84 (1): 118–127. doi:10.1666/08-174.1.

M. Copeland; T. E. Bolton (1985). Fossils of Ontario part 3: the eurypterids and phyllocarids. Volume 48 of Life Sciences Miscellaneous Publications. Royal Ontario Museum. ISBN 0-88854-314-X.

SKATE SKIING THROUGH THE MISSISSIPPIAN

Trilobite and Sea Scorpion Fossil Trackways

This curious wee slab is absolutely alive with movement from the Mississippian seas, laid down some 359.2 to 318.1 million years ago when strange arthropods were bustling about the seafloor like tiny armoured Roombas on a mission. 

What makes this block especially tasty to the fossil-loving eye is that it preserves both a lovely Cruziana trilobite trackway alongside what may be a eurypterid — a sea scorpion — or horseshoe crab trackway, all dancing together across the same bit of ancient seabed. 

It is a proper prehistoric traffic jam.

Now, when we say Cruziana, we are not talking about the trilobite itself, but the style of the trace fossil — the shape and pattern left behind by the critter as it shuffled, ploughed, scraped or scooted along the sediment. 

In this case, we see elongate, bilaterally symmetrical furrows preserved along the bedding plane with repeated oblique striations running at jaunty little angles. 

I always picture some tiny Paleozoic artist armed with a wee putty knife making rhythmic cuts through wet clay. Alternatively, imagine an overly enthusiastic trilobite showing off its Olympic-level skate skiing skills across the seabed. 

Sadly, no medals were awarded in the Carboniferous. While Cruziana traces are most commonly linked to trilobites, other arthropods could make similar marks, so there is still a little mystery woven into the mud.

Trilobite and Sea Scorpion Fossil Trackways

The study of trace fossils is called ichnology — from the Greek ichnos, meaning “track” or “footprint” — and it is one of the best ways we have of decoding the behaviour of ancient life long after the critters themselves have vanished.

Trace fossils are marvellous things because they preserve behaviour rather than bodies. 

These are the footprints, furrows, resting spots and feeding trails of ancient marine life — little snapshots of daily business on the ocean floor hundreds of millions of years ago. 

They tell us who was bustling about, how they moved, where they paused, and sometimes even what mood they might have been in. 

Alright, perhaps not mood exactly, but definitely purpose. 

Every groove and scratch here records a living creature interacting with its world in real time, long before dinosaurs, birds or mammals ever appeared on the scene.

This busy little block — measuring 4 1/2" x 3 1/2" x 1 1/4" — comes from the Tar Springs Formation of Perry County, Indiana, USA, and resides in the collections of the deeply awesome David Appleton.

The Tar Springs Formation stretches across parts of southern Indiana and is known both from surface outcrops and subsurface deposits extending from central Martin County southwestward toward the Ohio River. 

In Indiana, the formation is primarily shale, though scattered limestone beds and chunky local sandstone lenses also appear, including the handsome Tick Ridge Sandstone Member described by Gray in 1986. Thickness varies considerably, from about 70 feet (21 m) to more than 150 feet (46 m) in places like central Posey County and southwestern Gibson County. 

Where the formation thickens, sandstone tends to dominate, hinting at shifting ancient shorelines, changing currents and the restless pulse of long-vanished Carboniferous seas.

MOONFISH & LIMESTONE DREAMS: A MENID FROM MONTE BOLCA

This glorious discoidal darling is Mene rhombea, an extinct moonfish from the legendary Monte Bolca deposits of northeastern Italy. 

She lived during the Mid-Eocene, roughly 45–50 million years ago, at a time when the world was warmer, crocodiles lounged much farther north, and lush tropical seas covered parts of Europe. 

The specimen in the photograph lives today in the paleontology collection of the Senckenberg Nature Museum in Frankfurt am Main, Germany — and honestly, it looks like it could flick its tail and swim straight off the slab.

And what a slab it is.

The limestone matrix from Monte Bolca is world-famous for preserving fish with extraordinary fidelity. Bones, fin rays, eye sockets, delicate spines — all frozen in exquisite detail like nature’s own lithographic masterpiece. 

You can see the elegant curve of the spinal column, the sharply compressed body, and those wonderfully dramatic pelvic fins trailing beneath like ribbons on a ballroom gown. If fish held fashion week during the Eocene, Mene rhombea would have strutted the runway in Milan and stolen everyone’s espresso.

Modern moonfish — relatives within the family Menidae — still swim in tropical Indo-Pacific waters today, though they are nowhere near as flamboyant as some of their fossil cousins. 

The living species, Mene maculata, has the same deep, compressed body shape that lets it pivot and glide through reefs with remarkable agility. Their fossil kin tell us this lineage has been around for quite some time.

The family Menidae first appears in the fossil record during the Paleocene and flourished through the Eocene. Their fossils are known from Europe, Asia, and parts of North America, but nowhere are they more spectacularly preserved than at Monte Bolca. 

This locality is one of the great Lagerstätten of the world — a fossil site with exceptional preservation — preserving a tropical marine ecosystem shortly after the extinction of the non-avian dinosaurs.

Monte Bolca itself is something of a celebrity in palaeontology circles. For over four centuries, collectors and scientists have marvelled at its fossil fishes. The deposits formed in quiet lagoonal waters associated with ancient coral reefs. 

Fine carbonate mud settled gently to the seafloor, rapidly burying organisms in low-oxygen conditions that discouraged scavengers and decay. The result? Fossils so detailed you half expect them to blink.

Mene rhombea is instantly recognizable by its highly compressed, almost circular body shape and broad triangular tail. That shape was no accident. Like many reef-associated fishes, this body plan allowed quick manoeuvring through tight underwater spaces — handy when weaving through coral heads while trying not to become lunch for some enthusiastic Eocene predator with teeth the size of butter knives.

What I love most about these fossils is how modern they feel.

We often imagine prehistoric life as strange, lumbering, and alien, but many Eocene fishes would look perfectly at home in today’s tropical seas. 

Standing before this fossil in Frankfurt, you are peering into an ocean only slightly different from our own — one filled with reef fish, rays, crustaceans, sharks, and the bustling energy of marine ecosystems recovering and diversifying after the great extinction at the end of the Cretaceous.

And here she remains.

Forty-five million years later, pressed delicately into limestone, elegant,  dramatic, still the prettiest fish in the room

MUD, MONSTERS AND AMMONITES: FOSSIL HUNTING AT KIMMERIDGE BAY

There’s a particular kind of madness that takes hold when you arrive at Kimmeridge Bay on the Jurassic Coast of Dorset. 

You tell yourself you’re just going for a “nice seaside walk,” but five minutes later you’re crouched in the mud like an enthusiastic raccoon, pockets bulging with ammonites and your knees soaked through by 150 million years of ancient ooze.

Welcome to fossil hunting on England’s Jurassic Coast — where the cliffs leak time.

Kimmeridge Bay is part of the famed Jurassic Coast UNESCO World Heritage Site, and what a glorious bit of deep-time drama it is. These dark shales and limestones belong to the Kimmeridge Clay Formation, laid down during the Late Jurassic, roughly 157–152 million years ago, when Dorset sat beneath a warm, shallow sea teeming with life. 

No cream teas. No tourists in sensible rain jackets. Just marine reptiles, squidgy cephalopods, fish, crustaceans and enough mud to preserve a kingdom.

The cliffs here are famously rich in organic material — so rich, in fact, that the Kimmeridge Clay became one of the major source rocks for North Sea oil. Every step you take is over the compressed remains of ancient plankton, algae and marine life. Delightful, really. Ancient death soup under your hiking boots.

And the fossils! Oh, the fossils.

Ammonites are the stars of the show, spiralled little beauties weathering out of the shale after winter storms and heavy tides. Some are tiny enough to fit on your fingertip; others are dinner-plate-sized beasts that make you briefly consider whether you can casually carry 40 pounds of rock back to the car without injuring yourself or your dignity.

You’ll also find belemnites — the bullet-shaped internal guards of extinct squid-like cephalopods — scattered about like Jurassic cigars tossed aside by some enormous marine gangster. Bivalves, marine snails, crustaceans and fossil wood turn up regularly, and if the fossil gods are smiling upon you, you may glimpse bones from ichthyosaurs or plesiosaurs weathering from the cliffs. Proper sea dragons.

These waters once swam with predators. Ichthyosaurs sliced through the sea with tuna-shaped precision while long-necked plesiosaurs lurked below like nightmare swans with teeth. Above them drifted ammonites in absurd abundance, jetting through the water column while trying very hard not to become lunch.

The real joy of Kimmeridge is that the geology is laid out like pages in a very muddy storybook. Broad wave-cut platforms stretch out at low tide, exposing bedding planes packed with fossils. You can literally walk across ancient seabeds while gulls scream overhead and the English Channel hurls itself dramatically against the shore in proper British fashion.

Now — and this bit matters — Kimmeridge Bay is not a free-for-all fossil freebie buffet. The bay is privately owned and protected as a Site of Special Scientific Interest (SSSI), which means loose fossils may be collected responsibly, but hammering into the shale ledges or cliffs and extracting fossils from the rock is strictly forbidden. The cliffs are unstable enough without enthusiastic humans attacking them with geology hammers like caffeinated dwarves.

Kimmeridge is also not quite the fossil bonanza you’ll find at Lyme Regis or Charmouth. Folk sometimes arrive expecting ammonites rolling at their feet like Jurassic tennis balls, but much of what you see here remains embedded in the ledges, often beautifully preserved but heavily compressed by millions of years of pressure. 

This is less grabbing a fossil every five seconds and more patiently scan the rocks while questioning your tide timing.

And speaking of tides — always check them. The sea at Kimmeridge comes in with alarming enthusiasm and absolutely no regard for your collecting plans. More than one eager fossil hunter has found themselves stranded while trying to “just check one more rock.” The ledges are notoriously slippery with seaweed as well, and the coastguard regularly ends up rescuing visitors who underestimate both the tides and their own balance. Jurassic mud wrestling with the English Channel is rarely a winning strategy.

The second rule? Never trust a shale slab. The moment you pick one up, it will either crumble beautifully to reveal a perfect ammonite — or explode directly into your face like a Jurassic cream cracker.

Honestly, both outcomes are part of the experience.

And that is the magic of Kimmeridge Bay. It is messy, windswept, ancient and utterly alive with stories. Every fossil you hold was once part of a thriving Jurassic ecosystem long before humans arrived to invent car parks, sandwiches and waterproof trousers.

Before heading down to the shore, it is always worth stopping into The Etches Collection Museum of Jurassic Marine Life in Kimmeridge Village. 

The museum houses one of the finest collections of Jurassic marine fossils in Britain, and the staff are wonderfully generous with advice on safe and responsible collecting. If you want to understand the strange and beautiful creatures hidden in those black shales, this is the place.

You arrive looking for fossils, but somewhere between the ammonites, the sea spray and the black shale under your boots, you begin to feel something else entirely — the dizzying wonder of deep time.

Also, lower back pain from carrying too many rocks. Fossil hunting is a glamorous business.