SEALS OF THE NORTH PACIFIC: FOSSILS AND LIVING STORIES OF THE KWAKIUTL

Along the storm-polished shores of northern Vancouver Island, where cedar-dark forests lean out over the Salt Chuck and the tide breathes in long, tidal sighs, the seal has long held a place of honour—not only as a keystone species of the coast, but as a cultural relative, teacher, and provider to the Kwakiutl First Nation of northern Vancouver Island. 

Long before marine biologists began tagging pinnipeds or calculating biomass, Kwakiutl families, my family, understood the rhythms, migrations, and behaviours of ts’áxwi (harbour seals) intimately. 

Seals were never merely animals of the sea; they were participants in the community of beings, woven through stories, ceremony, and the practical technologies that allowed coastal life to flourish.

This deep relationship is reflected vividly in one of the most important annual institutions of Kwakiutl society: the Seal Society.

The Seal Society (Tsawadi): Winter Dances, Identity, and the First Step Into Knowledge

During the winter tseka—the great ceremonial season—First Nation communities transformed their bighouses into worlds between worlds. Flames swayed across cedar-planked walls. Dancers and masked performers embodied supernatural beings, ancestors, and the animal nations with whom the Kwakiutl share their homelands.

Among these dramatic and spiritually potent societies, the Seal Society (Tsawadi) held special significance.

For younger initiates, it was often the first step on a lifelong path into deeper ceremonial knowledge. Through dance, drama, and story, they learned to see the seal not only as a source of subsistence but as a teacher of adaptability, cooperation, and ocean wisdom.

The performances were more than representations—they were conversations across species, reaffirming relationships renewed each winter.

The Most Useful Animal of the Salt Chuck

Kwakiutl oral historians often remark that no other sea animal has been more consistently useful than the seal. Before the arrival of Europeans, seals provided:

• Meat and fat — rich, nutritious, and vital for winter survival
• Skin and fur — warm, water-resistant, stitched into clothing, blankets, and waterproof gear
• Intestines and sinew — fashioned into floats, fishing nets, and line
• Oil — for lamps, waterproofing, and trade

Because the seal was gentle and could be quietly approached on rocky islets and river-mouth sandbars, it became an essential part of coastal subsistence rounds.

Even feasts—the great ceremonial showcases of wealth, generosity, and status—featured seal meat as a prestige dish. The most tender portions were reserved for honoured guests. Thus, the seal became a motif in carved feast bowls, cooking vessels, and serving dishes, often inlaid with glistening abalone shell. I have a beautiful carved seal bowl that holds a place of honour in my house.

To eat seal at a potlatch was not simply to partake of food; it was to acknowledge relationship, territory, and gratitude.

The Thunder Bird and the Cedar Stump: A Kwakiutl Legend of Hunger and Humility

Stories, like tides, reveal deeper truths beneath the surface. Among the Kwakiutl, one legend tells of Tootooch, the Thunder Bird—a being of immense power and appetite—whose hunger leads to a moment of both humour and humility.

One day, Thunder Bird descended near the mouth of a river where a herd of seals slept on the rocks.

Using a rough club, he struck them down, piled them into a great roast, and consumed the lot.

But even after the feast, he remained ravenous—a reminder that supernatural hunger is never easily satisfied.

Borrowing a man’s canoe and seal spear, he hunted four more seals and placed them atop fire-heated rocks to cook. Needing skunk cabbage leaves to wrap the meat, he left his feast unattended beside a great cedar stump.

Before leaving he teased the stump:

“Don’t you wish you had some?”

But cedar stumps are not as passive as they appear.

While Thunder Bird was away, the stump crept over—quiet as old growth moss—and sat directly on the roasting seals, flattening and spoiling the meal. When Thunder Bird returned, he wept and cursed, fearing the long hunger ahead before he could find more seals.

To the Kwakiutl, the story is a reminder of humility before the natural world—and a playful nudge toward respecting even those beings we think rooted and still. Kwakiutl stories and practices align strikingly with ecological realities that scientists are only now fully appreciating.

Harbour Seals (Phoca vitulina richardsi) 

Common along the BC coast, they haul out on beaches, rocks, and estuaries—the very places described in oral traditions. Genetic studies show strong site fidelity: seals return to the same haul-outs generation after generation, much as families return to ancestral fishing grounds.

Elephant Seals (Mirounga angustirostris)

Once hunted nearly to extinction, they are now returning to Vancouver Island, Haida Gwaii and all the waters of the Pacific Northwest—something First Nation Guardians and researchers alike have noted with fascination.

Today, we Kwakwaka'wakw continue to honour seals through art, stories, and cultural practice. This knowledge offers a vital human perspective to modern marine conservation—our ecosystems are not only ecological networks, but relationships of reciprocity, story, and responsibility.

And in every tale—from scientific surveys to Thunder Bird’s misadventures—one truth remains:

The seal is not merely an animal of the sea. It is a relative, a resource, a teacher, and a partner in the great living web of the Northwest Coast.

MASSIVE EXTINCT CERVID: THE IRISH ELK

Irish Elk, Megaloceros giganteus

Imagine cresting a windswept hillside in the fading amber of a Pleistocene sunset. 

The tall grass parts in slow ripples, stirred by a warm evening breeze—then by something far larger. An Irish Elk steps into view, a towering ghost from deep time, its silhouette edged with gold.

This magnificent deer—Megaloceros giganteus—was not, in fact, strictly Irish, nor truly an elk. 

It was a giant among cervids, a member of a lineage that roamed from Ireland to Siberia across vast Ice Age steppes. But Ireland’s bogs preserved their remains so exquisitely that the name stuck, and so did the awe.

Irish Elk fossils appear in abundance in the peatlands of Ireland, the loess plains of Eastern Europe, and far into Central Asia. Their lineage traces back to the genus Megaloceros, a group of large deer that emerged around two million years ago. 

What made M. giganteus the superstar of its clan? Two words: monumental antlers.

Irish Elk, Muséum National d'Histoire Naturelle, Paris

Spanning up to 3.7 metres (twelve feet) from tip to tip, the antlers were not simply oversized decoration—they were evolutionary billboards, broadcasting strength, health, and genetic prowess. They also had a hand in their fossil fame. 

When these massive antlers were unearthed centuries ago, early naturalists were convinced they belonged to mythical beasts or antediluvian monsters. 

The truth turned out to be even better: a deer so grand it nearly defied imagination.

Despite their size and majesty, Irish Elk were true deer, closely related to fallow deer and part of an ancient and diverse cervid family. Their bodies were robust, their legs strong and built for open ground, where visibility mattered and where their spectacular antlers could be displayed in their full glory.

But evolution is a dance with the environment, and as the Pleistocene climate fluctuated, the lush grasslands they depended on began to shrink. Their decline wasn’t sudden but drawn out, a slow waltz toward extinction.

The last of these giants fell only a short time ago. We do not know the exact date but the fossils share their stories as more and more are found. The youngest known fossils come from Siberia and date to about 7,700 years ago—well after most Ice Age megafauna had disappeared. 

Irish Elk, Natural History Museum London

By then, humans were spreading across Eurasia, climates were shifting, and dense forests were overtaking open plains. 

A giant deer with enormous antlers was increasingly out of place in a world thick with trees and rife with hunters.

Climate change, habitat loss, and possibly selective hunting all nudged the Irish Elk toward its final chapter. 

They are one of these species that have been talked about as contenders for using DNA to bring them back. 

Today the Irish Elk lives on in museum halls, in bog-darkened bones, and in our imaginations—a giant stepping through grass, pausing on a Pleistocene hillside as if it might turn its head toward us at any moment. There are several Irish Elk in collections and on display at museums around the world where you can view them at your leisure. 

A particularly impressive specimen is on view at the Muséum National d'Histoire Naturelle, Paris. The museum is a personal favourite of mine and worthy of a visit for its rich history and marvelous fossils, including the Irish Elk you see in the photo above. There are also wonderful examples in the British Museum in London, also worthy of a visit. 

The sheer grandeur of their size is sure to impress you! These beauties are a reminder that the world once held creatures both familiar and impossibly grand.

Illustration Credit: The lead image above was created by the supremely talented Daniel Eskridge, Paleo Illustrator from Atlanta, Georgia, USA. I share it here with permission as I have licensed the use of many of his images over the years, including this one. 

To enjoy his works (and purchase them!) to adorn your walls, visit his website at www.danieleskridge.com

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.

BULL CANYON DINOSAUR TRACKSIDE OF EASTERN UTAH

Darrin Mottler's Human to Theropod Comparison

The wind always arrives first.

It sweeps across the red cliffs of eastern Utah, brushing your shoulders like a quiet invitation as you step out onto the stone. 

The La Sal Mountains rise blue and snow-dusted on the horizon—silent, ancient witnesses. 

At your feet, the sandstone is warm, sun-baked, and patterned with bowls and dimples that look, at first, like the aftermath of a rainstorm.

But then you kneel.

You place your hand inside one of the indentations—fingers spreading to follow the outline—and suddenly time collapses. 

Your palm disappears into a footprint three times the size of your own, pressed into this rock nearly 190 million years ago by a three-toed dinosaur striding across a muddy lakeshore. 

The warmth of the desert stone meets your fingers and presses against the cool, deep sensation of time.

This is Bull Canyon Tracksite, one of Utah’s most awe-inspiring windows into the Jurassic.

Bull Canyon lies on the western flank of the La Sal Mountains, within a rugged plateau of red Wingate and Navajo sandstone. The site preserves an astonishing spread of footprints left by Early Jurassic theropods—light, agile, meat-eating dinosaurs with talons and hollow bones, the forerunners of modern birds.

Dinosaur Track, Bull Canyon, Utah

The tracks rest within the Glen Canyon Group formations, sediments laid down along the shifting margins of a prehistoric playa lake system. 

Here, mudflats dried and cracked under the sun, then were wetted again by brief storms—an ideal condition for holding tracks long enough to be buried by the next layer of sand.

Among the most distinctive ichnotaxa present are:

• Grallator – small, delicate three-toed prints often linked to slender theropods.
• Eubrontes – larger, deeper, more robust prints associated with big-bodied carnivores like Dilophosaurus.
• Occasional ornithischian tracks, including possible Anomoepus prints, representing small herbivorous dinosaurs moving across the same shoreline.

Dinosaur Track, Bull Canyon, Utah

Standing before them, the sandstone seems alive with movement. Each footprint shows a frozen splash of action: the slip of a claw, the twist of a heel, the moment a predator shifted its weight.

Every print reveals insights. Some trackways show animals striding with long, confident steps—suggesting a loping, ground-covering gait. Others are tight and compact, indicating slower or more cautious movement.

Parallel trackways record two or more animals moving in the same direction at the same time—possible group travel, or predators trailing prey.

A few prints deform the underlying sediment, proof that the ground was saturated with water. Others preserve delicate claw tips, showing firmer, drying mud. These shifts map out rapid climate cycles in Early Jurassic Utah.

It’s a moment-by-moment account of life—written in the most ephemeral of materials. 

So why does eastern Utah have so many dinosaur tracks? The region around Moab and the La Sal foothills is a world-class dinosaur track corridor with many elements at play.

• Jurassic climate: alternating wet and dry periods created perfect track-preservation conditions.
• Basins & playas: low-lying flats captured footprints from multiple dinosaur species.
• Rapid burial: shifting dunes and lake sediments quickly sealed impressions.
• Erosion today: modern uplift and weathering have brought these ancient surfaces back to light.

Bull Canyon is one of the most accessible of the sites, offering broad paleosurface exposures ideal for study and public viewing. If you visit at sunrise, the low light throws shadows into the footprints. The tracks seem to deepen, their edges turning crisp like the outline of a freshly pressed print. 

Photo Credit: All photos shown here are by the deeply awesome Darrin Mottler, who generously shared them with me and introduced me to the site. Appreciate you, Darrin!

OIL IN WATER BEAUTY: FOSSILS OF FOLKSTONE

Sheer beauty — a beautiful Euhoplites ammonite from Folkstone, UK. I've been really enjoying looking at all oil-in-water colouring and chunkiness of these ammonites.

Euhoplites is an extinct ammonoid cephalopod from the Lower Cretaceous, characterized by strongly ribbed, more or less evolute, compressed to inflated shells with flat or concave ribs, typically with a deep narrow groove running down the middle.

In some, ribs seem to zigzag between umbilical tubercles and parallel ventrolateral clavi. In others, the ribs are flexious and curve forward from the umbilical shoulder and lap onto either side of the venter.

Its shell is covered in the lovely lumps and bumps we associate with the genus. The function of these adornments are unknown. I wonder if they gave them greater strength to go deeper into the ocean to hunt for food. 

They look to have been a source of hydrodynamic drag, likely preventing Euhoplites from swimming at speed. Studying them may give some insight into the lifestyle of this ancient marine predator. Euhoplites had shells ranging in size up to a 5-6cm. 

We find them in Lower Cretaceous, middle to upper Albian age strata. Euhoplites has been found in Middle and Upper Albian beds in France where it is associated respectively with Hoplites and Anahoplites, and Pleurohoplites, Puzosia, and Desmoceras; in the Middle Albian of Brazil with Anahoplites and Turrilites; and in the Cenomanian of Texas.

This species is the most common ammonite from the Folkstone Fossil Beds in southeastern England where a variety of species are found, including this 37mm beauty from the collections of José Juárez Ruiz.

GHOST CATS OF THE AMERICAS: COUGARS

Cougar, Puma concolor

Cougars are amongst the most elusive and adaptable predators in the Western Hemisphere. 

Sleek, solitary, and powerful, these big cats have a long evolutionary history and play a crucial role in the ecosystems they inhabit, including the dense rainforests of Vancouver Island.

Cougars, Puma concolor, belong to the Felidae family, which includes all wild cats, big and small. Their ancestors originated in Eurasia, but the earliest true cougars appeared in North America around 6 million years ago, during the late Miocene epoch.

Fossil evidence tells us that the cougar lineage diverged from its closest relative—the cheetah—millions of years ago. Interestingly, genetic research has shown that cheetahs once roamed North America before going extinct there. 

Today’s cougar is a descendant of that shared lineage and is thought to have recolonized North America from South America following the extinction of native North American cats during the last Ice Age—about 10,000 years ago.

Cougars have one of the widest ranges of any terrestrial mammal in the Western Hemisphere. Their habitat stretches from the Canadian Yukon all the way to the southern Andes in South America.

Despite this vast range, cougars are solitary and territorial animals, preferring rugged terrain, dense forests, or rocky mountains where they can stalk prey in relative seclusion. They are excellent climbers, swimmers, and can leap over 20 feet in a single bound.

Vancouver Island, off the coast of British Columbia, is home to one of the densest cougar populations in North America. Despite being separated from the mainland, cougars are thriving here thanks to the island’s abundant black-tailed deer population and remote, forested habitat.

On the north island, they are called badi, in Kwak'wala, the language spoken by my Kwakwaka'wakw family on my father's side.

There are some resident cougars in my neighbourhood on Vancouver Island. They hunt our small island deer, the Columbian black-tail deer. When we find the deer remains, there is generally a high overhang above the spot where they were taken down, suggesting that these were ambush kills. 

While 80-90% of their diet is deer, locals feast on raccoons, beavers, rabbits and rodents. And, interestingly, not the local cats and dogs. Our neighbour was driving home and saw one of the cougars nose to nose with her cat. It was a scene of curiosity but not predation.

Estimates vary, but wildlife biologists believe there are between 600 and 900 cougars on Vancouver Island. Given the island’s size (about 32,000 square kilometres), this is considered a high density for such a large predator.

Cougars are at the top of the island’s food chain. Wolves, which often compete with or challenge cougars on the mainland, are largely absent from the island. That, combined with plentiful prey, gives cougars a unique ecological niche here.

Though rarely seen by humans, cougars occasionally make headlines on the island due to their stealthy presence in rural or suburban areas. 

Cougars are not currently endangered, but they face growing pressures from habitat loss, road networks, and conflicts with humans. 

As apex predators, they play a vital role in keeping ecosystems balanced by controlling prey populations and influencing the behaviour of other species.

On Vancouver Island, conservationists and wildlife agencies monitor cougar populations and educate the public about coexistence. This includes safe hiking practices, securing livestock and pets, and respecting the wild spaces these animals need to survive. 

Fortunately, there are still vast tracks of forest and unpeopled places for them to wander and call home. Well, mostly unpeopled, as these are some of my favourite spots to hike as well.

VANCOUVER ISLAND'S ELUSIVE COASTAL WOLVES

Along the storm-lashed shores of Vancouver Island, the west coast wolves move like shadows—silent, salt-streaked, and born of the sea. 

Their paws leave fleeting prints on sand swept by tide, their eyes glint with the wild hunger of untamed rainforests. 

Hunters of both land and surf, they dive into kelp beds for seal and salmon, ghosts of cedar and mist, bound to the roar of waves and the deep solitude of the Pacific.

Wolves are among the most iconic predators of the northern hemisphere—intelligent, social, and adaptable creatures that have roamed the wilds of North America for hundreds of thousands of years. 

But their story begins long before that, deep in the fossil record, when canids first began to evolve.

The ancestors of today’s wolves can be traced back more than 30 million years to the early canids of the Oligocene. One of the earliest known members of the dog family is Hesperocyon, a small, fox-like carnivore that lived in what is now North America. 

Over millions of years, these early canids diversified into various forms, including the dire wolf (Aenocyon dirus) and the gray wolf (Canis lupus), which appeared around 1 to 2 million years ago.

The gray wolf evolved in Eurasia and migrated into North America via the Bering land bridge during the Pleistocene. Once here, it quickly became a dominant predator across the continent, adapting to a wide range of environments—from the Arctic tundra to the deserts of Mexico.

Today, Canis lupus is still widely distributed across North America, although its range has contracted significantly due to human expansion, habitat loss, and historical persecution. Wolves are found in:

• Alaska – home to the largest populations in North America.
• The Rocky Mountains – including parts of Montana, Idaho, and Wyoming.
• The Western Great Lakes – especially Minnesota and Wisconsin.
• Canada – particularly British Columbia, Alberta, and the boreal forests of the northern provinces.
• Vancouver Island – which hosts a distinct coastal population.
• The Pacific Coast – small populations in Washington and Oregon are making a comeback.

Wolves are apex predators and essential for maintaining healthy ecosystems. They primarily prey on large ungulates such as deer, moose, elk, and caribou. 

In coastal regions, particularly on British Columbia’s Central Coast and Vancouver Island, wolves have adapted their diets to include salmon, intertidal invertebrates, and even seals. I have seen them eat their way along the tide line, scavenging whatever the sea has washed up for their breakfasts. 

These wolves have been observed swimming between islands in search of food, a behavior rarely seen in inland populations. If you explore the coast by boat, kayak or other means, you can see their footprints in the sand, telling you that you are not alone as you explore the rugged coast.

Wolves help control herbivore populations, which in turn benefits vegetation and can even influence river systems, as famously demonstrated in Yellowstone National Park after wolves were reintroduced in 1995.

Wolves on Vancouver Island

Vancouver Island is home to a small but resilient population of coastal wolves, often referred to as coastal sea wolves. 

These wolves are genetically and behaviorally distinct from their inland counterparts. While exact numbers fluctuate, current estimates suggest approximately 350 wolves live on Vancouver Island.

In Kwak'wala, the language of the many Kwakwaka'wakw First Nations of Vancouver Island, wolves are known as atła'na̱m, u'liga̱n or wišqii. They symbolize loyalty, strength, family, and the spirit of unity. 

Wolves are highly respected as wise, cooperative, and powerful hunters, often seen as spirit guides. 

They play a role in our ceremonies and are prominently featured in our art on totem poles, jewellery and ceremonial masks. We have dances with the dancers wearing wolf headdresses called xisiwe' that are impressive to behold.

In the wild, wolves are elusive and tend to avoid human interaction, making them difficult to study and count accurately. Much of what we know comes from the work of wildlife researchers and photographers such as Ian McAllister, whose documentation of coastal wolf behavior has been instrumental in raising awareness.

If you are looking to see more of these coastal predators, search out the work of photographers like Liron Gertsman, Ian Harland, and Sandy Sharkey, who have captured stunning images and footage of these elusive creatures in their natural habitat, along our beaches and old-growth forests. 

Despite their adaptability, wolves face a number of threats:

• Habitat Loss and Human Encroachment: As logging and development continue to fragment wild areas on Vancouver Island, wolves are pushed into closer proximity with humans, increasing the likelihood of conflict.
• Hunting and Trapping: Wolves are not protected under the Wildlife Act in much of British Columbia and can be hunted or trapped in many areas. Although controversial, some view wolf control as a means to support ungulate populations for hunting.
• Poisoning and Culling: In parts of Canada, wolves have been poisoned or culled in misguided efforts to protect caribou herds, despite ecological evidence showing that habitat preservation is more critical to caribou survival.
• Decline in Prey: As deer populations fluctuate due to climate change, human hunting pressure, and habitat alteration, wolves may face food scarcity.
• Public Misunderstanding: Myths and negative stereotypes about wolves still persist, sometimes fueling unnecessary fear and policy decisions not based on science.
• Wolves have been on this land longer than humans. Their long evolutionary journey has shaped them into highly specialized, intelligent animals with complex social structures. But their survival now depends on us.

On Vancouver Island and across the continent, conservation efforts, education, and science-based wildlife management are essential to ensuring wolves continue to howl in the wild for generations to come.

Vancouver Island local, Gary Allan, who runs the SWELL Wolf Education Centre in Nanaimo and is known for his extensive work in wolf advocacy and education is a good resource of up-to-date information on our coastal wolves. 

He has been educating the public about wolves since 2006, both through the Tundra Speaks Society and the education centre. Allan's work involves interacting with wolves, including his wolf-dog Tundra, and sharing his knowledge with schools, community groups, and First Nations organizations. 

Have you seen one of our coastal wolves up close and in person? It is a rare treat and for me, generally on an early morning walk. I hope we keep the balance so that the wolves live in peace and continue to thrive.

Further Reading and Resources

McAllister, Ian. The Last Wild Wolves: Ghosts of the Rain Forest. Greystone Books, 2007.

Mech, L. David, and Boitani, Luigi (eds.). Wolves: Behavior, Ecology, and Conservation. University of Chicago Press, 2003.

Fossil Canids Database – University of California Museum of Paleontology

Raincoast Conservation Foundation – https://www.raincoast.org

ZENASPIS OF THE UKRAINE

A quiet gathering of ancient lives, stilled in a single moment — this Devonian mortality plate holds the lower shields of Zenaspis podolica (Lankester, 1869) alongside Stensiopelta pustulata (also known as Victoraspis longicornualis), lifted from Lower Devonian deposits in Podolia, Ukraine. 

As we look upon it, it’s impossible not to hold two timelines at once — one from some 420 million years ago, and one unfolding today. 

Our thoughts are with the people of Ukraine, whose strength and endurance echo far louder than anything preserved in stone.

Zenaspis belongs to the ancient ranks of jawless fishes — the agnathans — early experiments in vertebrate design. Without jaws, these gentle oddities likely sifted along the seafloor, feeding as bottom dwellers in warm Devonian waters. 

Their armour, those distinctive head shields, is what remains here — a mosaic of protection that once shielded soft, fleeting lives.

Podolia — a historic region stretching across west-central and southwestern Ukraine into northeastern Moldova — is a place where deep time sits close to the surface. It is the only region in Ukraine where Lower Devonian ichthyofauna can be found so readily exposed. 

For over 150 years, fossils have been gathered from more than 90 localities along the banks of the Dniester River and its northern tributaries, as well as from sandstone quarries — each site a quiet archive of vanished seas.

The faunal richness here is extraordinary. At last count, some 72 species of Early Devonian agnathans and fishes have been described, including 8 Thelodonts, 39 Heterostracans, 19 Osteostracans, 4 Placoderms, 1 Acanthodian, and a single Holocephalan — a diverse cast of early vertebrate life navigating ancient ecosystems (Voichyshyn 2001a, modified).

These fossils rest within the Lower Devonian redbeds — the Old Red Formation, or Dniester Series — a sequence reaching up to 1,800 metres thick and spanning from the Lochkovian to the Eifelian. In its lower reaches, the Ustechko and Khmeleva members tell a story in colour and grain: multihued red sandstones, fine-grained and cross-bedded, interlayered with siltstones and seams of argillites. Sediments laid down by rivers and shifting waters, long before the world looked anything like it does today.

We find cousins of Zenaspis scattered across Devonian outcrops in Western Europe as well — in Scotland, for instance, where Zenaspis pagei and Zenaspis poweri reach lengths of up to 25 centimetres, their armoured forms a familiar refrain in these ancient rocks.

Stone remembers. It holds moments of stillness, of loss, of life interrupted and preserved. And as we study these long-vanished worlds, we’re reminded — gently but firmly — of the fragility and resilience of life, past and present.

Reference: Voichyshyn, V. 2006. New osteostracans from the Lower Devonian terrigenous deposits of Podolia, Ukraine. Acta Palaeontologica Polonica 51 (1): 131–142. Photo courtesy of Fossilero Fisherman.

TOROSAURUS: FRILLS, BROW AND HORNS

Torosaurus was a ceratopsian dinosaur that lived during the Cretaceous. These fellows look very similar to their Triceratops cousins but are an entirely different species in their own right. 

In 1891, two years after the naming of Triceratops, a pair of ceratopsian skulls with elongated frills bearing holes were found in southeastern Wyoming, Niobrara County, by John Bell Hatcher. 

Hatcher's employer, palaeontologist Professor Othniel Charles Marsh, coined the genus Torosaurus for them. While an estimated 2,000 Triceratops specimens have been collected from the American West, only seven partial skulls of Torosaurus have been found, so they are pretty rare.

Like Triceratops, they had massive skulls. Torosaurus had one of the largest skulls of any known land animal, with the frilled skull reaching 2.77 metres (9.1 ft) in length. Torosaurus were about the same size as Triceratops. 

They had an elongated frill with large openings (fenestrae), long squamosal bones of the frill with a trough on their upper surface, and the presence of five or more pairs of hornlets (epoccipitals) on the back of the frill. Torosaurus also lacked the long nose horn seen in Triceratops prorsus, and instead resembled the earlier and more basal Triceratops horridus in having a short nose horn. Three species have been named, Torosaurus latus, T. gladius and T. utahensis. T. gladius is no longer considered a valid species.

Wyoming Outcrops

The individuals referred to as Torosaurus are all large, comparable to the largest Triceratops specimens. Due to the elongated frill, especially the skull length is considerable. Hatcher estimated the skull of YPM 1830 at 2.2 metres, and of YPM 1831 at 2.35 metres. 

In 1933, Richard Swann Lull increased this to 2.4 metres and 2.57 metres respectively. Based on this, Torosaurus was thought, albeit briefly, to have the longest skull of any known land animal. 

Sixty-five years later in 1998, Thomas Lehman claimed that a Pentaceratops specimen possessed a partial skull that would have been 2.9 metres long in life. This was again doubted by Nicholas Longrich who in 2011 named this exemplar as a separate genus Titanoceratops and concluded its skull had been reconstructed as too long.

In 2006, Andrew Farke, a palaeontologist at the Alf Museum of Paleontology in South Dakota, pointed out that the new skulls described by him were on average even longer than Hatcher's original two: MOR 1122 has a length of 252 centimetres and MOR 981 of 277 centimetres.

Farke’s research interests focus on exploring the Cretaceous continental ecosystems of North America, particularly the ceratopsian (horned) dinosaurs, with active fieldwork in California and Wyoming.

In 2006, Farke published some diagnostic traits of Torosaurus. The frill is extremely long in comparison to the remainder of the skull. The rear, parietal, and edge of the frill bear ten or more epiparietals, triangular osteoderms. A midline epiparietal is absent; likewise, no osteoderm straddles the parietal-squamosal boundary. The parietal bone is thin. It is pierced by parietal fenestrae in the form of circular or transversely oval openings. The parietal bone is about 20% wider than long. 

Farke also identified a single trait in which T. latus differed from both Triceratops horridus and T. utahensis: its squamosal bore a conspicuous ridge on the edge with the parietal combined with a deep longitudinal trough parallel to it.

Farke pointed out that the known Torosaurus specimens are rather variable. The orbital "brow" horns are sometimes large and curved to the front, as with MOR 981, and sometimes short and straight as shown by MOR 1122 and ANSP 15191. 

Also, the position of these horns differs: often they are located directly on top of the eye socket but with YPM 1831 they originate at the rear edge of the orbit. Likewise, there is a variation in the form of the nose horn. YPM 1831 and to a lesser extent YPM 1830 have a straight upright nasal horn but MOR 981, ANSP 15192 and especially MOR 1122 at most possess a low bump. The frill too differs. ANSP 15192 and YPM 1830 have a shield curving upwards at the rear, but the frill of YPM 1831 is nearly flat, though this could be an artefact of restoration. 

The frill of YPM 1831 is also heart-shaped, with a clear midline notch, whereas the rear edge of the other specimens is straight. The frill proportions are quite variable: with YPM 1831 the length-width ratio is 1.26 but MOR 981 has a shield 2.28 times longer than wide. The number of epiparietals is difficult to assess as most fossils seem to have lost them. MOR 981 and MOR 1122 have ten and twelve epiparietals respectively. YPM 1831 has been restored with a fontanelle in the skull roof, which possibly is authentic. Farke also concluded that the degree of variability did not exceed that shown by related genera.

Farke stressed that, apart from the frill, no systematic differences could be found between Torosaurus and Triceratops. All Torosaurus specimens are similar in that they lack a truly long nasal horn and a horizontal arterial groove at the front base of that horn, but Triceratops fossils with the same combination of traits are not uncommon. 

In 2008, Hunt concluded that T. utahensis, contrary to T. latus but similar to Triceratops, possessed a midline epiparietal.

SVALBARD: A WINDOW TO THE END-PERMIAN EXTINCTION EVENT

Trekking in Svalbard, Norwegian Arctic

When the end-Permian extinction struck 252 million years ago, it nearly wiped the slate clean. 

More than 80% of marine species vanished. Coral reefs collapsed. Food webs unraveled. Paleontologists long believed that ocean life, particularly vertebrates, clawed its way back slowly and stepwise, with ecosystems taking millions of years to re-establish complexity.

But new research from the Arctic archipelago of Svalbard is rewriting that narrative.

Svalbard is a Norwegian archipelago between mainland Norway and the North Pole. One of the world’s northernmost inhabited areas, it's known for its rugged, remote terrain of glaciers and frozen tundra sheltering polar bears, Svalbard reindeer and Arctic foxes. 

It's a place close to my heart as a lover of cold, rugged landscapes and tasty fossils. We've been excavating Jurassic and Triassic marine reptile skeletons here since the early 2000s. 

It is a brutal place to do fieldwork, but the results are worth it, as Aubrey J. Roberts and team (and others) have discovered. The frozen tundra hides the answers to mysteries millions of years in the making.

A study led by Roberts and colleagues reveals a remarkable fossil treasure: a condensed bone bed on the island of Spitsbergen that captures an entire marine ecosystem only ~3 million years after the cataclysmic event. 

Rather than a slow, cautious re-entry into marine ecosystems, vertebrates appear to have surged back in a series of rapid evolutionary radiations—filling ecological niches far sooner than anyone expected.

A Fossil Window Into Early Triassic Seas

The newly described site dates to the early Spathian stage of the Early Triassic (~249 Ma), a time when Earth was still recovering from its worst biological crisis. Yet the bone bed tells a story of surprising ecological richness.

This ecosystem hosted:

• Apex predator ichthyosaurians — large, streamlined marine reptiles at the top of the food chain.
• Small-bodied ichthyopterygians — early relatives of ichthyosaurs, nimble hunters of smaller prey.
• Durophagous ichthyosauriforms — animals with crushing teeth adapted to hard-shelled prey.
• Semiaquatic archosauromorphs — early representatives of a group that later gave rise to crocodiles, dinosaurs, and birds.
• Euryhaline temnospondyls — amphibians comfortable in both fresh and salt water.
• Coelacanths and lungfish — living fossils of a lineage stretching back hundreds of millions of years.
• Ray-finned fish and sharks — the ever-present backbone of marine food webs.

Ichthyosaur Bone Bed

Taken together, these species formed an unexpectedly complex trophic network, one far more diverse and structured than previously assumed for such an early recovery interval.

We had once imagined a slow buildup of post-extinction ecosystems—simple communities giving way to more complex ones as time allowed evolutionary innovation. 

But the Svalbard bone bed challenges this view.

Diversity analyses by Roberts et al. show that heterogeneous marine vertebrate communities were already present by the late-earliest Triassic (Dienerian–Smithian, ~251 Ma).

These fully variegated tetrapod niches were re-established by ~3 million years after the extinction. Meaning vertebrates rebounded quickly, diversifying explosively into vacant ecological spaces left behind by the crisis. The recovery was not slow and linear—it was dynamic, fast, and opportunistic.

The discovery suggests that the complexification of marine ecosystems occurred through rapid radiations, not gradual, stepwise escalation. This is a new vision of our post-extinction oceans.

Picture the Early Triassic seas of Spitsbergen: warm, oxygen-stressed waters swirling with predators and prey, from sleek ichthyosaurs to ancient coelacanths. Against a backdrop of environmental turmoil, these animals built ecosystems every bit as intricate as the ones that existed before the extinction.

The implications reach far beyond Svalbard. They reshape our understanding of how life rebounds from global crises, hinting at a resilience and evolutionary adaptability more powerful than previously imagined.

The world after the end-Permian extinction was bruised, battered, and biologically diminished—but not for long. Within a geological blink, vertebrates were back in force, pioneering new ways of life in oceans still recovering from near-total collapse.

Life, as ever, found a way.

Reference: Earliest oceanic tetrapod ecosystem reveals rapid complexification of Triassic marine communities. https://scim.ag/4i1IKqK

CORDOBA: FOSSILS, ROMANS AND SWEET SECRETS BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

In the sun-warmed hills and river valleys around Córdoba, the rocks are doing what they do best—keeping secrets for half a billion years, then spilling them to anyone curious enough to listen. 

This corner of southern Spain sits tucked into the Baetic Cordillera, a place where continents once nudged, collided, and reshaped the map with slow, relentless determination. Beneath your feet, ancient limestones, marls, and sandstones whisper of vanished seas. 

Wander back into the Paleozoic and you’ll find Córdoba submerged beneath warm, equatorial waters, alive with trilobites scuttling along the seafloor, brachiopods filtering the currents, and crinoids swaying like elegant underwater chandeliers. 

Shift forward into the Mesozoic and Cenozoic and the cast evolves—ammonites coil through ancient oceans, bivalves cluster in quiet seabeds, and microscopic foraminifera quietly log the passing of time in the Guadalquivir Basin. 

It’s a story of rising mountains, retreating seas, and ecosystems endlessly reinventing themselves—layer by lovely layer.

Now, while it is the fossils and geology that drew me here (as they so often do), Córdoba has a way of charming you sideways. Between ancient stones and sunlit streets, you’ll spot something wholly unexpected—old world nuns slipping quietly along the cobbled lanes. 

At the Convento de Santa Isabel, these cloistered women carry on a delicious tradition, crafting sweets from recipes passed down through Roman and Moorish hands. 

You won’t see them when you visit—only a humble room, a price list, and a delightfully mysterious lazy Susan built into the wall. Ring the bell, place your order, spin your coins, and—like magic—confections appear. It’s equal parts ritual and theatre, and entirely delightful.

Beyond the sweets (though truly, do not skip the sweets), Córdoba is a feast in every sense. Try the salmorejo—thick, garlicky, tomato-rich and gloriously simple—an echo of Moorish culinary roots with a modern Andalusian flourish. 

Then wander, because this is a city made for wandering. Roman bridges still stride confidently across the Guadalquivir, defying time with elegant engineering. Convents like Santa Cruz layer centuries of architectural styles—Roman, Muslim, Moorish, Baroque—into something that feels less like a building and more like a conversation across time. 

Everywhere you look, Córdoba reveals itself in pieces: a fossil sea beneath your feet, a Roman arch overhead, and somewhere nearby, a hidden kitchen quietly spinning sugar and history into something sweet.

Roman Bridge on Guadalquivir River, Córdoba

The entire city is walkable and a picture postcard from every view. It is also a lovely testament to Roman engineering and building structures that last. Most of the bridges in Spain and certainly those in Córdoba all hail from Roman times.

The Convento de Santa Cruz, a convent n the historic centre, barrio de San Pedro, Córdoba, Andalusia, Spain, is well worth a visit. It was founded in 1435, by Pedro de los Ríos y Gutiérrez de Aguayo and his wife, Teresa Zurita. 

The building has maintained close ties to the Ríos family who have worked to maintain it. They have added to the complex to interesting effect. It is notable for its originality, its architecture, and the artistic setting. 

These include the cloister, convent, church, house of the novices of the eighteenth century, and courtyard. In the main structure, there are architectural elements in Roman, Muslim, Moorish and Baroque styles, which witness the historic and artistic development of Córdoba. The retablos which decorate the church interior, tiling, and paintings are of note. It was declared a Bien de Interés Cultural site in 2011.

Photos: Nuns taking a stroll & the Roman Bridge on the Guadalquivir River and The Great Mosque — Mezquita Cathedral — at twilight in the city of Córdoba, Andalusia, Spain by the Fossil Huntress.

HORSESHOE CRABS: LIVING FOSSILS

Horseshoe crabs are marine and brackish water arthropods of the order Xiphosura — a slowly evolving, conservative taxa.

Much like (slow) Water Striders (Aquarius remigis), (relatively sluggish) Coelacanth (Latimeria chalumnae) and (the current winner on really slow evolution) Elephant Sharks (Callorhinchus milii), these fellows have a long history in the fossil record with very few anatomical changes. 

But slow change provides loads of great information. It makes our new friend, Yunnanolimulus luoingensis, an especially interesting and excellent reference point for how this group evolved. 

We can examine their genome today and make comparisons all the way back to the Middle Triassic (with this new find) and other specimens from further back in the Ordovician — 445 million years ago. 

These living fossils have survived all five mass extinction events. They are generalists who can live in shallow or deep water and will eat pretty much anything they can find on the seafloor.

The oldest horseshoe crab fossil, Lunataspis aurora, is found in outcrops in Manitoba, Canada. Charmingly, the name means crescent moon shield of the dawn. It was palaeontologist Dave Rudkin and team who chose that romantic name. Finding them as fossils is quite remarkable as their shells are made of protein which does not mineralized like typical fossils.

Even so, the evolution of their exoskeleton is well-documented by fossils, but appendage and soft-tissue preservation are extremely rare. 

A new study analyzes details of the appendage and soft-tissue preservation in Yunnanolimulus luoingensis, a Middle Triassic (ca. 244 million years old) horseshoe crab from Yunnan Province, SW China. The remarkable anatomical preservation includes the chelicerae, five pairs of walking appendages, opisthosomal appendages with book gills, muscles, and fine setae permits comparison with extant horseshoe crabs.

The close anatomical similarity between the Middle Triassic horseshoe crabs and their recent analogues documents anatomical conservatism for over 240 million years, suggesting persistence of lifestyle.

The occurrence of Carcinoscorpius-type claspers on the first and second walking legs in male individuals of Y. luoingensis tells us that simple chelate claspers in males are plesiomorphic for horseshoe crabs, and the bulbous claspers in Tachypleus and Limulus are derived.

As an aside, if you hadn't seen an elephant shark before and were shown a photo, you would likely say, "that's no freaking shark." You would be wrong, of course, but it would be a very clever observation.

Callorhinchus milii look nothing like our Great White friends and they are not true sharks at all. Rather, they are ghost sharks that belong to the subclass Holocephali (chimaera), a group lovingly known as ratfish. They diverged from the shark lineage about 400 million years ago.

If you have a moment, do a search for Callorhinchus milii. The odd-looking fellow with the ironic name, kallos, which means beautiful in Greek, sports black blotches on a pale silver elongate body. And their special feature? It is the fishy equivalent of business in the front, party in the back, with a dangling trunk-like projection at the tip of their snout and well-developed rectal glands near the tail.

As another small point of interest with regards to horseshoe crabs, John McAllister collected several of these while working on his MSc to see if they had microstructures similar to trilobites (they do) and whether their cuticles were likewise calcified. He found no real calcification in their cuticles, in fact, he had a rather frustrating time getting anything measurable to dissolve in acid in his hunt for trace elements. 

Likewise, when looking at oxygen isotopes (16/18) to get a handle on water salinity and temperature, his contacts at the University of Waterloo had tons of fun getting anything at all to analyze. It made for some interesting findings. Sadly, for a number of reasons, he abandoned the work, but you can read his very interesting thesis here: https://dr.library.brocku.ca/handle/10464/1959

Ref: Hu, Shixue & Zhang, Qiyue & Feldmann, Rodney & Benton, Michael & Schweitzer, Carrie & Huang, Jinyuan & Wen, Wen & Zhou, Changyong & Xie, Tao & Lü, Tao & Hong, Shuigen. (2017). Exceptional appendage and soft-tissue preservation in a Middle Triassic horseshoe crab from SW China. Scientific Reports. 7. 10.1038/s41598-017-13319-x.

ORANGUTANS: THE FOREST PHILOSOPHERS

High in the emerald canopy, a branch sways and sunlight spills through a mosaic of leaves. There—an orangutan moves with unhurried grace, her long auburn hair catching the light in fiery streaks. 

She pauses, selecting a cluster of figs with deliberate fingers, inspecting each one as though weighing its worth. 

A peel, a bite, a slow, thoughtful chew. She shares these and some tasty leaves with her young who stays close, learning the art of foraging.

Beneath them, the forest hums—cicadas buzz, hornbills beat their wings overhead, and the musk of damp bark and fruit hangs heavy in the air. 

Today, orangutans (Pongo pygmaeus of Borneo and Pongo abelii of Sumatra, with the recently described Pongo tapanuliensis in Sumatra as well) are the only great apes found outside Africa. 

They are primarily arboreal, moving through the canopy with long, flexible arms and an ease born of a life spent above ground. 

Solitary compared to their African cousins, orangutans live in loose social networks, with males maintaining large territories and females caring for their young for up to eight years—the longest period of maternal dependence of any non-human primate. 

Their diet is largely fruit-based, supplemented by leaves, bark, insects, and occasionally small vertebrates.

The story of orangutans stretches back several million years. Their genus, Pongo, is part of the great ape family Hominidae, which also includes chimpanzees, gorillas, and humans. Fossil evidence shows that orangutans were once far more widespread than their current island ranges. 

During the Pleistocene (about 2.6 million to 11,700 years ago), Pongo species were found across much of Southeast Asia, from southern China to Java. Fossilized teeth and jaw fragments discovered in caves in Vietnam, Laos, and China reveal a larger-bodied orangutan relative, sometimes referred to as Pongo weidenreichi or Pongo hooijeri. These orangutans thrived in forested environments but declined as habitats shifted and humans expanded.

The deeper roots of orangutans trace back to the Miocene epoch (about 23 to 5 million years ago), often called the "Golden Age of Apes." 

During this time, Asia hosted a rich diversity of hominoids. Among the most important to orangutan ancestry are species of the genus Sivapithecus, found in the Siwalik Hills of India and Pakistan. 

Fossils of Sivapithecus dating from 12 to 8 million years ago reveal striking similarities in facial structure to modern orangutans: a concave face, oval-shaped orbits, and narrow interorbital distance. These features strongly suggest that Sivapithecus was a direct ancestor—or at least a very close relative—of modern orangutans.

In contrast, other Miocene apes such as Gigantopithecus blacki, the largest primate ever known, were distant cousins. Fossils of Gigantopithecus, discovered in China and Southeast Asia, show a massive ape up to three meters tall, likely related to orangutans but representing a side branch that went extinct around 300,000 years ago.

Today’s orangutans are the last survivors of a once-diverse Asian ape lineage. Their survival is precarious: deforestation, palm oil plantations, and hunting have driven populations into sharp decline. Where once their ancestors ranged across a continent, now only fragmented pockets of forest in Borneo and Sumatra hold these remarkable primates. 

SIR DAVID ATTENBOROUGH: A CENTURY OF WONDER

A century on this Earth, and what a century it has been. Sir David Attenborough turns 100—a milestone that feels almost poetic for a man who has spent his life helping us understand deep time, fragile ecosystems, and the fleeting, extraordinary moment we humans occupy within it all. 

Born in 1926, he grew up in a world still piecing together the story of life on Earth. 

And then, quietly, curiously, he helped tell that story better than anyone who has ever lived.

From the early days of black-and-white broadcasting to the breathtaking high-definition worlds of Planet Earth, Attenborough didn’t just document nature—he invited us into it. He gave voice to the courtship dances of birds-of-paradise, the patient hunt of big cats, the slow, ancient rhythm of forests breathing. He made the hidden visible. He made the distant feel intimate. And somehow, he made science feel like wonder rather than lecture.

His contributions to our understanding of the natural world are immense. Generations have learned about evolution, biodiversity, and the delicate balance of ecosystems through his storytelling. He helped shift public awareness from passive admiration of nature to active concern for its survival. In his later years especially, his voice—gentle, steady, unmistakable—became a clarion call for climate action and conservation. Not alarmist, but deeply honest. Not scolding, but quietly urgent.

And then there is the man himself.

There is something profoundly comforting about David Attenborough. The warmth in his voice. The twinkle of curiosity that never dimmed. The sense that he is still, even now, utterly enchanted by the natural world. That kind of lifelong wonder is rare—and contagious. You listen to him, and suddenly you notice more: the way moss grows along a stone, the flicker of wings overhead, the ancient stories written in rock and bone.

He shares stories with us that reminds us that we are not separate from nature, but part of it—woven into its history, responsible for its future. I have such admiration and respect for that man. 

One hundred years. A life spent in service of curiosity, knowledge, and care for this beautiful, complicated planet.

Happy 100th birthday, Sir David. The world is better, wiser, and infinitely more wondrous because you took the time to show it to us.

SHAGGY TITANS OF THE GRASSLANDS: BISON

Bison move across the prairie like living storms, vast and steady, with the weight of centuries in their stride. 

Their dark eyes hold a quiet, unwavering depth—as if they’ve looked into the heart of time itself and carry its secrets in silence. Look into the eyes of this fellow and tell me you do not see his deep intelligence as he gives the camera a knowing look.

Shaggy fur ripples in the wind, rich and earthy, brushed by sun and shadow, a cloak woven from wilderness. When they breathe, clouds rise in the cold air, soft and ephemeral, like whispered promises that vanish but leave warmth behind.

There is something profoundly romantic in their presence: strength wrapped in gentleness, endurance softened by grace.  To watch them is to feel the wild itself lean closer, reminding us of a love as vast as the horizon, as eternal as the ground beneath our feet.

When we think of bison today, images of great herds roaming the North American plains come to mind—dark, shaggy shapes against sweeping prairies. But the story of bison goes back far deeper in time. 

These massive grazers are part of a lineage that stretches millions of years into the past, their fossil record preserving the tale of their rise, spread, and survival.

Bison belong to the genus Bison, within the cattle family (Bovidae). Their story begins in Eurasia during the late Pliocene, around 2.6 million years ago, when the first true bison evolved from earlier wild cattle (Bos-like ancestors). 

Fossils suggest they descended from large bovids that roamed open grasslands of Eurasia as forests retreated and cooler, drier climates expanded.

The earliest known species, Bison priscus, or the Steppe Bison, was a giant compared to modern bison, sporting long horns that could span over six feet tip to tip. These animals thrived across Europe, Asia, and eventually crossed into North America via the Bering Land Bridge during the Pleistocene Ice Age.

The fossil record of bison stretches back about 2 million years in Eurasia and at least 200,000 years in North America, where they became one of the most successful large herbivores of the Ice Age. Fossil evidence shows that at least seven different species of bison once lived in North America, including the iconic Bison latifrons with its massive horns, and Bison antiquus, which is considered the direct ancestor of the modern American bison (Bison bison).

Some of the richest fossil bison deposits come from Siberia and Eastern Europe – home to abundant Bison priscus fossils, often preserved in permafrost with soft tissues intact. They are also found in Alaska, USA and in Canada's Yukon region – where Ice Age bison fossils are found alongside mammoth, horse, and muskox remains.

The Great Plains of the United States and Canada are rich in Bison antiquus and later species, often in mass bone beds where entire herds perished. We also find their remains in California and the American Southwest at sites like the La Brea Tar Pits. La Brea preserves bison remains from the Late Pleistocene and their museum of the same name has a truly wonderful display of Pleistocene wolves. Definitely worthy of a trip!

One particularly famous fossil site is the Hudson-Meng Bison Kill Site in Nebraska, where remains of over 600 Bison antiquus dating to about 10,000 years ago provide a window into Ice Age hunting practices and herd behavior.

By the end of the Ice Age, many megafauna species disappeared, but bison endured. Bison antiquus gradually gave rise to the modern American bison (Bison bison), which still carries echoes of its Ice Age ancestors. Though smaller than their Pleistocene relatives, today’s bison remain the largest land mammals in North America.

ICE, SNOW AND RHINOS: EPIATHERACERIUM ITJILIK

Julius Csotonyi © Julius Csotonyi

Up in the High Arctic, where the wind cuts clean across a stark polar desert and the ground remembers a very different world, and a most unexpected creature has stepped back into the light.

From ancient lakebed sediments at Haughton Crater on Devon Island in Nunavut comes a beautifully preserved whisper from the Early Miocene — a recently described species of rhinoceros, Epiatheracerium itjilik. 

And not just any rhino, but the northernmost one ever found.

Rhinoceroses, those sturdy browsers we tend to associate with sunbaked savannahs, have a far deeper and more adventurous story. Their lineage stretches back more than 40 million years, once roaming across much of the globe — Europe, North America, Asia — a sprawling dynasty of more than 50 species, now reduced to just five.

Marisa Gilbert and Dr. Danielle Fraser

This Arctic cousin lived some 23 million years ago, in a landscape that would feel almost unrecognizable to us today. 

Where there is now permafrost and silence, there were once temperate forests and freshwater lakes — a place of browsing mammals and quiet, green abundance. 

And this rhino? A curious one.

Smaller, lightly built, and notably hornless, Epiatheracerium itjilik would not have carried the imposing silhouette we imagine. Instead, it likely moved with a gentler presence through its forested home, leaving behind a remarkably complete fossil — nearly 75% of its skeleton recovered, including diagnostic bones such as the teeth, mandibles and parts of the cranium in stunning three-dimensional detail.

Its name, itjilik, meaning “frosty” in Inuktitut, is a fitting nod to both its Arctic resting place and the collaboration with Inuit knowledge holders who helped shape its story. Science, at its best, is a shared endeavour — and this discovery carries that spirit forward beautifully.

Dr. Natalia Rybczynski and Dr. Mary Dawson

By placing this species within the rhino family tree, researchers have uncovered new clues about ancient migration routes — suggesting that rhinoceroses once wandered between Europe and North America via Greenland, long after we thought such pathways had closed.

Even more tantalizing, fragments of ancient proteins have been recovered from its tooth enamel, stretching the limits of how far back we can trace molecular echoes of life. 

These are the quiet revolutions — the kind that reshape how we understand the great unfolding of mammals across time.

Lead Image: Epiatheracerium itjilik standing at the edge of a pool of water in a forested lake habitat, Devon Island, by the superbly talented Julius Csotonyi (© Julius Csotonyi). Here he has chosen to show the plants and animals based on fossils found at the site, including the transitional seal Puijila darwini.

Second Image: Marisa Gilbert (left) and Dr. Danielle Fraser with the fossil of Epiaceratherium itjilik laid out in the collections of the Canadian Museum of Nature. Photo by Pierre Poirier © Canadian Museum of Nature.

Third Image: Dr. Natalia Rybczynski and Dr. Mary Dawson sift fossils at Haughton Crater. Photo by Martin Lipman © Canadian Museum of Nature.

EAGER FORMATION IN THE KTUNAXA HOMELANDS

They rise quietly from the earth—tall, time-carved sentinels shaped by wind, water, and patience. 

They lean, they shift, they endure. Not in haste, never in spectacle, but in a slow and ancient rhythm. 

A dance measured not in years, but in centuries.

Many who pass through call them Hoodoos. But that name only scratches the surface.

For the Ktunaxa People, who have lived with and known this land since time beyond memory, these formations are something far more profound. 

They are the ribs of Yawuʔnik̓—the great water being whose story is woven into the very bones of this landscape. 

Across the Ktunaxa Homelands, these stone forms stand not as curiosities, but as living reminders of Creation, of story, of law, and of relationship.

The land is not a possession to be claimed—it is a relative to be cared for. There is reciprocity here. 

The people depend on the land, and the land, in turn, depends on the people. This balance is held with deep respect, responsibility, and care.

In the time before humans walked this earth, spirit beings governed these homelands. 

Among them was Yawuʔnik̓, whose great size and restless nature brought imbalance. When it was foretold that humans would soon arrive, Naⱡmuqȼin—the Chief of the spirit beings—made a decision. Yawuʔnik̓ must be stopped.

What followed was the Big Chase.

It carved rivers, shaped valleys, and etched movement into the land itself. When Yawuʔnik̓ was finally overcome, Naⱡmuqȼin scattered the remains across the territory. 

Those ribs—weathered, lifted, revealed—are what many now call the Hoodoos. 

They remain throughout ʔaq̓am, Kukamaʔnam, the Columbia Valley, and ʔa·kisk̓aqǂiʔit, standing as markers of that ancient and powerful story.

And then—if you look closely—there are older stories still.

Tucked into a modest roadcut within Ktunaxa territory lies a glimpse into a much deeper past. 

The Lower Cambrian Eager Formation, exposed in small outcrops near Fort Steele and Mount Grainger, holds traces of life from over half a billion years ago. 

These rocks were laid down long before the Big Chase, long before even the earliest human stories—but they rest now within lands that are, and have always been, Ktunaxa.

Even when the fossils we seek predate human presence by unimaginable spans of time, the land they rest in is not empty, not neutral. It is held. It is known. It is cared for. And so we enter gently.

We stopped only briefly—ten quiet minutes. Enough to observe, to photograph, to listen.

Among the fragments were pieces of Olenellus—early trilobites, their forms preserved in stone. Not whole creatures, but traces: moulted shells, shed as they grew. 

Some were slightly warped, their delicate structures bent by ancient currents—perhaps laid down in a restless seabed where sediment shifted and surged.

Olenellus lived in the Early Cambrian, some 542 to 521 million years ago. They were among the early architects of complex life—arthropods with crescent-shaped eyes, a well-formed head shield, and a modest tail. 

The piece held here, a partial cephalon, was likely left behind in the quiet act of growth—a creature stepping, quite literally, out of its former self.

There is something humbling in that.

To stand in a place where deep time and living story meet. Where half-billion-year-old fossils rest within landscapes shaped by spirit beings and cared for by people whose connection to this land runs just as deep—though in different ways.

The Hoodoos, the ribs of Yawuʔnik̓, still rise and shift with the wind.

The trilobites rest, silent witnesses to oceans long gone.

And we—if we are paying attention—arrive not as owners, but as respectful guests.