BARNACLES: CUVIER TO DARWIN

Barnacles All Closed Up

One of the most interesting and enigmatic little critters we find at the seashore are barnacles. 

They cling to rocks at the waters' edge, closed to our curiosity, their domed mounds like little closed beaks shut to the water and the world.

They choose their permanent homes as larvae, sticking to hard substrates that will become their permanent homes for the rest of their lives. 

It has taken us a long time to find how they actually stick or what kind of "glue" they were using.

A clever fellow from Duke University's Marine Laboratory in Durhan, North Carolina finally cracked that puzzle. 

Instead of chopping up barnacles to see what makes them stick, he observed and collected the oozing glue from some Amphibalanus amphitrite as they secreted it.

Remarkably, the barnacle glue sticks to rocks in a similar way to how red cells bind together. Red blood cells bind and clot with a little help from some enzymes. These work to create long protein fibres that first blind, clot then form a scab. The mechanism barnacles use, right down to the enzyme, is very similar. That's especially interesting as about a billion years separate our evolutionary path from theirs.

So, with the help of their clever enzymes, they can affix to most anything – ship hulls, rocks, and even the skin of whales. If you find them in tidepools, you begin to see their true nature as they open up, their delicate feathery finger-like projections flowing back and forth in the surf.

Barnacle Cirri Seeking Tasty Plankton

Those wee feather-like bits you see are called cirri. Eight pairs of these thoracic limbs help barnacles to filter tasty bits of plankton from the surrounding water into their mouths.

Barnacles are cirripedes, a kind of crustacean that is covered with hard plates of calcium carbonate. Named for their cirri, they live stuck to hard surfaces in and around our world's oceans. While they do not look like crustaceans, they are definitely part of this taxonomic grouping that includes crab, lobster, crayfish, prawn, krill, and woodlice.

BARNACLES IN KWAK'WALA

In the Kwak̓wala language of the Kwakwaka'wakw, speakers of Kwak'wala, of the Pacific Northwest, barnacles are known as k̕wit̕a̱'a and broken barnacle shells are known as t̕sut̕su'ma.

BARNACLES IN THE FOSSIL RECORD

They have an old history. Their ancestors can be traced back to animals such as Priscansermarinus that lived during the Middle Cambrian – some 510 to 500 million years ago. 

I found my first barnacle fossil at a fossil site called Muir Creek on the south end of Vancouver Island. The fossil exposures at Muir are Oligocene, 20-25 million years old. This is about the time that barnacles can be found more readily as skeletal remains.

One of the reasons for the limited number of barnacle remains in the fossil record is their preferred habitat – high energy, shallow ocean environments. These tend to see a lot of tidal action that leads to erosion and barnacles being broken apart, slowly eroded down to bits too small to recognize for what they are.

One of the fossil remains we do find are not the barnacles themselves, but trace fossils of acrothoracican barnacle borings from Rogerella. These are commonly found in the fossil record beginning in the Devonian right up to today. Rogerella is a small pouch-shaped boring (a type of trace fossil) with a slit-like aperture currently produced by acrothoracican barnacles. 

These crustaceans extrude their legs upwards through the opening for filter-feeding (Seilacher, 1969; Lambers and Boekschoten, 1986). They are known in the fossil record as borings in carbonate substrates (shells and hardgrounds) from the Devonian to the Recent (Taylor and Wilson, 2003).

Barnacle Ancestry Goes Back to the Middle Cambrian

FROM MOLLUSCA TO ARTICULATA

Barnacles were originally classified by Linnaeus and Cuvier as Mollusca, but in 1830 John Vaughan Thompson published observations showing the metamorphosis of the nauplius and cypris larvae into adult barnacles. 

He noted how these larvae were similar to those of crustaceans.

In 1834 Hermann Burmeister published further information, reinterpreting these findings. The effect was to move barnacles from the phylum of Mollusca to Articulata, showing naturalists that detailed study was needed to reevaluate their taxonomy.

Charles Darwin took up this challenge in 1846 and developed his initial interest in a major study published as a series of monographs in 1851 and 1854. 

Darwin undertook this study, at the suggestion of his friend Joseph Dalton Hooker, to thoroughly understand at least one species before making the generalizations needed for his theory of evolution by natural selection.

BARNACLES IN A NUT SHELL

Barnacles are suspension feeders, sweeping small food into their mouth with their curved 'feet'. They are cemented to rock (usually), and covered with hard calcareous plates, which they shut firmly when the tide goes out. 

Barnacles reproduce sexually and produce little nauplius larvae that disperse in the plankton. Eventually, the larvae change into cypris form and attach on other hard surfaces to form new barnacles.

HUMPBACK WHALES: GWA'YAM

Look deep into the knowing eye of this magnificent one. 

He is a Humpback whale, Megaptera novaeangliae, a species of baleen whale for whom I hold a special place in my heart. 

Baleens are toothless whales who feed on plankton and other wee oceanic tasties they consume through their baleens, a specialised filter of flexible keratin plates that frame their mouth and fit within their robust jaws.

Baleen whales, the mysticetes, split from toothed whales, the Odontoceti, around 34 million years ago. The split allowed our toothless friends to enjoy a new feeding niche and make their way in a sea with limited food resources. 

There are fifteen species of baleen whales who inhabit all major oceans. Their number include our humbacks, grays, right whales and the massive blue whale. Their territory runs as a wide band running from the Antarctic ice edge to 81°N latitude. 

In the Kwak̓wala language of Kwakwaka'wakw First Nations, speakers of Kwak'wala, of the Pacific Northwest, and my cousins on my father's side, whales are known as g̱wa̱'ya̱m, and revered along the coast. 

Both the California grey and the Humpback whale live on the coast. Only a small number of individuals in First Nation culture had the right to harpoon a whale. This is a practice from many years ago. It was generally only the Chief who was bestowed this great honour. Sometimes the whales would pass at sea and wash up on shore with this bounty to be shared by all.

Humpback whales like to feed close to shore and enter the local inlets. Around Vancouver Island and along the coast of British Columbia, this made them a welcome food source as the long days of winter passed into Spring.

Humpback whales are rorquals, members of the Balaenopteridae family that includes the blue, fin, Bryde's, sei and minke whales. The rorquals are believed to have diverged from the other families of the suborder Mysticeti during the middle Miocene. 

While cetaceans were historically thought to have descended from mesonychids—which would place them outside the order Artiodactyla—molecular evidence supports them as a clade of even-toed ungulates—our dear Artiodactyla. 

It is one of the larger rorqual species, with adults ranging in length from 12–16 m (39–52 ft) and weighing around 25–30 metric tons (28–33 short tons). The humpback has a distinctive body shape, with long pectoral fins and a knobbly head. It is known for breaching and other distinctive surface behaviours, making it popular with whale watchers and the lucky few who see them from the decks of our local ferries.

Both male and female humpback whales vocalize, but only males produce the long, loud, complex "song" for which the species is famous. Males produce a complex soulful song lasting 10 to 20 minutes, which they repeat for hours at a time. 

I imagine Gregorian Monks vocalizing their chant with each individual melody strengthening and complimenting that of their peers. All the males in a group produce the same song, which differed in each season. Its purpose is not clear, though it may help induce estrus in females and bonding amongst the males.

Humpback Whale, Megaptera novaeangliae

Found in oceans and seas around the world, humpback whales typically migrate up to 25,000 km (16,000 mi) each year. 

They feed in polar waters and migrate to tropical or subtropical waters to breed and give birth, fasting and living off their fat reserves. Their diet consists mostly of krill and small fish. 

Humpbacks have a diverse repertoire of feeding methods, including the bubble net technique.

Humpbacks are a friendly species that interact with other cetaceans such as bottlenose dolphins. They are also friendly and oddly protective of humans. 

You may recall hearing about an incident off the Cook Islands a few years back. Nan Hauser was snorkelling and ran into a tiger shark. Two adult humpback whales rushed to her aid, blocking the shark from reaching her and pushing her back towards the shore. We could learn a thing or two from their kindness. We have not been as good to them as they have been to us.

Like other large whales, the humpback was a tasty and profitable target for the whaling industry. My grandfather and uncle participated in that industry out of Coal Harbour on northern Vancouver Island back in the 1950s. So did many of my First Nation cousins. My cousin John Lyon has told me tales of those days and the slippery stench of that work.

Six whaling stations operated on the coast of British Columbia between 1905 and 1976. Two of these stations were located at Haida Gwaii, one at Rose Harbour and the other at Naden Harbour. 

Over 9,400 large whales were taken from the waters around Haida Gwaii. The catch included blue whales, fin whales, sei whales, humpback whales, sperm whales and right whales. In the early years of the century, primarily humpback whales were taken. In later years, fin whales and sperm whales dominated the catch. 

Whales were hunted off South Moresby in Haida Gwaii, and on the north side of Holberg Inlet in the Quatsino Sound region. 

We squirm at this reality today but it was the norm at the time and a way to make a living—especially for those who had hoped to work in the local coal mine but lost their employment when it shut down. 

While my First Nations relatives hunted whales in small numbers and many years ago, my Norwegian relatives participated in the hunt on a scale that nearly led to their extinction before the process was banned. 

The Coal Harbour Whaling Station closed in 1967. Once it had closed, my grandfather Einar Eikanger, my mother's father, took to fishing and my uncle Harry lost his life the year before when he slipped and fell over the side of the boat. He was crushed between the hull and a Humpback in rough seas. 

Humpback populations have partially recovered since that time to build their population up to 80,000 animals worldwide—but entanglement in fishing gear, collisions with ships, and noise pollution continue to negatively impact the species. So be kind if you see them. Turn your engine off and see if you can hear their soulful cries echoing in the water.

I did up a video on Humpback Whales over on YouTube so you could see them in all their majesty. Here is the link: https://youtu.be/_Vbta7kQNoM

CAMBRIAN SUBMARINES: OPABINIA REGALIS

Meet one of the most wonderfully peculiar animals to ever grace our ancient seas. 

This five-eyed marvel swam through the Cambrian oceans some 508 million years ago, its soft body drifting above the seafloor of what is now British Columbia—preserved in exquisite detail within the famed Burgess Shale of Yoho National Park.

At first glance, Opabinia regalis feels almost mischievous in its design. I think of them as Cambrian submarines. Five stalked eyes sit atop its head like a crown of periscopes, scanning a world teeming with early life. 

Along its sides, a series of delicate lobes ripple in coordinated waves, propelling it forward with gentle, undulating grace. But it is the feeding apparatus that truly steals the show—a long, flexible proboscis ending in a tiny claw, perfectly suited for plucking soft prey from the seafloor and delivering it to its backward-facing mouth tucked beneath the head.

Yes—five eyes. And a claw-tipped trunk. Nature was experimenting, and Opabinia was one of her boldest sketches.

When Charles Doolittle Walcott first described this curious creature in 1912, it puzzled generations of paleontologists. At the time, he believed it was an anostracan branchiopod. I don't see the resemblance but I wasn't looking at a fossil mystery with his lived experience of the time.

Walcott named the species Opabinia after Opabin Peak in the Canadian Rockies. While his initial classification as a crustacean was later debated and revised by researchers like Harry Whittington in the 1970s—who identified it as a far more enigmatic "weird wonder"—Walcott's 1912 publication remains the initial scientific description of this marvelous fancy of nature.

For decades, its place on the tree of life remained uncertain, its anatomy so unlike anything alive today that it seemed almost alien. 

Thanks to the careful work of Harry Whittington and colleagues—that Opabinia was understood as part of an early branch of arthropod evolution, a relative—albeit a very strange one—of the lineage that would eventually give rise to insects, crustaceans and spiders.

Soft-bodied and delicate, Opabinia would never have fossilized under ordinary circumstances. It is only through the extraordinary preservation of the Burgess Shale—where rapid burial in fine mud and low-oxygen conditions halted decay—that we are gifted this glimpse into deep time’s more experimental chapters.

In Opabinia, we see evolution not as a straight line, but as a riot of possibilities—forms tried, tested, and sometimes abandoned with countless strange and beautiful designs flickering briefly before fading into the stone. I am truly thrilled that we got a chance to see this one as so many never had the chance to fossilize and we'll never get to know their quirky selves. 

CERVUS CANADENSIS: MAGNIFICENT ELK

Nature awes me everyday. Quiet moments often shared solo or if lucky, with a good friend or one of the amazing animals that walk this Earth.

I was especially lucky to have many of them while staying in Banff, Alberta. 

A morning stroll became an epic moment shared with a herd of wild but nonplussed elk enjoying their breakfast.

There is something quietly magnificent about an elk moving through fresh snow — head lowered, breath curling into the cold air, long legs parting the white silence of a winter morning in Banff. It feels timeless. And in a way, it is.

The elk you see here, Cervus canadensis, belongs to a lineage that stretches deep into the Pleistocene — a time when ice sheets advanced and retreated across much of North America, reshaping landscapes and the lives within them. 

Elk are members of the family Cervidae, a group that first appears in the fossil record during the Early Miocene, roughly 20 million years ago. These early deer were small, forest-dwelling creatures, lacking the impressive antlers we associate with their modern kin.

By the Late Miocene and into the Pliocene, cervids began to diversify in both form and habitat. Antlers — those seasonal crowns of bone — became more elaborate, evolving as tools of display and combat. 

The genus Cervus, which includes modern elk, appears later, with fossils known from Eurasia before spreading into North America via the Bering Land Bridge during the Pleistocene, likely within the last 2 million years.

Once here, elk flourished.

Pleistocene deposits across North America — from tar seeps like Rancho La Brea in California to river gravels and cave assemblages further north — preserve their bones alongside an Ice Age cast of giants: mammoths, mastodons, dire wolves and short-faced bears. 

Elk held their own in this formidable company, adaptable grazers and browsers able to navigate shifting climates and changing ecosystems.

In Canada, elk fossils are known from a number of Quaternary sites, including Alberta and the Yukon, where their remains speak to a long history on these lands. 

As the glaciers withdrew at the end of the last Ice Age, elk expanded into newly opened habitats, tracking the spread of grasslands and open forests.

What you are seeing in Banff today is the continuation of that story — a survivor of ice and upheaval, still moving with quiet purpose through a landscape shaped by deep time.

I've been lucky enough to get to spend some time in Banff, looking for fossils, as an artist and exploring nature in all its glory.  It was heartwarming to see Elk most every day there and snow multiple times a week—and all this in April and May!

CAMBRIAN CROWN: THE SPINED ELEGANCE OF ORGMASPIS

This calcified beauty is Orygmaspis (Parabolinoides) spinula (Westrop, 1986), an Upper Cambrian trilobite recovered from the McKay Group near Tanglefoot Mountain in the Kootenay Rockies—one of those quietly extraordinary places where deep time peeks through in layered stone.

A member of the Order Asaphida, Orygmaspis carries the elegant geometry so characteristic of its kin: an inverted, egg-shaped outline, a broad and gently arched cephalon, modestly sized eyes, and a thorax adorned with a procession of finely spined segments. 

Twelve thoracic segments form its articulated middle, each bearing spines that lengthen progressively toward the ninth before tapering again—a subtle rhythm of form that feels almost architectural in its precision.

Asaphids themselves tell a longer, more dramatic story. Emerging in the Cambrian and flourishing into the Ordovician, they diversified into six superfamilies—Anomocaroidea, Asaphoidea, Cyclopygoidea, Dikelocephaloidea, Remopleuridoidea and Trinucleioidea—each experimenting with variations on a successful marine design. 

Some evolved remarkable visual adaptations, including the long-stalked eyes of Asaphus kowalewskii, which would have lifted their gaze above the seafloor haze, scanning for both prey and peril in the shifting Ordovician seas.

By the close of the Ordovician, a great extinction event swept away five of these six lineages, claiming roughly 60% of marine life. Only the resilient Trinucleioidea persisted, carrying the torch a little further into the Silurian before another global upheaval drew the final curtain on the Asaphida (Fortey & Chatterton, 1988).

Returning to our Kootenay traveller, the cephalon of Orygmaspis is parabolic, less than twice as wide as long, with a well-defined glabella—the central raised axis—measuring roughly three-quarters as wide as it is long. Its surface is modestly convex, tapering forward with faint lateral furrows and a clearly expressed occipital ring marking the posterior boundary. The preglabellar field is short, about a quarter the length of the glabella, giving the headshield a compact, purposeful look.

The eyes, small but well placed, sit between the anterior and mid-length of the glabella, positioned about one-third of the way out from the axis. Surrounding cheeks—the fixigenae and librigenae—are relatively flat, divided by facial sutures that trace an elegant path: diverging just before the eyes, running parallel near the border, then sweeping inward again in a graceful convergence. 

Behind the eyes, these sutures arc outward and back at roughly 45°, cutting the posterior margin in classic opisthoparian fashion.

At the rear, a diminutive pygidium—just a third the width of the cephalon—completes the form. It is twice as wide as long, with a central axis composed of up to four rings that nearly reach the margin. The pleural fields are gently expressed, their segmentation subdued, while the posterior edge carries three to four pairs of spines, each diminishing toward the rear like the final notes of a fading refrain.

Altogether, Orygmaspis spinula is a study in balance—armoured, yes, but refined. A small, spined voyager from Cambrian seas, preserved in stone and beautifully calcified yet still whispering of movement, adaptation, and survival in a world more than half a billion years removed from our own.

The fingers you see holding this specimen are those of the deeply awesome Chris Jenkins. If you're reading this, Chris, I owe you a visit!

SQUAKING BY THE SEA: SEAGULLS: T'SIK'WI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Most gulls are ground-nesting carnivores that take live food or scavenge opportunistically, particularly the Larus species. 

Food often includes crab, clams (which they pick up, fly high and drop to crack open), fish and small birds. Gulls have unhinging jaws which allow them to consume large prey which they do with gusto. 

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

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

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

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

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

WHERE CARNIAN MEETS NORIAN: THE UPPER TRIASSIC LUNING FORMATION

Step into the sunbaked folds of West Union Canyon, just beyond Berlin-Ichthyosaur State Park in Nevada, and you are quite literally walking along one of North America’s most important geological fault lines in time—the elusive boundary between the Carnian and Norian stages of the Late Triassic.

Here, the Upper Triassic Luning Formation—specifically the Early Norian Kerri Zone—reveals itself in a series of beautifully exposed beds, each one a page in a story written some 220 million years ago. 

This outcrop is a reference point, a kind of stratigraphic Rosetta Stone for understanding the Carnian–Norian boundary (CNB) on this side of the ancient world.

Back in 1959, the formidable J.W. Silberling carefully documented the rich ammonoid faunas preserved here, establishing the Schucherti and Macrolobatus zones of the latest Carnian. 

These are then overlain—rather obligingly—by the earliest Norian faunas of the Kerri Zone. A neat geological handshake across deep time… and then, curiously, silence. For half a century, no one returned to press the story further.

Enter a trio of sharp-eyed Vancouverites—Jim Haggart, Mike Orchard, and Paul Smith—who, in 2010, decided it was high time to dust off this remarkable section and ask a few new questions. Armed with rock hammers, hand lenses, and a healthy obsession with the microscopic and the coiled, they conducted a meticulous bed-by-bed sampling of ammonoids and conodonts through the canyon walls.

On the eastern flank, the Macrolobatus Zone struts its stuff—ammonoids of the Tropites group and Anatropites making regular appearances. Meanwhile, the conodonts—those tiny, tooth-like fossils that palaeontologists adore—are dominated by ornate metapolygnathids. 

These were once all lumped together under Metapolygnathus primitius, a species famous for straddling the CNB like a geological fence-sitter. Here, they show closer affinities to M. mersinensis, with a cameo from forms akin to Epigondolella orchardi and even a new Orchardella species joining the party.

And here’s where it gets rather delightful—this assemblage ties beautifully back to the latest Carnian faunas of British Columbia. A transcontinental whisper between Nevada’s desert stones and Canada’s coastal mountains.

Climb a little higher in the section and—ah!—the plot thickens. The ammonoid cast shifts dramatically, now dominated by Tropithisbites. Not far above, just shy of the first true Norian ammonoids—Guembelites jandianus and Stikinoceras—two brand-new conodont species appear. 

These same forms are known from British Columbia, right at the favoured CNB. It’s correlation at its finest—like matching fingerprints across an ancient ocean basin.

Over on the western side of the canyon, the Kerri Zone is displayed in full flourish. Ammonoids abound—Guembelites, Stikinoceras, and friends—stacked through multiple fossiliferous layers. The conodonts echo those of the eastern section, reinforcing the story. 

Interestingly, while these faunas align well with Silberling’s original descriptions, they show subtle differences from coeval assemblages in the Tethys and even from those in Canada. Notably absent is Gonionotites, a genus common elsewhere but conspicuously missing in Nevada’s lineup. Here, the Tropitidae reign supreme, while the Juvavitidae sit this one out.

And then—because science is always best when paired with a good pair of boots—I had the absolute pleasure of walking these very beds in October 2019 with members of the Vancouver Paleontological Society and the Vancouver Island Paleontological Society. The same spirited crew I’ve roamed the Canadian Rockies with since the early 2000s, when many of these correlations were first being teased into focus.

There’s something quietly magical about tracing those connections in person—linking Nevada’s desert ridges to British Columbia’s coastal outcrops through ammonites no bigger than your palm and conodonts you can barely see without a microscope.

SAILS OF THE PERMIAN: DIMETRODON

Dimetrodon by Daniel Eskridge

In the steamy forests of the early Permian, some 295 million years ago, a Dimetrodon prowls through a world that feels both alien and oddly familiar. 

The forest hums with insect life, and the air hangs heavy with the scent of wet soil and decaying vegetation. 

Towering above are stands of lycopsids, early relatives of modern clubmosses, their scaly trunks reaching for the pale sun. 

Ferns carpet the forest floor, interwoven with the roots of primitive conifers. Between them flow sluggish streams, their surfaces shimmering with pollen and the movements of darting amphibians.

Through this primeval landscape moves Dimetrodon—muscular, deliberate, and unmistakable. Its back is crowned with a tall, elegant neural sail, formed by elongated vertebral spines connected by stretched skin. As dawn light breaks through the canopy, the sail glows amber and crimson, absorbing warmth to jumpstart its cold-blooded metabolism. 

Dimetrodon by Daniel Eskridge

In a world of fluctuating temperatures, such thermoregulation was a powerful evolutionary advantage. By mid-morning, the great predator is alert, its metabolism primed for the hunt.

A rustle in the underbrush betrays the movement of smaller synapsids—perhaps an Edaphosaurus, a plant-eater with its own sail, though broader and dotted with crossbars. Dimetrodon lowers its head and advances silently, each step careful, practiced. Its jaws, lined with serrated, ziphodont teeth, were perfectly adapted for slicing through flesh. 

Unlike the simple cone-shaped teeth of earlier reptiles, Dimetrodon’s dentition reveals its lineage as a synapsid—a group that would, through deep evolutionary time, give rise to mammals, including us.

Despite its reptilian appearance, Dimetrodon was not a dinosaur. It lived more than 40 million years before the first dinosaurs appeared. Its lineage represents an earlier, distinct branch on the tree of life: the pelycosaurs, the dominant land vertebrates of the Permian. 

These creatures were part of the great synapsid radiation, experimenting with new body plans and ecological roles in a rapidly changing world. Dimetrodon’s sail, once thought to serve purely for display, likely functioned as a thermal regulator, allowing it to warm up quickly in the morning and cool down in the heat of the day. 

Some also propose that the sail could have been a signal structure—flashing color patterns to warn rivals or attract mates among the ferns and cycads.

In the murky shallows nearby, lungfish burrow into the mud, preparing for the dry season. Amphibians the size of crocodiles lounge in the shallows, their nostrils barely above water. 

Dimetrodon may have been primarily a terrestrial hunter, but it was never far from the wetlands where prey was abundant. A sudden splash draws its attention—a large amphibian, perhaps a Diplocaulus, with its strange boomerang-shaped head, breaking the surface. Dimetrodon’s muscles tense; the predator lunges, jaws snapping shut with a crack that echoes through the forest. The water churns, then stills. A moment later, the sail-backed hunter emerges, victorious, dragging its meal to the shore.

The Permian ecosystem was one of transition—between the lush coal swamps of the Carboniferous and the arid supercontinent of Pangaea to come. Forests gave way to open plains and deserts, forcing animals to adapt or perish. Dimetrodon thrived in this environment for millions of years before disappearing in the changing climates of the late Permian, replaced by more advanced therapsids, the true precursors to mammals.

We find the fossils of Dimetrodon across North America, particularly in the Texas Red Beds and parts of Oklahoma, their bones preserved in ancient floodplain sediments. These remains—skulls, vertebrae, and the distinctive spines of its sail—offer us a window into deep time, to an age before dinosaurs, when the world was still finding its balance between reptile and mammal, swamp and desert, day and night.

Beneath the humid canopy of the Permian, Dimetrodon was master of its realm—a creature of sunlight and shadow, its sail gleaming like a living flame against the green gloom of the world’s first great forests.

NUNAVUT: LAND OF ICE AND SNOW

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ANCIENT AMBUSH KILLER: MACHAIRODUS

Saber-Toothed Cat, Machairodus aphanistus

The skull before you lies cradled in a glass case at the Museo Nacional de Ciencias Naturales in Madrid, Spain.

This museum—one of my most cherished anywhere in the world—houses extraordinary treasures in the heart of a city I adore.

Even at a distance, the skull seems almost unreal, its sweeping lines and lethal symmetry more like an artifact of myth than a product of natural selection.

The upper canines of Machairodus aphanistus sweep downward in a deadly curve, their bases thick and reinforced, their blades tapering into elegant, murderous crescents. 

Grooves along their sides lighten the teeth without robbing them of strength, an evolutionary compromise that allowed this ancient predator to deliver precise, slicing blows. The zygomatic arches flare outward with commanding confidence, a testament to the enormous jaw muscles that once powered the bite. Even the wide nasal opening hints at a creature ruled by scent, finely attuned to the faintest whispers of prey on a warm Miocene wind.

This skull—stripped of flesh, muscle, and fur—remains a vivid record of a predator that walked the Earth between nine and five million years ago, long before the saber-toothed icons of the Americas made their mark. 

Machairodus aphanistus lived in the shifting landscapes of the Late Miocene, a time when Europe and western Asia were giving way to broader grasslands and open woodlands. Forest canopies receded. Herds grew larger and faster. Predators had to adapt or perish, and Machairodus responded with a design both beautiful and deadly.

Unlike its more famous descendant, Smilodon, with its compact body and powerful forelimbs, Machairodus moved with the grace of a panther. It was long-limbed and athletic, relying on bursts of speed and stealth to launch an ambush. But its skull tells a more nuanced story—one of tension between speed and specialization. The tall sagittal crest reveals a powerhouse of jaw muscles anchoring deep into the bone. 

The forward-facing orbits provide the stereoscopic vision needed to track prey with extraordinary accuracy. The sheer length of the canines required a jaw capable of opening nearly ninety degrees, a gape far wider than that of any modern cat, allowing those great blades to descend unobstructed into vulnerable regions like the throat.

You will be relieved to hear that our ancestors did not hunt and were not hunted by this impressive predator. Machairodus aphanistus went extinct in the Late Miocene, roughly 5–9 million years ago.

The earliest members of the human lineage (Homo) did not appear until about 2.8 million years ago, in the early Pleistocene. Even our more ancient relatives—Australopithecines—don’t show up until 4–4.5 million years ago.

So there is a gap of millions of years between the disappearance of Machairodus and the emergence of anything that could be considered human or human-adjacent. For that, I think we can all breath a collective sigh.

Still, others were alive on the plains that were their hunting grounds. Both hunters and prey.

In the warm, open savannas of the Miocene, the world of Machairodus was alive with competition. Packs of early hyenas honed their bone-crushing skills. Bear-dogs patrolled the river valleys. Other machairodonts—kin, rivals, or both—shared the same hunting grounds. 

The herbivores were just as diverse: early horses galloped across the plains in tight herds, while rhinocerotids, camelids, and horned antelope moved in cautious groups, ever aware of shadows that shifted in the tall grass. To survive in this dynamic ecosystem, Machairodus embraced an ambush strategy refined over countless generations. It would stalk silently, using shrubs, boulders, or dim forest edges for cover. 

When the distance closed, it lunged with explosive force, using its muscular forelimbs to pin or destabilize its prey before delivering a swift, slicing bite to the neck. Death came quickly—less by crushing force and more by catastrophic blood loss.

There is a sense, looking at its skull that you are seeing an evolutionary idea mid-transformation.

Machairodus aphanistus stands at a pivotal moment in the story of the saber-toothed cats. Its body remained agile and panther-like, but its cranial features were edging ever closer to the extreme adaptations that would define later giants like Homotherium and Smilodon. It represents a crucial chapter in which nature was experimenting, refining, and pushing the boundaries of what a predator could become.

The skull contains all of this history within its bone: the open grasslands, the pounding hooves of prey, the quiet tension of ambush, and the relentless arms race that shaped predator and prey alike. 

In its silence, it speaks. It tells of a world both familiar and wild, a world where the line between beauty and brutality was sharpened to a sabre’s edge.

HUNTING NEUTRINOS AND DARK MATTER

Deep inside the largest and deepest gold mine in North America scientists are looking for dark matter particles and neutrinos instead of precious metals. It may not seem exciting on the surface — but it was far below!

The Homestake Gold Mine in Lawrence County, South Dakota was a going concern from about 1876 to 2001.

The mine produced more than forty million troy ounces of gold in its one hundred and twenty-five-year history, dating back to the beginnings of the Black Hills Gold Rush.

To give its humble beginnings a bit of context, Homestake was started in the days of miners hauling loads of ore via horse and mule and the battles of the Great Sioux War. Folk moved about via horse-drawn buggies and Alexander Graham Bell had just made his first successful telephone call.

Wyatt Earp was working in Dodge City, Kansas — he had yet to get the heck outta Dodge — and Mark Twain was in the throes of publishing The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. — And our dear Thomas Edison had just opened his first industrial research lab in Menlo Park. 

The mine is part of the Homestake Formation, an Early Proterozoic layer of iron carbonate and iron silicate that produces auriferous greenschist gold. What does all that geeky goodness mean? 

If you were a gold miner it would be music to your ears. They ground down that schist to get the glorious good stuff and made a tiny wee sum doing so. But then gold prices levelled off — from 1997 ($287.05) to 2001 ($276.50) — and rumblings from the owners started to grow. They bailed in 2001, ironically just before gold prices started up again.

But back to 2001, that levelling saw the owners look to a new source of revenue in an unusual place. One they had explored way back in the 1960s in a purpose-built underground laboratory that sounds more like something out of a science fiction book. 

The brainchild of chemist and astrophysicists, John Bahcall and Raymond Davis Jr. from the Brookhaven National Laboratory in Upton, New York, the laboratory was used to observe solar neutrinos, electron neutrinos produced by the Sun as a product of nuclear fusion.

Davis had the ingenious idea to use 100,000 gallons of dry-cleaning solvent, tetrachloroethylene, with the notion that neutrinos headed to Earth from the Sun would pass through most matter but on very rare occasions would hit a chlorine-37 atom head-on turning it to argon-37. His experiment was a general success, detecting electron neutrinos,  though his technique failed to sense two-thirds of the number predicted. 

In particle physics, neutrinos come in three types: electron, muon and tau. Think yellow, green, blue. What Davis had failed to initially predict was the neutrino oscillation en route to Earth that altered one form of neutrino into another. Blue becomes green, yellow becomes blue... He did eventually correct this wee error and was awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics in 2002 for his efforts.

Though Davis’ experiments were working, miners at Homestake continued to dig deep for ore in the belly of the Black Hills of western South Dakota for almost another forty years. As gold prices levelled out and ore quality dropped the idea began to float to re-purpose the mine as a potential site for a new Deep Underground Engineering Laboratory (DUSEL).

A pitch was made and the National Science Foundation awarded the contract to Homestake in 2007.  The mine is now home to the Deep Underground Neutrino Experiment (DUNE) using DUSEL and Large Underground Xenon to look at both neutrinos and dark particle matter. It is a wonderful re-purposing of the site and one that few could ever have predicted. Well done, Homestake. The future of the site is a gracious homage to the now deceased Davis. He would likely be delighted to know that his work continues at Homestake and our exploration of the Universe with it.

DINOFLAGELLATES: TEENSY OCEAN STARS

This showy Christmas Cracker is a Dinoflagellate

The showy royal blue Christmas cracker looking fellow you see here is a dinoflagellate. 

Bioluminescent dinoflagellates are a type of plankton — teensy marine organisms that make the seaways shimmer as you swim through them or the tide crashes them against the shore. 

The first modern dinoflagellate was described by Baker in 1753, the first species was formally named by Muller in 1773. 

The first fossil forms were described by Ehrenberg in the 1830s from Cretaceous outcrops. More dinoflagellates have lived, died and gone extinct than there are living today. We know them mainly from fossil dinocysts dating back to the Triassic. They are one of the most primitive of the eukaryotic group with a fossil record that may extend into the Precambrian. They combine primitive characteristics of prokaryotes and advanced eukaryotic features.

The luciferase found in dinoflagellates is related to the green chemical chlorophyll found in plants. Their twinkling lights are brief, each containing about 100 million photons that shine for only a tenth of a second. 

While each individual flicker is here and gone in the wink of an eye, en masse they are breathtaking. I have spent several wondrous evenings scuba diving amongst these glittering denizens off our shores. What you know about light above the surface does not hold true for the light you see as bioluminescence. Its energy and luminosity come from a chemical reaction. 

In a luminescent reaction, two types of chemicals — luciferin and luciferase — combine together. 

Together, they produce cold light — light that generates less than 20% thermal radiation or heat. 

The light you see is produced by a compound called Luciferin. It is the shiny, showy bit in this chemical show. Luciferase acts as an enzyme, the substance that acts as a catalyst controlling the rate of chemical reactions, allowing the luciferin to release energy as it is oxidized. 

The colour of the light depends on the chemical structures of the chemicals. There are more than a dozen known chemical luminescent systems, indicating that bioluminescence evolved independently in different groups of organisms.

Coelenterazine is the type of luciferin we find in shrimp, fish and jellyfish. Dinoflagellates and krill share another class of unique luciferins, while ostracods or firefleas and some fish have a completely different luciferin — but all produce lights of various colours to great effect.  

MIGUASHA BOTHRIOLEPIS CANADENSIS

Bothriolepis canadensis

A stunning replica of Bothriolepis canadensis from Upper Devonian (Frasnian), Escuminac formation, Parc de Miguasha, Baie des Chaleurs, Gaspé, Québec, Canada.

Bothriolepis was found and originally described by geologist Abraham Gesner in 1842 as "a tortoise with fossil foot-marks." He was wrong, of course, but these placoderm fish in the order Antiarchi do bear a superficial resemblance to turtles.

For nearly two centuries, the Late Devonian Miguasha biota from eastern Canada has offered up a near-complete brackish water community — 20 species of lower vertebrates — anaspids, osteostra-cans, placoderms, acanthodians, actinopterygians and sarcopterygians — a limited invertebrate assemblage, and terrestrial plants and arthropods — scorpions and millipedes.

Originally interpreted as a freshwater lacustrine environment, recent paleontological, taphonomic, sedimentological and geochemical evidence corroborates a brackish estuarine setting. 

Over 18,000 fish specimens have been recovered from the rock lain down in these brackish waters. They show various modes of fossilization, including uncompressed material and soft-tissue preservation. 

Most vertebrates are known from numerous, complete, articulated specimens. Exceptionally well-preserved larval and juvenile specimens have been identified for fourteen out of the twenty species of fishes, allowing growth studies. 

Numerous horizons within the Escuminac Formation are now interpreted as either Konservat or Konzentrat–Lagerstätten. 

The fine replica above was purchased at the Musée d'Histoire Naturelle, Miguasha (MHNM) and is in the collection of the deeply awesome — and well-travelled — John Fam, Vice-Chair of the Vancouver Paleontological Society.

Great Canadian Lagerstätten 4. The Devonian Miguasha Biota (Québec): UNESCO World Heritage Site and a Time Capsule in the Early History of Vertebrates, Richard Cloutier, Département de Biologie, Chimie et Géographie, Université du Québec à Rimouski, 300 allée des Ursulines, Rimouski, QC, Canada, G5L 3A1, richard_cloutier@uqar.ca, http://dx.doi.org/10.12789/geocanj.2013.40.008

Image: Restoration of the upper and underside of B. canadensis. By Unknown author - Popular Science Monthly Volume 82, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=20672589

A MASSIVE AMMONITE THE SIZE OF A CAR: THE FERNIE AMMONITE

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.

THIRST OF THE LOST CONTINENT: DODOS AT THE RIVER OF MAURITIA

Dodo Birds by Daniel Eskridge

Two dodo birds—one warm brown like sun-baked coconut husk, the other a pale, ghostly white with hints of grey—stand beak-deep in the shallows of a river that winds like a silver serpent through the tropical jungles of ancient Mauritia. 

Their feet sink into cool silt and damp leaves at a rivers edge. 

The air is thick with the scent of pandanus and damp leaves, heavy enough to taste. Dragonflies hover in lazy spirals above them, iridescent flashes stitching over the water’s skin.

The brown male dodo dips first, scooping up a beakful of water with a gentle glop, while the white female one pauses, head cocked, watching a fruit drift downstream. For a moment the world feels impossibly quiet—no humans, no predators bold enough to trouble them, only the chorus of the forest and the steady rhythm of their drinking.

These feathered oddities belong to an island that itself has slipped through time. Mauritia, a now-lost microcontinent once nestled between Madagascar and India, cracked and sank more than 60 million years ago as the Indian Ocean spread and rearranged the world’s geography. All that remains today are a few scattered fragments—Mauritius, Réunion, Rodrigues—emerald crumbs left atop an ancient submerged landmass.

Dodo Birds by Daniel Eskridge

It is on one of these volcanic islands, long after Mauritia’s foundering, that the dodo evolved into its peculiar glory. 

Descended from flighted pigeons that likely swept in on storm winds from Southeast Asia, the dodo abandoned the sky entirely. 

With no natural predators and an island full of fruits, nuts, and fallen seeds, wings became more decorative than practical. Their legs grew stout. Their bodies rounded. 

Their beaks curved into the iconic hooked silhouette now etched into the imagination of every natural historian.

The brown dodo nudges the white one aside, perhaps a sign of affection, perhaps mild irritation—dodos, after all, were social birds, not the clumsy caricatures drawn centuries later. 

They waddled in flocks, nested on the ground, and lived comfortably beneath the canopy of ebony forests. Their feathers, described by early visitors as soft and hair-like, varied from gray-brown to white depending on age, sex, and perhaps even seasonal cycles.

But their peace was fragile, vulnerable to change they could not see coming.

When humans finally set foot on Mauritius in the late 1500s, they brought ships that carried pigs, rats, goats, and monkeys, all eager for eggs, seedlings, and anything edible. 

Forests were cut, nests trampled, and the trusting dodos, unaccustomed to fear, walked directly into the hands of sailors who considered them a convenient, if not particularly tasty, meal. Within roughly a century, they were gone.

But in this imagined moment—two birds drinking from a clear jungle river on an island born from a drowned continent—they live again. 

The sun breaks through a gap in the canopy, scattering gold across their backs. The white dodo lifts its head, droplets falling like tiny jewels, and lets out a soft, throaty grunt.

Here, in the cool breath of Mauritia’s shadowed past, the dodos are a symbol of loss—curious, gentle, utterly at home.

And for a heartbeat, we remember them.

Illustration Credit: This image 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

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.