BLADES OF THE ICE AGE: SMILODON

Beneath the elegant halls of the Muséum national d’Histoire naturelle in Paris is the fossil skeleton of one of the Pleistocene’s most formidable predators: Smilodon, the celebrated—and slightly misleadingly named—sabre-toothed cat.

With its enormous blade-like upper canines, immensely powerful shoulders and muscular forelimbs, Smilodon looks like evolution became temporarily carried away while designing a cat.

Although often called a sabre-toothed tiger, Smilodon was not a tiger and was only distantly related to the lions, leopards and domestic cats living today. 

It belonged to an extinct branch of the cat family known as the Machairodontinae, whose members evolved elongated canine teeth shaped for very specialised hunting.

Smilodon lived across the Americas during the Pleistocene, sharing its world with mammoths, mastodons, giant ground sloths, ancient bison, horses, camels and many other large mammals. Three species are currently recognized: Smilodon gracilis, Smilodon fatalis and the particularly enormous South American species, Smilodon populator.

Unlike the long-legged cats that pursue prey across open ground today, Smilodon was built for close combat. Its body was compact and tremendously muscular, with massive forelimbs capable of seizing and restraining struggling animals. Its relatively short tail suggests that speed and extended pursuit were not its strengths. 

This was an ambush hunter—an Ice Age bruiser waiting in cover for an opportunity to strike.

Smilodon Skull versus modern-day Leopard Skull

Those celebrated canine teeth could reach more than 20 centimetres in the largest individuals, but they were not indestructible daggers. 

Long, flattened and finely serrated, they were effective slicing weapons but vulnerable to sideways stress. 

Smilodon likely used its forelimbs to overpower its prey before delivering a carefully controlled bite to the throat or other soft tissue. Evolution had provided magnificent cutlery, but it still needed to be handled with care.

To use those teeth effectively, Smilodon could open its jaws extraordinarily wide—perhaps approaching 120 degrees, compared with roughly 65 degrees in a modern lion. 

A yawn from one of these cats would have been less “sleepy house pet” and considerably more “please reconsider every decision that brought you here.”

Despite its fearsome appearance, Smilodon was not invincible. Its survival depended upon landscapes rich in large prey and suitable ambush cover. 

As the last Ice Age ended, climates shifted, habitats changed and many of the great herbivores upon which large predators depended disappeared. Human hunting and competition may also have contributed to these ecological pressures.

The final sabre-toothed cats vanished around 10,000 years ago, leaving behind bones, broken teeth and tantalizing clues to their lives. Exceptionally rich fossil deposits—most famously the Rancho La Brea tar pits in Los Angeles—have preserved thousands of Smilodon specimens, allowing us to study their injuries, growth, behaviour and possible social relationships.

In Paris, stripped of muscle, fur and movement, the skeleton carries the unmistakable architecture of power. The deep chest, reinforced forelimbs and extraordinary canines belong to an animal exquisitely adapted to its vanished world.

Image: Two skulls on black background. The relative size difference between the extinct Smilodon and a modern-day leopard. Two cats evolved in entirely different ways, one highly specialised and the other a superb generalist. Nick Greaves. License #1929090716

ANTLERS, ANCESTORS AND A CERTAIN MUSKY MAJESTY: ELK

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

Elk are members of the family Cervidae, a group that first appeared in the fossil record during the Early Miocene, roughly 20 million years ago. 

These early deer were generally small, forest-dwelling creatures whose simple antlers bore little resemblance to the magnificent branching crowns carried by their modern kin.

By the Late Miocene and into the Pliocene, cervids had begun to diversify in both form and habitat. 

As forests shifted and grasslands expanded, deer evolved longer limbs, new feeding strategies and increasingly elaborate antlers—those extraordinary seasonal crowns of bone used for display, intimidation and, when diplomacy fails, combat.

The genus Cervus, which includes modern elk, appeared later in Eurasia. Its descendants eventually spread into North America through Beringia, the land bridge that connected Siberia and Alaska during periods of lower sea level in the Pleistocene.

Once here, elk flourished.

Roosevelt elk, Cervus canadensis roosevelti

Pleistocene deposits across North America—from the tar seeps of Rancho La Brea in California (so worth a visit) to river gravels, caves and northern permafrost—preserve elk bones alongside an astonishing Ice Age cast: mammoths, mastodons, ancient bison, dire wolves, sabre-toothed cats and short-faced bears.

It was a formidable neighbourhood, yet elk held their own. 

As adaptable grazers and browsers, they could feed on grasses, sedges, leaves, twigs, bark and shrubs, allowing them to navigate shifting climates and rapidly changing ecosystems.

Here on Vancouver Island, the elk we encounter are Roosevelt elk, Cervus canadensis roosevelti—the largest-bodied of North America’s living elk subspecies.

And they are magnificent.

Big, breathtaking and completely at home in the rainforest, they emerge from the trees to browse in clearings, drink along the shores of Cowichan Lake and, with alarming regularity, appear beside island roadways looking as though they have somewhere important to be.

Elk Enjoying Nature's Salad Bar

Older scientific literature may list them as Cervus elaphus roosevelti, reflecting the long-running debate over whether North American elk should be classified with Eurasian red deer. 

Today, they are generally recognized as a subspecies of the distinct North American elk, Cervus canadensis.

Roosevelt elk are native to the wet coastal forests extending from northern California through Oregon and Washington into southwestern British Columbia. 

In Canada, their great natural stronghold is Vancouver Island, with smaller populations now living along portions of the southwest mainland coast. 

Several of those mainland herds descend from animals moved from Vancouver Island as part of successful restoration efforts.

Their ancestors reached Vancouver Island following the last glaciation, entering newly available landscapes as the ice retreated and forests, river valleys, wetlands and coastal meadows developed. Over time, they became superbly adapted to life in the temperate rainforest.

Unlike elk associated with the open grasslands and mountain valleys of the continental interior, Roosevelt elk often live beneath towering western redcedar, Douglas-fir, Sitka spruce and western hemlock. 

They favour low-elevation river valleys, estuaries, wetlands, forest openings and avalanche tracks where grasses, sedges, shrubs and tender young vegetation are plentiful.

Many herds move into higher country during summer, then descend into sheltered valleys as autumn storms and winter snow return. 

They are also regulars along Vancouver Island’s highways, where lush roadside vegetation apparently offers an irresistible salad bar. Unfortunately, their fondness for roadside dining sometimes ends very poorly—for elk and motorists alike. 

If you find yourself driving along Highway 18 (also known as the Cowichan Valley Highway) slow right down at any sign of movement along the roadside. April through June, look for wee fawns and the rest of the year, be prepared for a herd of Elk to emerge—especially within the vicinity of Youbou, British Columbia. Tis a favourite haunt of our Cervus locals.

Their dark coats seem almost made for the island’s rain-soaked forests. A mature bull can appear suddenly between the trees, his body blending into the shadows while his pale rump patch flashes through the undergrowth. He is massive, deep-chested and thick-necked, particularly during the autumn rut.

His antlers rise above the sword ferns like the branches of some highly mobile and faintly irritated tree.

To encounter one in the wild is unforgettable. The elk here have most definitely been enjoying the salad bar and look remarkably well nourished. They also appear wonderfully unconcerned by the human standing nearby, staring open-mouthed into the forest.

The woods may be dripping after rain, rich with the scents of cedar, wet earth and decaying leaves. Then comes the soft crack of a branch. A dark shape moves between the trunks, followed by another, until an entire herd materializes from the forest.

For a few moments, you simply stand and stare.

They are so perfectly at home they seem less like animals passing through the landscape than living pieces of the landscape itself. Their breath hangs in the cool air. Hooves press deeply into the saturated soil. Cows murmur softly to their calves while bulls watch from the edge of the herd, carrying an astonishing architecture of bone upon their heads.

And then the breeze turns.

Roosevelt elk possess the same earthy, musky scent as their continental relatives, enhanced during the rut by wallowing, urine-soaked vegetation and the general romantic conviction that smelling respectable is wildly overrated. The result is a potent mixture of wet hide, mud, fermented vegetation and eau de amorous ungulate.

It is not exactly Chanel No. 5, but the cows appear to approve.

On Vancouver Island, Roosevelt elk share the landscape with Columbian black-tailed deer, black bears, cougars and wolves that are more than capable of hunting them. Elk also help shape the ecosystems around them. Their grazing and browsing influence plant communities, while their movements open pathways, disperse seeds and carry nutrients through forests, wetlands and river valleys.

They are residents of these ecosystems and active participants in them.

Although elk survived the great wave of extinctions at the end of the Pleistocene, Roosevelt elk have faced more recent pressures from intensive hunting, expanding settlement, road traffic and the loss and fragmentation of low-elevation habitat.

Their Vancouver Island populations are therefore particularly important. They represent both a distinctive coastal form of elk and a living continuation of the great cervid migrations that followed the retreating Ice Age.

When a Roosevelt bull bugles through a misty Vancouver Island valley, the sound seems to belong to another time. It rises through the rain and cedar branches—wild, strange and resonant—carrying with it an echo of the Pleistocene.

Magnificent, ancient and, dare I say, magnificently smelly.

HUNTER OF PANTHALASSAN SEAS: SHONISAURUS

Shonisaurus sikanni / Sikanni Chief River

More than 200 million years ago, when the supercontinent Pangaea was still knitting the world together, a leviathan moved through the warm Panthalassan seas that covered what is now northeastern British Columbia. 

Shonisaurus sikanniensis was colossal. At an estimated 21 metres (about 70 feet) in length, it rivals or exceeds the largest whales alive today. 

This was no scaly sea dragon but an ichthyosaur: a dolphin-shaped marine reptile with immense paddle-like limbs, a long, tapering snout, and eyes built for the dim light of deep water. 

Its vertebrae alone are the size of dinner plates. When it swam, it would have moved with powerful sweeps of its crescent tail, master of a Late Triassic ocean teeming with ammonites and early marine reptiles.

The type specimen of Shonisaurus sikanniensis was discovered along the banks of the Sikanni Chief River and painstakingly excavated over three ambitious field seasons led by Dr. Betsy Nicholls of the Royal Tyrrell Museum. 

A Rolex Laureate and one of Canada’s most respected vertebrate palaeontologists, Dr. Nicholls undertook what remains one of the most formidable fossil excavations ever attempted in this country. 

The animal lay entombed in limestone, and freeing it required extraordinary logistics, teamwork, and resolve over many field seasons.  

That immense skeleton — the largest marine reptile ever described — reshaped our understanding of just how big ichthyosaurs could become.

Many dedicated researchers have contributed to expanding the story of Shonisaurus and its kin. Scholars such as Dean Lomax and Sven Sachs, among others, continue to refine our understanding of ichthyosaur anatomy, growth patterns, and evolutionary relationships. 

Recent work on giant ichthyosaurs from the Triassic of Europe and North America suggests that extreme body size evolved rapidly after the end-Permian mass extinction. New discoveries of enormous jaw fragments and vertebrae hint that multiple lineages independently pushed the limits of marine reptile gigantism. 

These animals were likely deep-diving specialists, feeding on abundant soft-bodied cephalopods and fish, filling ecological roles that whales would not occupy for another 150 million years.

The Sikanni Chief River flows through the traditional territory of the Kaska Dena, whose stewardship of these lands spans countless generations. Any scientific work in this region exists within that broader and much older human story, and it is important to acknowledge the enduring relationship between the land, the river, and the people who know it best.

Today, the bones of Shonisaurus sikanniensis rest in Alberta, but its story stretches far beyond a museum gallery. It is a tale of deep time, bold fieldwork, collaboration across continents, and the simple human wonder that arises when we uncover something vast and ancient from stone. 

From the warm Triassic seas to the careful hands of modern researchers, the story of Shonisaurus reminds us that our planet has always been capable of producing giants — and that with patience, teamwork, and curiosity, we can bring their stories joyfully back into the light.

FOSSIL HUNTING AT HARRISON LAKE

Located three hours east of Vancouver, most folks head to Harrison Lake to enjoy its crisp waters, soak in the hot springs, camp or four-wheel-drive immersed in rugged scenery, or look for the elusive Sasquatch reported to live in the area. 

But there are some who come to Harrison Lake and miss the town entirely. Instead, they favour the upper west side of the lake and the fossiliferous bounty found here.

Indeed, this is the perfect location for local citizen scientists to strut their stuff. Harrison is a perfect family day trip, where you can discover wonderful marine fossil specimens as complete or partially crushed fossilized shells embedded in rock. 

It is truly amazing that we can find them at all. These beauties range in age from Jurassic to Cretaceous, with most being Lower Callovian, meaning the ammonites here swam our ancient oceans more than 160 million years ago. 

The area around Harrison Lake has been home to the Sts’ailes, a sovereign Coast Salish First Nation for thousands of years. Sts’ailes’ means, “the beating heart,” and it sums up this glorious wilderness perfectly. They describe their ancient home as Xa’xa Temexw or Sacred Earth. 

With the settling of Canada, Geologists began exploring the area in the 1880s, calling upon the Sts’ailes to help them look for coal and a route for the Canadian Pacific Railway. Coal was the aim, but happily, they also found fossils. Sacred Earth, indeed.  

Belemnite Fossils

In my favourite outcrops, you can find large, smooth inflated Jurassic ammonites along with their small grey and brown cousins. 

Further up the road, you will see Cretaceous cigar-shaped squid-like cephalopods called Belemnites, and the bivalve (clam) Buchia — gifts deposited by glaciers. Here are the most common.

Ammonites

Almost all of the ammonite specimens found near Harrison Lake are the toonie sized Cadoceras (Paracadoceras) tonniense with well-preserved outer whorls but flattened inner whorls. We find semi-squished elliptical specimens here, too. If you see a large, smooth, inflated grapefruit-sized ammonite, you are holding a rare prize — a Cadoceras comma ammonite, the macroconch or female of the species.  

Ammonites were predatory, squid-like creatures that lived inside coil-shaped shells. Like other cephalopods, ammonites had sharp, beak-like jaws inside a ring of squid-like tentacles that extended from their shells. They used these tentacles to snare prey — plankton, vegetation, fish and crustaceans — similar to the way a squid or octopus hunts today.

Within their shells, ammonites had a number of chambers called septa filled with gas or fluid, and they were interconnected through a wee air tube. By pushing air in or out, they were able to control their buoyancy. 

These small but mighty marine predators lived in the last chamber of their shell and continuously built new shell material as they grew. As they added each new chamber, they would move their squid-like body down to occupy the final outside chamber.

Interestingly, ammonites from Harrison Lake are quite similar to the ones found within the lower part of the Chinitna Formation near Cook Inlet, Alaska, and Jurassic Point, Kyuquot, on the west coast of Vancouver Island — some of the most beautiful places on Earth. 

Buchia (bivalve) Clams

The bivalve or clam Buchia are commonly found at Harrison Lake. You will see them cemented together en masse. . They populated Upper Jurassic–Lower Cretaceous waters like a team sport. When they thrived, they really thrived, building up large coquinas of material. Large boulders of Buchia cemented together en masse hitched a ride with the glaciers and were deposited around Harrison Lake. Some kept going and we find similar erratics or glacier-deposited boulders as far south as Washington state. 

Buchia is used as Index Fossils. Index fossils help us to figure out the age of the rock we are looking at because they are abundant, populate an area en masse, and then die out quickly. In other words, they make it easy to identify a geologic time span.

So what does this mean to you? Now, when you are out and about with friends and discover rocks with Buchia, or made entirely of Buchia, you can say, “Oh, this looks to be Upper Jurassic or Lower Cretaceous. Come take a look! We're likely the first to lay eyes on this little clam since dinosaurs roamed the Earth.” 

Fossil Collecting at Harrison Lake Fossil Field Trip — Getting there

This Harrison Lake site is a great day trip from Vancouver or the Fraser Valley. You will need a vehicle with good tires for travel on gravel roads. Search out the route ahead of time and share your trip plan with someone you trust. If you can pre-load the Google Earth map of the area, you will thank yourself. 

Heading east on from Vancouver, it will take you 1.5-2 hours to reach Harrison Mills. 

Access Forestry Road #17 at the northeast end of the parking lot from the Sasquatch Inn at 46001 Lougheed Hwy, Harrison Mills. From there, it will take about an hour to get to the site. Look for signs for the Chehalis River Fish Hatchery to get you started. 

Drive 30 km up Forestry Road #1, and stop just past Hale Creek at 49.5° N, 121.9° W (paleo-coordinates 42.5° N, 63.4° W) on the west side of Harrison Lake. You will see Long Island to your right. 

The first of the yummy fossil exposures are just north of Hale Creek on the west side of the road. Keep in mind that this is an active logging road, so watch your kids and pets carefully. Everyone should be wearing something bright so they can be easily spotted.

How to Spot the Fossils

The fossils here are easily collected—look in the bedrock and in the loose material that gathers in the ditches. Specimens will show up as either dark grey, grey-brown or black. Look for the large, dark-grey boulders the size of smart cars packed with Buchia. 

And while you are at it, be on the lookout for anything that looks like bone. This site is also ripe for marine reptiles—think plesiosaur, mosasaur and elasmosaur. As a citizen scientist and budding palaeontologist, you might just find something new!

What to Know Before You Go

Fill your gas tank and pack a tasty lunch. As with all trips into British Columbia's wild places, dress for the weather. You will need hiking boots, rain gear, gloves, eye protection, and a good geologic hammer and rock (cold) chisel. 

Wear bright clothing and keep your head covered. Slides are common, and you may start a few if you hike the cliffs. If you are with a group, those collecting below may want to consider hardhats in case of rockfall — chunks of rock the size of your fist up to the size of a grapefruit. They pack a punch. 

Bring a colourful towel or something to put your keepers on. Once you set rock down, it can be hard to find again given the terrain. I take the extra precaution of spraying the ends of my hammers and chisels with yellow fluorescent paint, as I have lost too many in the field. You will also want to bring a camera for the blocks of Buchia that are too big to carry home. 

Identifying Your Treasures

When you have finished for the day, compare your treasures to see which ones you would like to keep. In British Columbia, you are a steward of the fossil, which means they belong to the province, but you can keep them safe. You are not allowed to sell or ship them outside British Columbia without a permit. 

Once you get home, wash and identify your finds. Harrison Lake does not have a large variety of fossil fauna, so this should not be difficult. If your find is coiled and round, it is an ammonite. If it is long and straight, it is a belemnite. And if it looks like a wee fat baby oyster, it is Buchia. This is not always true, but mostly true.

What about collecting fossils in all seasons?. Everyone has a preference. I prefer not to collect in the snow, but I have done it. While sunny days are lovely, it can also be easier to see the specimens when the rock is wet. So, do we do this in the rain? Heck, yeah! 

In torrential rain? 

Yes — once you are hooked, but for your casual friends or the kiddos, the answer is likely no. Choose your battles. They may come with you, but a cold day getting soaked is no fun. 

In time, you will find your inner fossil geek — probably with your first find. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. First, it will be you, then your kids, your friends and then your neighbour. Once you start, it is easy to get hooked. Fossil addiction is real, and the only cure is to get out there and do it some more. You've got this!

References and further information:

A. J. Arthur, P. L. Smith, J. W. H. Monger and H. W. Tipper. 1993. Mesozoic stratigraphy and Jurassic palaeontology west of Harrison Lake, southwestern British Columbia. Geological Survey of Canada Bulletin 441:1-62

R. W. Imlay. 1953. Callovian (Jurassic) ammonites from the United States and Alaska Part 2. The Alaska Peninsula and Cook Inlet regions. United States Geological Survey Professional Paper 249-B:41-108

An overview of the tectonic history of the southern Coast Mountains, British Columbia; Monger, J W H; in, Field trips to Harrison Lake and Vancouver Island, British Columbia; Haggart, J W (ed.); Smith, P L (ed.). Canadian Paleontology Conference, Field Trip Guidebook 16, 2011 p. 1-11 (ESS Cont.# 20110248).

DINOSAUR RIVALRY: MANTELLISAURUS

Mantellisaurus atherfieldensis 

This story begins some 125 million years ago on the lush floodplains of what is now the Isle of Wight, back in the Cretaceous.

Forget the cool, windswept English coastline of today. This was a warm, subtropical world of broad rivers, oxbow lakes and sprawling wetlands, where towering conifers, cycads and tree ferns sheltered one of Europe's richest dinosaur ecosystems. 

Early flowering plants were just beginning to appear, while insects buzzed through the forests and reptiles called across the floodplains.

Here, herds of Mantellisaurus atherfieldensis browsed on tender vegetation. At seven to eight metres (23–26 feet) long, these elegant herbivores were among the largest animals in their world. 

Their long hind limbs suggest they could move surprisingly quickly when needed—particularly if a hungry Neovenator emerged from the trees. 

Nothing encourages cardio quite like becoming someone else's lunch.

Its hands were every bit as remarkable as the rest of the animal. Projecting from each was a formidable thumb spike. Victorian artists loved depicting these dinosaurs charging into battle like armoured knights, but the reality was likely less theatrical. 

The spikes probably served as defensive weapons, may have helped settle disputes during the breeding season and perhaps even assisted in pulling down stubborn vegetation. Evolution has always appreciated a multitool.

The elongated fifth finger tells another story. Unlike the stout thumb, it was surprisingly flexible, capable of curling around branches to draw foliage closer—a wonderfully delicate adaptation for an animal weighing well over a tonne.

This specimen was discovered in 1914 by geologist Reginald Walter Hooley in the Upper Vectis Formation near Atherfield on the Isle of Wight. 

Described in 1917 and formally named Iguanodon atherfieldensis in 1925, it spent more than eighty years as a member of the ever-growing Iguanodon family.

That changed in 2007, when American palaeoartist and researcher Gregory S. Paul recognised that it was something quite different. 

More lightly built, with longer limbs and closer evolutionary ties to the African iguanodontian Ouranosaurus, it deserved a genus of its own. Paul named it Mantellisaurus, honouring Dr Gideon Algernon Mantell, the Sussex physician whose discoveries helped launch the science of dinosaurs.

Mantell's story is one of brilliance, perseverance and one of Victorian science's greatest rivalries.

In 1822, he described Iguanodon, only the second dinosaur ever scientifically named.

Mantell spent decades collecting fossils and championing these extraordinary animals, only to find himself increasingly at odds with the formidable anatomist Sir Richard Owen.

Owen coined the word Dinosauria and later became the driving force behind London's Natural History Museum, but he also had a habit of eclipsing rivals—and few felt that more keenly than Mantell. The two men disagreed about almost everything, from dinosaur anatomy to broader questions of evolution, as they emerged in Victorian science.

Mantell increasingly recognised that these animals were active, lightly built and far more dynamic than giant lizards. Owen preferred to reconstruct them as slow, heavily built, rhinoceros-like reptiles that fit comfortably within his creationist view of nature.

When Benjamin Waterhouse Hawkins created the famous Crystal Palace dinosaurs during the 1850s, it was Owen's interpretation that guided the sculptures. 

Visitors marvelled at enormous reptilian beasts, including an Iguanodon sporting what appeared to be a horn proudly perched upon its nose.

As science advanced—and as more complete skeletons were discovered, particularly the spectacular Bernissart specimens from Belgium—we learned that the famous "horn" was, in fact, the thumb spike.

One of the most iconic mistakes in palaeontology had become one of its best-known corrections.

FOSSILS AND FIRST NATIONS HISTORY: NOOTKA

Nootka Fossil Field Trip. Photo: John Fam

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dan Bowen searching an outcrop. Photo: John Fam

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Know Before You Go — Nootka Trail

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

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

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

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

OYSTERS ON THE HALF SHELL

One of the now rare species of oysters in the Pacific Northwest is the Olympia oyster, Ostrea lurida, (Carpenter, 1864).  

While rare today, these are British Columbia’s only native oyster. 

Had you been dining on their brethren in the 1800s or earlier, it would have been this species you were consuming. Middens from Port Hardy to California are built from Ostrea lurida.

These wonderful invertebrates bare their souls with every bite. Have they lived in cold water, deep beneath the sea, protected from the sun's rays and heat? Are they the rough and tumble beach denizens whose thick shells tell us of a life spent withstanding the relentless pounding of the sea? Is the oyster in your mouth thin and slimy having just done the nasty—spurred by the warming waters of Spring? 

Is this oyster a local or was it shipped to your current local and, if asked, would greet you with "Kon'nichiwa?" Not if the beauty on your plate is indeed Ostrea lurida. 

Oyster in Kwak'wala is t̕łox̱t̕łox̱

We have been cultivating, indeed maximizing the influx of invasive species to the cold waters of the Salish Sea for many years. 

But in the wild waters off the coast of British Columbia is the last natural abundant habitat of the tasty Ostrea lurida in the pristine waters of  Nootka Sound. 

The area is home to the Nuu-chah-nulth First Nations who have consumed this species boiled or steamed for thousands of years. Here these ancient oysters not only survive but thrive — building reefs and providing habitat for crab, anemones and small marine animals. 

Oysters are in the family Ostreidae — the true oysters. Their lineage evolved in the Early Triassic — 251 - 247 million years ago. 

In the Kwak̓wala language of the Kwakwaka'wakw, speakers of Kwak'wala, of the Pacific Northwest and my family, an oyster is known as t̕łox̱t̕łox̱. 

I am curious to learn if any of the Nuu-chah-nulth have a different word for an oyster. If you happen to know, I would be grateful to learn.

HORNBY ISLAND EXPLORERS AND THE QUEST FOR IMMORTALITY

Ja-dai-aich, the outer island

There is an old saying that history is written by the victors. In paleontology, it is often written by whoever got to publish first.

Villains, tyrants, heroes, eccentrics and the occasional delightful oddball all find a measure of immortality in the scientific literature. 

Every newly described species is gifted a scientific name, and for centuries many of the people doing the naming also rechristened landscapes through a distinctly colonial, settler lens. 

Indigenous names—rich with thousands of years of history and meaning—were too often brushed aside in favour of commemorating European explorers, patrons and rivals.

Spend enough time wandering through old scientific papers and expedition journals and it begins to read like a who's who of wealthy European adventurers busily naming everything after themselves—or, just as often, ensuring it wasn't named after someone they disliked. 

Scientific rivalries could be every bit as dramatic—and, if we're being honest, astonishingly childish—as any soap opera, complete with bruised egos, bitter feuds and spectacular acts of professional revenge.

That story unfolds across British Columbia's coast and Gulf Islands, and nowhere do I feel it more keenly than on beautiful Hornby Island.

Arbutus Tree, qaanlhp

Hornby lies within the traditional territory of the Pentlatch and K'ómoks First Nations, who know the island as Ja-dai-aich, meaning the outer island—a perfect description of its position beyond Denman Island along the east coast of Vancouver Island.

It is a place I never tire of exploring.

The island is a beautiful tapestry of beaches, meadows, forests and winding streams. I often wander the lower shoreline, searching for fossils, but the higher ground holds equally wonderful treasures. 

Quiet forest trails weave beneath towering evergreens, inviting you to slow your pace and simply listen.

Venture off the beaten path and you'll find magnificent stands of Western Hemlock (Tsuga heterophylla), Grand Fir (Abies grandis) and Lodgepole Pine (Pinus contorta). 

Amongst them stands the true monarch of these forests: the Western Red Cedar, Thuja plicata.

For many First Nations along the Northwest Coast, cedar is rightly known as the Tree of Life. It provides the raw materials for homes, canoes, clothing, baskets, rope, hats, bentwood boxes, monumental poles and breathtaking works of art. Generations have and continue to flourish alongside this remarkable tree.

Look a little closer and another quiet treasure reveals itself.

The Pacific yew (Taxus brevifolia) is a much smaller evergreen, easy to overlook if you're rushing. Yet it has long been treasured by Indigenous carvers, whose skill transformed its remarkably strong, resilient wood into elegant bows, canoe paddles and finely crafted tools.

Camus in flower

Along the shoreline grows perhaps my favourite tree on the island—the Pacific Arbutus (Arbutus menziesii), or qaanlhp in Hul'q'umi'num'. If Hornby had a signature tree, this would surely be it. 

It adorns much of Vancouver Island and I received a lovely photograph just this morning of a colleague's view of Maple Bay with a beautiful Arbutus front and centre. 

Its rich cinnamon-orange bark peels away in delicate curls, revealing smooth green and silvery trunks that almost seem polished by hand. In the evening light they glow with a satiny warmth unlike any other tree in British Columbia.

Hornby also supports an impressive collection of broadleaf species. Bigleaf maple, red alder, black cottonwood, Pacific flowering dogwood, cascara and several willow species all thrive here, each adding another layer to this remarkably diverse coastal forest.

At the island's southern end and within Helliwell Provincial Park, ancient Garry oak (Quercus garryana) woodlands cling to rocky headlands overlooking the Salish Sea.

These landscapes did not arise by accident.

For thousands of years, local First Nations carefully managed these ecosystems through the thoughtful use of cultural burning. Regular low-intensity fires reduced shrubs and competing woody vegetation while allowing the thick-barked Garry oaks and nutrient-rich plants such as great camas (Camassia leichtlinii) to flourish. These carefully tended meadows provided abundant food and sustained rich ecological communities long before Europeans arrived.

Hornby Island, British Columbia

Ethnobotanist Dr. Nancy Turner (who is a love) estimates that a single Coast Salish family on Vancouver Island could harvest around 10,000 camus bulbs in a single season, with millions of camas bulbs and up to 10,000,000 collected annually across the island.

Today, only about 260 acres (1.1 km²) of undisturbed old forest remain on Hornby Island—roughly 3.5% of its total land area. Another 1,330 acres (540 hectares) survive as older second-growth forest, representing about 19% of the island.

The tree you'll notice most often, however, is the Douglas-fir (Pseudotsuga menziesii), an evergreen conifer that dominates much of Hornby's landscape.

My Uncle Doug never needed a field guide to identify one.

"The bark looks just like bacon," he'd announce with absolute certainty. It was, admittedly, a wonderfully effective identification trick—and given his enthusiasm for bacon, entirely on brand.

Hornby Island Fossils

The common name honours Scottish botanist David Douglas, who collected and described the species during his explorations of western North America.

But scientific names tell a different story.

The species name, menziesii, honours Archibald Menzies—the Scottish physician, botanist and naturalist who happened to be Douglas's fierce scientific rival. If that feels a little unfair to poor David Douglas... well... science has always had a flair for office politics.

Menzies is also remembered every time we admire an arbutus, Arbutus menziesii. His opportunity came aboard Captain George Vancouver's famous expedition between 1791 and 1795, a remarkable four-and-a-half-year voyage commissioned by the British Royal Navy to chart the Pacific Coast.

Their expedition built directly upon the earlier work of Captain James Cook.

Archibald Menzies

Cook deserves considerable credit for revolutionizing life at sea. He dramatically reduced deaths from scurvy by insisting upon fresh foods rich in what we now know as Vitamin C, alongside rigorous standards of shipboard cleanliness.

Yet history, like people, is rarely simple.

Cook also embodied the ambitions of British colonial expansion, and his treatment of Indigenous peoples is deeply troubling. During his third Pacific voyage, he attempted to kidnap Hawaiʻi's ruling chief, Kalaniʻōpuʻu, hoping to secure the return of a stolen boat.

It proved a catastrophic miscalculation.

On 14 February 1779, Cook was killed during the confrontation. Not exactly the Valentine's Day anyone hopes for.

Meanwhile, Vancouver's own expedition spent four and a half extraordinary years circumnavigating the globe, reaching five continents while surveying vast stretches of coastline that had never before appeared on European maps.

The greatest hazards aboard ship were not always storms or reefs. Sometimes they were one another. Officers quarreled relentlessly. Rivalries simmered. Tempers flared.

When the expedition finally returned to Britain, public interest had shifted toward ongoing wars rather than distant Pacific discoveries. Vancouver himself soon found his reputation under attack, including criticism from the politically influential Archibald Menzies. Matters deteriorated further when Thomas Pitt, the 2nd Baron Camelford, challenged Vancouver to a duel.

By then, years of relentless work had taken their toll.

With failing health and frayed nerves, George Vancouver never completed the monumental charts and publications that had consumed so much of his life. He died in 1798 at only forty years of age.

Much of his unfinished work was ultimately completed by Peter Puget, whose own name now lives on in Puget Sound.

Even the city we call Vancouver carries older names and older histories.

It stands within the traditional territories of three Coast Salish Nations: the Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), səlilwətaɬ (Tsleil-Waututh) and xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam) peoples. The name Musqueam derives from xʷməθkʷəy̓əm, referring to an edible grass that once grew abundantly along the river's edge.

Long before maps bore European names, these places already had names. They still do.

As fossil hunters, geologists and lovers of natural history, we spend much of our lives reading stories written in stone. Yet the landscapes themselves carry stories every bit as ancient in the languages and knowledge of the people who have called them home for millennia.

Perhaps the richest history is found where those stories meet.

If eponymous names and the colourful personalities behind them pique your curiosity, Stephen B. Heard's wonderful book Charles Darwin's Barnacle and David Bowie's Spider is well worth adding to your reading pile. It explores the wonderfully strange world of scientific naming through an entertaining blend of history, science and pop culture—and reminds us that behind every Latin name lies an equally fascinating human story.

References

The City of Vancouver Archives preserves several important documents relating to George Vancouver, including:

The Commission dated 10 July 1783 appointing him Fourth Lieutenant of HMS Fame, confirming the field commission originally granted on 7 May 1782.

A letter written to naval agent James Sykes aboard HMS Discovery from Nootka Sound on 2 October 1794, in which Vancouver reports that the long-sought Northwest Passage does not exist—one of the principal objectives of the expedition.

A final letter to James Sykes written from Vancouver's home in Petersham, England, dated 26 October 1797, following his return from the Pacific.

Image: Archibald Menzies (1754–1842), Scottish physician and naturalist

CTENOPHORES: CANNIBALISTIC COMB JELLIES

Cannibalistic Comb Jellies

This festive lantern looking lovely belongs to a group of invertebrates known as comb jellies.

Comb jellies are named for their unique plates of giant fused cilia, or combs, which run in eight rows up and down the length of their bodies. 

They are armed with sticky cells or colloblasts, that do not sting but display wonderful bioluminescent colouring as they move through the sea.

Ctenophores or comb jellies are one of the phylogenetically most important and controversial metazoan groups. 

Looks can be deceiving. At first glance you might think you are looking at a jellyfish but this is not the case. Surprisingly, they are not jellyfish and are not closely related, though they do share some characteristics with the gelatinous members of the subphylum Medusozoa. 

Comb jellies are not picky eaters. Their tastes range to what is at hand, including cannibalizing other comb jellies. They will feast on their kin along with tasty plankton, zooplankton, crustaceans and wee fish.

Interest in their fossil record has been catalysed by spectacularly preserved soft-bodied specimens from Cambrian Lagerstätten of the 518-million-years-old Chengjiang Biota, the 505-million-years-old Burgess Shale and other Burgess Shale-like deposits. 

We find them in the Late Devonian Escuminac Formation at Miguasha National Park, Quebec, Canada — a UNESCO world heritage site famous for its abundance of well-preserved vertebrate fossils including most major evolutionary groups of Devonian lower vertebrates from jawless fish to stem-tetrapods.

Based on morphological similarities of this Canadian fossil with stem-ctenophore fossils from the Cambrian Lagerstätte of the Chinese locality Chengjiang, they have been assessed for their affinity to stem-group ctenophores (dinomischids, Siphusauctum, scleroctenophorans) and early crown-group ctenophores. Modern ctenophores and many fossil forms lack mineralized hard parts, which renders the rare fossils that have been extracted from several Lagerstätten quite remarkable. 

Like the soft bodies of jellyfish and the polyps of hydrozoans and anthozoans, the probability for such soft bodies (or body regions) to become fossilized is extremely low. In spite of this low preservation potential, remains of stem-ctenophores have become known from several Cambrian and younger conservation deposits, and with even older candidate ctenophores in the Ediacaran. 

While Cambrian Lagerstätten have yielded several genera, ctenophore remains are much rarer in the Devonian; in particular, two studies, describing material from the German Hunsrück Slate. 

Bioluminescent Comb Jellies

This Early Devonian material, however, appears to belong to crown ctenophores morphologically similar to living forms such as Pleurobrachia, unlike the stem Cambrian taxa and the new Devonian stem taxon described here.

The most basal stem ctenophores are the dinomischids: sessile benthic petaloid invertebrates, many of which are equipped with a stalk. This group first was described from the Middle Cambrian Burgess Shale. Based on the genus Dinomischus, these early stalked forms were commonly called ‘dinomischids’. 

Zhao et al. shared that dinomischids "form a grade in the lower part of the ctenophore stem group” and include taxa such as Xianguangia, Daihua, and Dinomischus that have hexaradiate-based symmetry (e.g., sixfold, 18-fold). 

Some later, skeletonised stem-ctenophores were termed ‘Scleroctenophora’; ‘scleroctenophorans’ have a shorter stalk, lack the ‘petals’ and have no bracts and might be monophyletic. 

To date, all known dinomischids and scleroctenophorans are Cambrian. Remarkably, analysis of the material described here suggests it is a very late-surviving member of this part of the ctenophore tree, occurring in strata over a hundred million years younger with no intervening known record, thus making it a Lazarus taxon with an extensive ghost lineage. 

Palaeozoic sediments yield a growing number of fossil invertebrates with radial symmetries, some being quite enigmatic with body plans differing radically from those of extant organisms.

The morphological similarities to Cambrian forms and the mix of characters regarding overall shape and symmetries render this discovery important. The aims of this study are to describe the only known specimen of this Devonian ctenophore, discuss its phylogenetic and systematic position, and the impact of fossil data for ctenophore affinities, and assess its palaeoecological role.

STONE FORESTS OF THE SILURIAN: GOTLAND'S FOSSIL REEFS

Raukar: Gotland, Sweden's Limestone Sea Stacks 

Along the rugged Baltic shoreline of Sweden's enchanting island of Gotland, hundreds of towering limestone sea stacks known locally as raukar rise from the coast like ancient stone guardians.

If there is such a thing as a fossil hunter's happy place, Gotland is surely in the running. 

They rise from the beaches like ancient stone sentinels, sculpted into improbable shapes by wind, waves, and ice. 

Some resemble castles, others giants, and a few look suspiciously like they are waiting for someone to tell them a very old secret. The wonderful thing is... they already are.

Gotland, Sweden's Sea Stacks

These remarkable formations began life some 400 to 450 million years ago, during the Silurian, when Gotland lay not in the cool waters of the Baltic but close to the equator beneath a warm, shallow tropical sea. 

Instead of pine forests and seabirds, this was a dazzling underwater reef alive with corals, stromatoporoid sponges, algae, brachiopods, trilobites, crinoids, nautiloids, and countless other marine creatures.

The reefs themselves were built by tabulate and rugose corals—ancient relatives of the stony corals that still build reefs today. 

Their ancestry stretches back over half a billion years, though these Silurian reef-builders belong to groups that disappeared long ago. The familiar corals of our modern oceans are evolutionary cousins rather than direct descendants, continuing the remarkable story of reef-building through entirely different lineages.

Among the corals grew stromatoporoids, reef-building sponges that were every bit as important as the corals themselves. Layer upon layer, generation after generation, these organisms constructed vast limestone reefs teeming with life.

Then the world changed.

Continents drifted. Seas retreated. Mountains rose elsewhere. Gotland slowly travelled north with the moving tectonic plates until these tropical reefs found themselves in what would eventually become the Baltic Sea.

The Ice Ages did the rest.

Glaciers ground across the landscape before melting away, and over thousands of years waves relentlessly attacked the limestone coastline. Softer rock disappeared first while the toughest parts of the ancient reefs resisted erosion. What remains today are the raukar—the fossil-rich cores of reefs that once flourished beneath tropical sunshine hundreds of millions of years before the first dinosaur ever took a step.

Some of the finest places to explore them include Langhammars Nature Reserve on nearby Fårö, where magnificent raukar rise from broad pebble beaches that are wonderful for spotting weathered corals and crinoid fragments. 

Just up the coast lies Digerhuvud Nature Reserve, Sweden's largest concentration of sea stacks, where hundreds of limestone towers stand shoulder to shoulder beside deep blue water. On Gotland itself, Lergrav offers striking gate-like limestone formations surrounded by richly fossiliferous shoreline.

The beaches reward patient eyes. It isn't unusual to find honeycomb-patterned tabulate corals, horn corals, crinoid stem segments that resemble tiny stone beads, brachiopod shells, bryozoans, stromatoporoid fragments, and the occasional trilobite or cephalopod preserved in the limestone. Every pebble has the potential to hold a glimpse into a vanished tropical ecosystem.

One of the pleasures of visiting Gotland is that you may collect loose fossils found naturally on the beaches as keepsakes of your adventure. What you may not do—and quite rightly—is hammer or chisel fossils from the raukar themselves. These extraordinary formations are protected natural monuments that have survived nearly half a billion years. They deserve to greet generations of future fossil hunters just as they greet us today.

Late spring through early autumn, from May to September, offers the finest weather for wandering these spectacular coastlines. I prefer the rainy days as they wash away the tourists and only the hardy venture along the foreshore. The Baltic sparkles, wildflowers dot the limestone meadows, and every tide seems to reveal another fragment of an ancient reef. Picture all that with some sea mist and you've ventured into my happy place. 

Standing among the raukar, it is wonderfully easy to forget what century you're in. When we think of ancient Sweden, for some of us it is the image of the Vikings that come to mind. For others, our imaginations venture farther back to the origins of these stone towers and their dramatic stories. 

It is a delight to get to visit these last surviving skeletons of one of Earth's great tropical reef systems—a place where ancient corals quietly built cities beneath warm Silurian seas, leaving behind a story written not in books, but in limestone.

Här känns varje steg som en promenad genom havets allra äldsta minnen. (Here, every step feels like a stroll through the sea's oldest memories.)

If you're planning to visit Sweden and their marvelous sea stacks and need a wee bit of enticement to encourage your friends and family to join you, I have put together a list of extra goodies for all tastes.

Sweden has so much to offer, but three of its most iconic attractions are:

• The Northern Lights (Aurora Borealis) – In Swedish Lapland, especially around Abisko National Park and Kiruna, visitors come from around the world between September and March to witness the shimmering green and purple curtains of the aurora dancing across the Arctic sky.
• Stockholm and the Archipelago – Sweden's capital is spread across 14 islands connected by elegant bridges. Visitors flock to wander the cobbled streets of Gamla Stan (the Old Town), visit the Vasa Museum to see the remarkably preserved 17th-century warship, and explore the breathtaking Stockholm Archipelago with its more than 30,000 islands, islets, and skerries.
• Gotland and Fårö – Beloved for their medieval charm, dramatic Baltic coastline, and extraordinary geology. The UNESCO World Heritage town of Visby draws history lovers with its medieval walls and churches, while the raukar (limestone sea stacks), fossil-rich beaches, and rugged coastal landscapes of Gotland and neighbouring Fårö are a magnet for photographers, hikers, and fossil enthusiasts. If you have limited time, this is the area to head to first!

Other famous Swedish attractions include:

• The Icehotel in Jukkasjärvi, rebuilt entirely from ice and snow each winter.
• Abisko National Park, renowned for hiking and Arctic scenery. Photography buffs will love the scenery. Every frame is natgeo worthy!
• Dalarna, home of the iconic red-painted Dala horse and traditional Swedish culture.
• Sweden's famous fika culture—coffee and pastries—which many visitors happily adopt as a daily ritual. You will be getting up early just to head back to your favourite new coffee haunt. 
• The Göta Canal, often called Sweden's "Blue Ribbon," which stretches across the country through lakes and locks.

After a morning of fossil hunting along the Baltic shore, there is only one sensible thing to do: stop for a proper Swedish fika. A hot coffee, a cinnamon bun... Så gott! (So delicious!)

FEATHERED SHOW-OFF OF THE CRETACEOUS: OVIRAPTOR

If ever there were a dinosaur that looked like it had dressed for a gala while everyone else showed up in sensible hiking boots, it was Oviraptor.

Picture yourself standing on the warm floodplains of Mongolia some 75 million years ago. The air shimmers with heat. 

Ferns rustle gently in the breeze. Somewhere nearby, insects hum while distant hadrosaurs grumble to one another. 

Then, stepping lightly between low shrubs, comes a creature unlike almost any other dinosaur.

About the size of a large turkey—though with considerably better posture—Oviraptor carries itself with quiet confidence. 

Its toothless beak gleams in the sunlight, its elegant neck curves gracefully, and atop its head rises a tall, bony crest that seems almost purpose-built for showing off. 

Draped across its body are feathers that catch the light with flashes of bronze, emerald, copper and midnight blue, colours that shift with every movement. 

Much like the iridescent plumage of today's magpies, starlings and peacocks, those shimmering feathers may have dazzled rivals and potential mates alike.

It is difficult not to smile looking at this wonderful oddball. Despite its fearsome name—Oviraptor means "egg thief"—it has spent more than a century trying to clear its reputation.

The first Oviraptor fossils were discovered in 1923 during the American Museum of Natural History's legendary Central Asiatic Expeditions to the Gobi Desert of Mongolia, led by the adventurous Roy Chapman Andrews. 

At the spectacular fossil beds of Bayn Dzak—the famous Flaming Cliffs—the expedition uncovered a partial skeleton lying beside a clutch of fossil eggs. It was a sensational find.

Henry Fairfield Osborn formally described the animal in 1924, naming it Oviraptor philoceratops—"egg thief, lover of ceratopsian eggs." 

We believed for many years that the dinosaur had been caught red-handed, stealing the eggs of Protoceratops. It made for a wonderfully dramatic story.

There was just one small problem. The story was wrong.

Decades later, beautifully preserved embryos discovered inside similar eggs revealed that they belonged not to Protoceratops, but to Oviraptor and its close relatives. 

Even more extraordinary were fossils of adults preserved sitting over their nests with their feathered forelimbs spread protectively around their eggs, as many modern birds do today. 

Rather than a notorious nest robber, Oviraptor appears to have been an exceptionally devoted parent that likely died defending its own young during a sudden sandstorm. While this all played out millions of years ago, it still pulls at my heartstrings. 

Talk about a public relations disaster. If dinosaurs had lawyers, Oviraptor would almost certainly have won its defamation case.

Those remarkable fossils revealed something else just as exciting. Adults carefully brooded their nests with feathered arms extended over the eggs, insulating them while allowing air to circulate. It is a strategy remarkably similar to that used by many birds today and a beautiful reminder that some of the most familiar behaviours in our backyards have roots deep in the Age of Dinosaurs.

Oviraptor belonged to a remarkable group of feathered theropods called oviraptorosaurs. These animals shared a common ancestor with the lineage that ultimately gave rise to modern birds. While Oviraptor itself was not a direct ancestor of living birds, it sits close to that evolutionary branch, preserving many features we now think of as unmistakably avian.

Its lightweight skeleton, hollow bones, wishbone (furcula), feathers, bird-like wrists and remarkable nesting behaviour all tell the story of dinosaurs becoming birds—not in one dramatic leap, but through millions upon millions of years of evolutionary refinement.

Its beak was another clever adaptation. Rather than relying on rows of sharp teeth, Oviraptor likely used its powerful jaws to crack open nuts, seeds, shellfish and other tough foods. It probably sampled the occasional egg when opportunity presented itself—as plenty of modern birds do—but certainly not often enough to deserve becoming prehistory's most infamous "egg thief."

And that magnificent crest? It was almost certainly less about battle than beauty.

Think of it as the Late Cretaceous equivalent of an extravagant hairstyle. Like the casque of a cassowary or the elaborate adornments of hornbills, the crest probably helped attract mates, establish dominance and identify individuals. Nature, it seems, has always had a flair for dramatic fashion.

Many of the behaviours we delight in watching among birds today—displaying, nesting, brooding, caring for young—were already well established while Tyrannosaurus still ruled the landscape.

Every new feathered dinosaur we uncover paints a picture of the Late Cretaceous as a landscape alive with colour, courtship displays, parental devotion and astonishing diversity. 

Flashing feathers shimmered in the sunlight. Elaborate dances played out across ancient floodplains. Tender parents guarded carefully tended nests while giant predators stalked the horizon.

Their descendants bring me joy each morning as I enjoy my first coffee of the day listening to their hoots and calls. The dinosaurs never truly disappeared. Some simply traded thunderous footsteps for morning birdsong.

Fossil Oviraptor Image: Danny Ye, License: 2765957049

ANCIENT LIFE IN EGYPT'S GIZA PLATEAU

Fossil Sand Dollar in Limestone

Long before the Nile carved its fertile valley, and before the pyramids rose from the desert sands, Egypt was home to warm tropical seas and lush river deltas teeming with life. 

The rocks surrounding the Giza Plateau preserve fragments of that distant world, offering a window into the deep past beneath one of humanity’s most iconic landscapes.

The limestone used to build the pyramids—particularly the Eocene formations around Giza, Cairo, and Fayum—is packed with marine fossils. 

Most abundant are Nummulites, the large disc-shaped foraminifera that make up much of the Tura limestone. But they are not alone. 

These fossil beds also contain echinoids (sea urchins), gastropods (snails), bivalves (clams), and coral fragments,  showing us the ecosystems that thrived in the shallow, sunlit seas that once lapped across northern Africa some 50 million years ago. 

Just southwest of Giza, the Fayum Depression preserves one of the world’s most remarkable fossil records of Eocene and Oligocene life. 

Eocene Whale, Basilosaurus isis

Here, paleontologists have unearthed the remarkable remains of early whales such as Basilosaurus isis and Dorudon atrox — ancient giants that once ruled the warm, tropical waters of the Tethys Ocean some 40 million years ago. 

These were not the whales we know today, but their distant ancestors, caught in a fascinating stage of evolution as land-dwelling mammals made the final leap to a fully aquatic life.

Basilosaurus, whose name means “king lizard” (a misnomer given before its true identity as a mammal was known), stretched over 18 meters long. 

Its serpentine body, lined with powerful vertebrae, suggests it swam with sinuous, eel-like motions, prowling the ancient seas for prey. Alongside it swam Dorudon, smaller but no less important — a sleek, dolphin-sized whale with sharp conical teeth, thought to have been a juvenile form of Basilosaurus until later discoveries revealed it was a species in its own right.

Both species had vestigial hind limbs — tiny, fully formed legs complete with toes — a beautiful anatomical echo of their terrestrial past. They are some of the clearest fossil evidence of the evolutionary transition from land mammals to marine cetaceans.

The bones of these ancient whales have been found in exquisite detail at Wadi Al-Hitan, the Valley of the Whales, a UNESCO World Heritage Site in Egypt’s Western Desert. There, under the scorching desert sun, hundreds of skeletons lie preserved in golden sandstone, exactly where these animals once swam and died. 

The surrounding sediments also hold fossils of early elephants, crocodiles, turtles, and primitive primates, painting a vivid picture of Egypt as a subtropical shoreline rich with mangroves and marine life.

Even closer to Cairo, smaller outcrops of Eocene limestone reveal the same story on a smaller scale—an abundance of microfossils and shell fragments that speak of warm, nutrient-rich waters. These deposits connect the geological dots between Egypt’s marine past and the materials used to build its ancient monuments.

In a poetic sense, the very stones of Giza are part of Egypt’s fossil heritage. The blocks that form Khufu’s pyramid are the lithified remains of ancient organisms that once thrived in the Tethys Sea.

The desert that now seems so still was once a shallow sea teeming with life — a sea whose memory remains written in stone. Every block is a fossil bed in miniature, a silent record of a vanished ocean that endures now as the foundation of one of the greatest wonders of the world.