TUSKS AND BONE: TANGIERS

During the Miocene and Pliocene, 12-1.6 million years ago, a diverse group of extinct proboscideans, elephant-like animals walked the Earth.

Most of these large beasts had four tusks and likely a trunk similar to modern elephants. They were creatures of legend, inspiring myths and stories of fanciful creatures to the first humans to encounter them.

Beyond our neanderthal friends, one such fellow was Quintus Sertorius, a Roman statesman come general, who grew up in Umbria. Born into a world at war just two years before the Romans sacked Corinth to bring Greece under Roman rule, Quintus lived much of his life as a military man far from his native Norcia. Around 81 BC, he travelled to Morocco, the land of opium, massive trilobites and the birthplace of Antaeus, the legendary North African ogre who was killed by the Greek hero Heracles.

The locals tell a tale that Quintus requested proof of Antaeus, hard evidence he could bring back to Rome to support their tales so they took him to a mound at Tingis, Morocco, where they unearthed the bones of a Neogene elephant, Tetralophodon.

Tetralophodon bones are large and skeletons singularly impressive. Impressive enough to be taken for something else entirely. By all accounts these proboscidean remains were that of the mythical ogre Antaeus and were thus reported back to Rome as such. It was hundreds of years later before their true heritage was known.

FOSSILS BENEATH THE MOSS: THE OLYMPIC PENINSULA

Third Beach in La Push, Washington

This is the view of low tide exposing the coastal rocks and sea stacks at Third Beach in La Push, Olympic Peninsula in Washington State.

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

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

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

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

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

Musashia, Lower Miocene, Clallam Formation

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

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

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

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

These fossils are often so beautifully preserved that they look like they’ve been waiting under the waves for their close-up. Look at the amazing preservation in the picture perfect gastropod, Musashia, a type of fossil snail or gastropod, belonging to the subgenus Fulgoraria (Musashia) and are part of the larger family Volutidae. The beauty in my hand here is from the Clallam Formation as is the slightly calcified nautiloid, Arturia angustata, though these lovelies are also found in a few other localities along the Olympic Peninsula. 

The Lower Miocene nautiloid Arturia angustata

Adjacent to it lies the Hoshialeah Formation—a rock unit full of deep-sea turbidites, which are basically underwater avalanches that helpfully sorted fine sediments into perfect fossil-pressing layers. 

These rocks carry delicate impressions of fish scales, plankton, and mysterious organic wisps that paleontologists politely argue about at conferences.

Then there’s the Clallam Formation, where 15–20 million-year-old marine fossils swirl through the beds: clams, scallops, barnacles, sea lions, and whales. It’s like stumbling into a Miocene farmers’ market, except everything is stone and nobody is selling artisanal kelp jam.

And we mustn’t forget the Olympic hotshot of insect fossils, the Quinault Formation, which holds rare impressions of long-lost bugs—those six-legged pioneers of ancient Washington who never got the memo about the coming Ice Ages.

Neah Bay, Washington State

All of this—all this turmoil, uplift, squish, scrape, and tectonic origami—has created the spectacular mountains we see today. 

The Olympics are not volcanoes like their shouty cousins to the east. They’re a colossal jumble of once-submerged strata, hoisted skyward by subduction and then sculpted by glaciers into the moody, mist-laden peaks you hike now.

The delightful part? Because the rocks started underwater, much of the peninsula’s geology reads like a deep-sea diary. Even 7,000-foot peaks contain sedimentary layers that formed far offshore. 

Imagine standing on Hurricane Ridge, a mountain meadow full of wildflowers and marmots, knowing the rocks under your boots once lay on a cold ocean floor full of strange fish and drifting plankton. It’s an excellent perspective check—and a great excuse to tell your hiking companions dramatic stories about continental accretion until they pretend they need to stop for granola.

But here’s the real charm of the Olympic Peninsula: the sense of transformation. Every fossil here survived unimaginable pressure, heat, tectonic shoving, and glacial erosion—yet remains as a whisper from worlds long gone. Their presence is a quiet reminder that resilience is baked into the natural world. Even the humblest shell or fish scale becomes, given enough time and a few kilometres of uplift, a monument to endurance.

Whale Vertebrae from Majestic Beach, Washington

If you happen to be wandering the driftwood-strewn beaches near Neah Bay or tracing the tide lines near Clallam Bay, know that you’re standing on the upturned archives of ancient oceans. 

Somewhere beneath your feet, a whale vertebra or clam shell from 20 million years ago is patiently waiting for erosion—and your curiosity—to set it free.

And that, dear fellow rock-romantic, is the Olympic Peninsula: part rainforest, part mountain kingdom, part fossil cabinet, part tectonic balancing act. 

A place where the past is always underfoot, the present is draped in moss, and the future will probably require rain boots.

Lead Image: Low tide at Third Beach in La Push reveals coastal rocks and sea stacks along the Olympic Peninsula in Washington State by Nick Fox

DASHING THROUGH THE SNOW

THE GREAT FINGER FIASCO: HERMANN AND CUVIER

Johann Hermann's Pterodactylus, 1800

In the grand annals of science, few discoveries have flapped into history with quite as much confusion as the poor Pterodactylus. 

It began, as many great scientific mix-ups do, with an enthusiastic man, a misplaced fossil, and a few patriotic misunderstandings.

Back in March of 1800, Johann Hermann — a German-slash-French scientist (depending on which invading army was in town that week) — became convinced that an odd fossil described by Collini held the key to something extraordinary. 

Without actually seeing the specimen, Hermann took a bold scientific leap: he announced that the animal used its absurdly long fourth finger to support a wing membrane.

This, in hindsight, was rather brilliant — and also rather lucky. Hermann mailed off a letter (and a sketch) to the great French naturalist Georges Cuvier, suggesting that the fossil might even have been war booty, plundered by Napoleon’s scientifically curious troops and whisked off to Paris. After all, France’s armies were busily collecting everything from priceless art to interesting bones at the time — science’s version of a clearance sale.

In his letter, Hermann proposed that this mysterious creature was a mammal. Yes, a furry, bat-like, possibly adorable flying thing. He imagined it with soft pelage, wings stretching elegantly from its fourth finger to its ankle, and a fashionable membrane connecting neck to wrist — the very portrait of prehistoric glamour.

Cuvier, intrigued and perhaps unwilling to admit he didn’t have the fossil in question, agreed with the wing idea but drew the line at “fuzzy mammal.” In December 1800, he published a short note, adopting Hermann’s winged interpretation but firmly declaring, “Non, monsieur — this thing is definitely a reptile.”

Meanwhile, the fossil — allegedly stolen, possibly missing, and definitely not in Paris — turned up safe and sound in Munich. It had been spared confiscation thanks to one Baron von Moll, who managed to secure an “exemption from French enthusiasm.”

By 1809, Cuvier revisited the mystery, producing a longer and more confident description. He called it Petro-Dactyle (a typo he later fixed to Ptéro-Dactyle), thereby cementing both his reputation and a new spelling headache for future generations of palaeontologists.

He also took the time to dunk on his colleague Johann Friedrich Blumenbach, who had suggested the fossil might belong to a shore bird. Cuvier’s rebuttal was deliciously dry:

“It is not possible to doubt that the long finger served to support a membrane that, by lengthening the anterior extremity of this animal, formed a good wing.”

And with that, science had its first flying reptile — a creature born not only from stone but from a glorious mix of imagination, rivalry, and a few well-placed postal misunderstandings.

If you ever feel unqualified to make a bold scientific claim, remember Johann Hermann — who identified a whole new order of life without even seeing the fossil. Sometimes, a good guess (and a long finger) can take you far as history shows here in the The Great Finger Fiasco: How Johann Hermann and Georges Cuvier Accidentally Invented the Flying Reptile. 

ANTARCTIC COMMUTE