MIGWAT: BRITISH COLUMBIA'S SEALS

They lift their heads first—dark, liquid eyes catching the shifting light of the Pacific. Then the whiskers twitch, sensing currents and vibrations. A soft exhale. 

A tumble from sun-warmed rock to cold green water. In a heartbeat, they vanish beneath the surface, transformed from sleepy beach-goers to effortless underwater hunters.

These are seals—migwat, in Kwak'wala—the shapeshifters of British Columbia’s coastlines, whose presence is so common today that it’s easy to forget just how extraordinary their story really is.

Their paleo history is written in siltstone and sandstone, in ancient sea cliffs and bone beds. It is a story more than 30 million years in the making.

While not as fossil-rich in pinnipeds as Washington or Oregon, Vancouver Island holds scattered but significant evidence of ancient seals and sea lions.

Fossil Pinnipeds of Vancouver Island

• Pleistocene seal vertebrae and ribs in glacial deposits near Comox, Qualicum, and Port Alberni
• Marine mammal bone fragments in uplifted beach terraces (particularly around Quadra Island, Muir Creek Foreshore on the Saanich Peninsula, and Nanoose Bay)
• Holocene Indigenous middens preserving thousands of years of seal bones—Harbour seal, fur seal, and occasional sea lion—informing both ecology and human history
• Rare but notable Miocene marine mammal material in the Carmanah and Nitinat formations

These bones—though often fragmentary—confirm that pinnipeds have been part of Vancouver Island’s marine ecosystems for hundreds of thousands of years, if not longer.

From Forest Walkers to Ocean Athletes

Pinnipeds—seals, sea lions, and walruses—are members of Carnivora, sharing ancestry with bears and mustelids. Their earliest proto-pinniped relatives roamed the temperate forests of the Oligocene. 

These land-dwelling carnivores still walked on feet, not flippers, but were beginning to explore a new ecological niche: coastal fishing.

Fossils such as Enaliarctos—a 23-million-year-old “walking seal” from the Pacific Northwest—show the transition spectacularly. In Enaliarctos, we see:

• Fully functional limbs still able to support body weight
• But with broad, paddle-like bones hinting at aquatic propulsion
• Teeth adapted for grasping slippery prey
• A streamlined skull with enlarged eye orbits—early upgrades for life underwater

Over millions of years, these transitional forms gave rise to the modern pinnipeds—masters of aquatic agility with powerful flippers, torpedo-shaped bodies, and exquisitely sensitive whiskers capable of detecting the wake of a fleeing fish.

Where I live in British Columbia on Vancouver Island, we have two native extant seal species:

Pacific Harbour Seal, Phoca vitulina richardii

• The most familiar and abundant—those spotted, dog-like seals lounging on logs and kelp beds.
• They inhabit every corner of the BC coast, from Haida Gwaii to Victoria’s Inner Harbour.
• Once when I was scuba diving near Victoria, one swam along side me in a clearly playful way interested to see what kind of creature I was and what I was doing.

There was a time—not long ago—when the quiet, whiskered faces of Harbour seals were rare on the shores of British Columbia. Intense culling programs and bounties from the 1910s through the 1960s reduced their numbers dramatically. By the mid-20th century, the entire coast of BC may have had as few as 10,000 Harbour seals left.

Today, the population is estimated at 105,000 to 110,000 individuals. That's a tenfold increase and one of the greatest conservation success stories in Canada, the Pacific Northwest, and the entire pinniped world.

Northern Elephant Seal, Mirounga angustirostris

Once nearly wiped out by 19th-century hunting, they now appear sporadically but increasingly along BC shores—particularly around Vancouver Island and the Gulf Islands.

If the Harbour seal rebound is impressive, the elephant seal comeback is a resurrection.

In the 1880s, hunters reduced northern elephant seals, Mirounga angustirostris, to 20–100 individuals, likely surviving only on remote Guadalupe Island, Mexico.

Today, over 200,000 elephant seals exist worldwide. Along the British Columbia coast, sightings have steadily risen. We see them basking on the shores around Vancouver Island. Moulting individuals are a regular sight at Race Rocks, Barkley Sound, and Haida Gwaii.

At dawn on Hornby Island's Collishaw Point, the mist lifts as the tide sighs across the sandstone. Before you see them, you hear them. There is a soft shuffle… a splash… the quick, wet breath of a surfacing seal.

These communal gatherings—haul-outs—are the social centres of pinniped life. Dozens drape themselves across warm rock shelves, their mottled fur glistening. 

Underwater, the transformation is dramatic. 

Here, seals move with liquid precision, weaving effortlessly through giant kelp forests, chasing schooling herring, sand lance, and perch, and using their hypertactile whiskers to detect minute currents. It is a sight best observed in a drysuit as our waters here are icy cold but the view is worth it to see these quiet hunters of the coast.

Seal pups, turn the sea into a playground—darting, pirouetting, and often approaching divers or kayakers out of sheer curiosity. They are slowly reclaiming ancestral territory—massive, whiskered, loud, and utterly magnificent.

While our Harbour Seals and Elephant Seals are a regular occurance, the coast occasionally plays host to wayward Arctic wanderers such as Ribbon seals, Bearded seals and Ringed seals.

These remain rare, usually tied to unusual ice or climate events. Harbour seals are now so widespread in the Salish Sea that boaters, kayakers, and beachcombers often see them daily—lounging on kelp rafts, balancing on tidal rocks, or slipping through emerald water with barely a ripple.

Taken together, the fossil record from Vancouver Island, Washington, and Oregon reveals that this coastline has hosted pinnipeds for at least 25–30 million years. Early proto-seals evolved here—making the Pacific Northwest a cradle of pinniped evolution. Modern Harbour seals and Elephant seals represent only the latest chapters of a deep, ongoing story.

From Oligocene walking-seals to Miocene sea lions to today’s flourishing Harbour seal colonies, the Pacific coast has been home to these marine mammals through ice ages, warm epochs, shifting continents, and massive oceanic changes. This has always been their home. 

And thanks to careful stewardship, it will continue to be.

DARWIN AND THE GREAT DEBATE: MEGALOSAURUS

Oxford University Museum of Natural History was established in 1860 to draw together scientific studies from across the University of Oxford.

On 30 June 1860, the Museum hosted a clash of ideologies that has become known as the Great Debate.

Even before the collections were fully installed, or the architectural decorations completed, the British Association for the Advancement of Science held its 30th annual meeting to mark the opening of the building, then known as the University Museum. 

It was at this event that Samuel Wilberforce, Bishop of Oxford, and Thomas Huxley, a biologist from London, went head-to-head in a debate about one of the most controversial ideas of the 19th century – Charles Darwin's theory of evolution by natural selection.

Notable collections include the world's first described dinosaur,  Megalosaurus bucklandii, and the world-famous Oxford Dodo, the only soft tissue remains of the extinct dodo. Although fossils from other areas have been assigned to the genus, the only certain remains of Megalosaurus come from Oxfordshire and date to the late Middle Jurassic. 

Megalosaurus

In 1824, Megalosaurus was the first genus of non-avian dinosaur to be validly named. The type species is Megalosaurus bucklandii, named in 1827.

In 1842, Megalosaurus was one of three genera on which Richard Owen based his Dinosauria. On Owen's direction, a model was made as one of the Crystal Palace Dinosaurs, which greatly increased the public interest for prehistoric reptiles. 

Subsequently, over fifty other species would be classified under the genus, originally because dinosaurs were not well known, but even during the 20th century after many dinosaurs had been discovered. 

Today it is understood these additional species were not directly related to M. bucklandii, which is the only true Megalosaurus species. Because a complete skeleton of it has never been found, much is still unclear about its build.

The Museum is as spectacular today as when it opened in 1860. As a striking example of Victorian neo-Gothic architecture, the building's style was strongly influenced by the ideas of 19th-century art critic John Ruskin. Ruskin believed that architecture should be shaped by the energies of the natural world, and thanks to his connections with a number of eminent Pre-Raphaelite artists, the Museum's design and decoration now stand as a prime example of the Pre-Raphaelite vision of science and art.

MISTER KANE AND THE ORIGINS OF CANINES

Mister Kane

The good-looking boy you see here is my dog Kane, a loveable Rhodesian Ridgeback who brought many years of happiness to my life. Fiercely loyal, funny, stubborn and oh, so charming. 

Dogs—those noble, tail-wagging companions who’ve perfected the art of begging for snacks and unconditional love—have a fossil record that’s as fascinating as their modern-day personalities.

The story of Canis familiaris begins long before tennis balls and belly rubs. Their lineage traces back over 40 million years to the Miacids, small, tree-dwelling carnivores that lived during the Eocene epoch. 

These early proto-dogs looked more like a ferret that hadn’t quite made up its mind about whether it wanted to be a cat or a weasel. From there, evolution took the scenic route—through genera like Hesperocyon (meaning “western dog”) and Leptocyon—as paws became better for running and teeth evolved for tearing meat.

Snuggle Bunnies — Mister Kane & Mozart

By about 6 million years ago, we see true members of the genus Canis: ancestors of wolves, coyotes, and eventually our best friends. Fossils of Canis lepophagus from North America show the first recognisable wolf-like snout. 

Fast forward to around 15,000–30,000 years ago, and humans and wolves began their historic friendship—one that likely started when hungry wolves realised hanging out with people meant easy leftovers. 

Humans realised wolves made excellent alarm systems (and very fluffy foot warmers).

Since then, dogs have spread across the globe, adapting faster than you can say “good boy.” From fossilized bones in Siberian caves to paw prints preserved in ancient mud, their story is one of partnership, adaptability, and the evolution of pure charisma.

WHAT IS PALEONTOLOGY? AND HOW DOES ONE BECOME A PALEONTOLOGIST?

I'm often asked how one becomes a paleontologist and what is paleontology, exactly?

Think of paleontology as the world’s longest-running detective story. 

The clues? Bones, shells, burrows, teeth, pollen, footprints, coprolites (yes, that’s fossil poo—stay with me). 

The crime scenes? Ancient seas, volcanic plains, river deltas, deserts, and the deep time between epochs. The suspects? Every organism that has ever lived. It is science and adventure and years and years of delight for the endlessly curious student of Earth.

Paleontology is the scientific study of ancient life—how it evolved, what it looked like, where it lived, how it died, and how all of that stitched together the tapestry of Earth’s ever-changing ecosystems.

How Do You Actually Become a Paleontologist?

Becoming a paleontologist doesn’t start with “discovering dinosaurs at age five,” but it certainly doesn’t hurt. Some of us get the thrill of the hunt early? Rocks in your pocket all the time? It may be the career for you. If it is, the path looks something like this:

1. Get the Right Education

• Bachelor’s degree in geology, biology, earth sciences, or a related discipline. You’ll learn to read the rocks and the critters in them.
• Field experience—dig something, anything. Volunteer with museums, join local paleo societies, take field courses.
• Graduate school—most paleontologists go on to a Master’s and often a PhD, specializing in something deliciously niche: trilobite biomechanics, Cretaceous plant communities, Ice Age megafauna, ammonite taxonomy, fossil fish… you get the idea. If your interests are more broad, consider a career in science communication or teaching versus pure paleo.

2. Build Your Skills

Paleontologists are equal parts scientist, writer, backpack-hauler, and spreadsheet wrangler. You’ll need:

• Rock hammer and chisel confidence (and the ability to avoid your own toes).
• Microscopy patience.
• Statistical grit.
• Creative problem-solving (the fossil you want is always 3 cm from where your tools fit).
• Writing chops—for papers, grants, permits, reports, and the occasional “I did not anticipate rattlesnakes” field note.

3. Find a Job in the Field

Paleontologists (and science communicators) work in:

• Museums
• Universities
• Government agencies
• Resource industry (paleo is key to stratigraphy and energy geology)
• Cultural and environmental consulting
• Science communication, film, publishing, digital modeling, education

The path can be winding. Many paleontologists are part-time researchers + part-time teachers + part-time adventurers + full-time caffeine enthusiasts.

Advice for Future Paleontologists

1. Be Curious in All Directions. Fossils aren’t just bones. They’re ecosystems, climates, chemistry, sediments, and stories. They are the catalyst to great friendships and wonderful adventures.
2. Say Yes to Opportunities. Field school? Go. Volunteer prep lab? Go. Someone needs a PDF of a 1912 journal scanned? Get it done. It might lead somewhere.
3. Find Mentors. Paleo thrives on community. Your future collaborators, coauthors, and field buddies are often the ones you meet early on. Pro tip: do not sleep with your supervisor. This may seem a little risqué to mention here, but consider yourself warned. All mentors are not created equally. If your supervisor is relentlessly hitting on you, step away.
4. Get Comfortable With Uncertainty. Fossils rarely tell you everything. Sometimes they barely whisper. It can take years to discover what you are looking for but paleo offers a lifetime of exciting discoveries.
5. Learn to Communicate. Whether you’re teaching students, giving public talks, or writing grant proposals, your ability to explain will be as important as your ability to excavate.
6. Keep It Fun. Deep time can feel overwhelming, but the work is often joyful—dusty, muddy, exasperating, hilarious, and deeply meaningful.

Back When Paleontology Was… Wild

In the early days—think late 1700s to the mid-1800s—paleontology was a bit of a glorious free-for-all. Scientists were just beginning to realize that fossils weren’t “sports of nature” or leftover pieces from Noah’s flood. They were evidence of worlds that no longer existed.

Some Highlights of the Early Era:

• Mary Anning, collecting fossils on the dangerous cliffs of Lyme Regis, quietly rewriting the history of life while the scientific establishment tried to pretend she wasn’t doing it.
• Georges Cuvier, the father of vertebrate paleontology, piecing together mastodons and giant ground sloths with uncanny intuition—and occasionally ruffling feathers along the way.
• William Smith, a canal engineer who mapped England’s geology by matching fossils layer by layer—essentially inventing stratigraphy.
• Early paleontology involved pickaxes, speculation, daring leaps of logic, polite (and not-so-polite) academic duels, and the occasional feud conducted via increasingly annoyed letters.
• By the time the Bone Wars erupted in the late 1800s between Cope and Marsh—full of spies, sabotage, dynamite, and rival field camps—paleontology was well on its way to becoming both a serious science and the world’s greatest scientific soap opera.

A Few Famous Paleontologists (and Spicy Paleo Tidbits)

• Mary Anning – Found the first complete ichthyosaur, the first plesiosaur, and early pterosaurs. Never claimed the spotlight, but history eventually corrected that oversight. Probably would have rolled her eyes at much of Victorian science drama.
• Othniel Charles Marsh – Described over 80 dinosaur species, pioneer of the Yale Peabody collections, and occasional instigator of academic chaos.
• Edward Drinker Cope – Brilliant, fiery, and sometimes too quick to publish. Once put a fossil’s head on the wrong end. We’ve all been there (well… sort of).
• Roy Chapman Andrews – Adventurer, inspiration for Indiana Jones, and leader of the Central Asiatic Expeditions that uncovered Velociraptor and the first dinosaur eggs.
• Meave Leakey – Modern paleoanthropologist uncovering human origins, reminding the world that our lineage is just as fascinating as dinosaurs.
• Jack Horner – Helped transform our understanding of dinosaur growth and behaviour, and advised on Jurassic Park, making sure the on-screen raptors were scientifically terrifying.

So—Why Paleontology?

• Because it’s the science of the past, but informs the future.
• Because fossils don’t just tell us what lived—they reveal how life responds to climate change, extinction events, shifting continents, and planetary upheaval.
• Because deep time gives us perspective: life endures, adapts, transforms, and occasionally grows hilariously large horns or sails just to keep things interesting.
• And because there is something indescribably profound about holding a fossil in your hand and realizing the last time it saw daylight, the world was unrecognizable.

If you’re pulled toward that feeling, paleontology might just be calling you. Now, where do you go if you want to be a paleontologist? If you would like to study in Canada, here are your options:

University of Alberta (UAlberta)

• One of the best paleontology programs worldwide.
• Famous for dinosaur research, fossil vertebrates, paleoecology, and the online Paleo courses.
• MSc and PhD in Earth and Atmospheric Sciences with paleo supervisors.

University of Calgary

• Strong in vertebrate paleo, paleoenvironmental studies, and Western Canadian sediments.

University of British Columbia (UBC)

• Not exclusively paleo but strong in invertebrate paleontology and paleo-oceans via Earth Sciences.

Carleton University

• Paleobiology, paleoecology, and invertebrate fossils.

McGill University

• Paleobotany, micropaleontology, evolutionary biology.

If you plan to study in the United States, these are the schools to check out:

University of Chicago

• Home of the Committee on Evolutionary Biology; leading in evolutionary paleobiology.
• Famous names include Jack Sepkoski and Neil Shubin.

Yale University

• Legendary Peabody Museum collections.
• Strong vertebrate paleontology, paleoanthropology, and macroevolution.

Harvard University

• Museum of Comparative Zoology–huge collections.
• Paleoanthropology, invertebrate paleontology, and systematics.

University of Michigan

• Excellent invertebrate & vertebrate paleo and paleoecology.

University of California, Berkeley

• World-class vertebrate collections; strong in dinosaur evolution, paleoecology, and micropaleo.

University of Kansas

• Well-rounded vertebrate and invertebrate paleo program.

University of Colorado Boulder

• Strong in vertebrate paleo and Cenozoic ecosystems.

Duke University

• Paleoanthropology, primate evolution.

South Dakota School of Mines & Technology

• Strong hands-on paleo program tied to the Black Hills Institute.

University of Montana

• Good for applied paleo and stratigraphy.

If you are thinking of taking your education in United Kingdom & Europe, here are the schools to consider:

United Kingdom

University of Bristol

• One of the world’s top paleontology centres.
• MSc and PhD programs specifically in Palaeobiology.
• Fantastic for dinosaurs, early vertebrates, and statistical paleobiology.

University of Edinburgh

• Vertebrate paleo, especially early tetrapods and marine reptiles.

University of Cambridge

• Famous for Palaeobiology, human evolution, microfossils.

University of Oxford

• Strong in paleoecology, paleoclimate, and invertebrates.

University of Manchester

• Known for paleoimaging, fossils in 3D, early dinosaurs.

Germany

University of Bonn

• Top-tier vertebrate paleo (e.g., dinosaurs, early mammals).

University of Munich (LMU)

• Evolutionary paleo, macroevolution, and fossil arthropods.

University of Tübingen

• Paleoanthropology and vertebrate paleontology.

France

Muséum national d’Histoire naturelle (MNHN), Paris

• Historic paleo institution—vertebrates, invertebrates, and paleoanthropology.

Sorbonne University

• Earth sciences with strong paleo options.

Scandinavia

Uppsala University (Sweden)

• Early vertebrates, paleoecology.

University of Oslo (Norway)

• Marine reptiles, Scandinavian fossils.

Asia & Oceania

China

Chinese Academy of Sciences (CAS), Beijing

• World-leading research in early mammals, feathered dinosaurs, and Mesozoic ecosystems.

Peking University

• Evolutionary biology with paleo research tracks.

Japan

Hokkaido University

• Cretaceous marine reptiles and dinosaurs.

Australia

University of Queensland

Marine paleo, ichnology, and fossil sharks.

Flinders University

• Vertebrate paleo, especially megafauna.

Australian National University (ANU)

• Paleoanthropology and evolutionary biology.

South America

Argentina

Universidad Nacional de La Plata

• Dinosaur-rich country; strong vertebrate paleo.

Universidad Nacional de Córdoba

• Paleoecology and South American megafauna.

Brazil

Federal University of Rio de Janeiro

• Paleoecology, invertebrates, and the famous Brazilian fossil beds.

How to Pick the Right Program

Find a supervisor whose research excites you. Your advisor matters far more than the university name. Ask around for input from fellow students and colleagues. 

Consider what kind of paleo you want to do:

• Vertebrates
• Invertebrates
• Paleobotany
• Paleoecology
• Micropaleontology
• Paleoanthropology
• Geobiology
• Evolutionary biology
• Paleoclimate
• Taphonomy
• Stratigraphy

Check the collections & field sites nearby.

• Good fossils + good mentors = a very happy graduate student.

Look at funding—seriously.

Some countries have better funding for international students than others. Some universities use international students like cash cows and charge them much more than regular students. Do your research early on so you have no surprises and a realistic idea of what your costs will be and their expectations of you.

I will be adding more to this post over the holidays as it is a question I am often asked. Once I have updated all the information, I will make it a downloadable PDF for you to keep and add your own notes to as you progress towards your career in paleontology.

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

FOSSIL FISHAPODS FROM THE CANADIAN ARCTIC

Qikiqtania wakei, a fishapod & relative to tetrapods

You will likely recall the amazing tetrapodomorpha fossil found on Ellesmere Island in the Canadian Arctic in 2004, Tiktaalik roseae. 

These were advanced forms transitional between fish and the early labyrinthodonts playfully referred to as fishapods — half-fish, half-tetrapod in appearance and limb morphology. 

Up to that point, the relationship of limbed vertebrates (tetrapods) to lobe-finned fish (sarcopterygians) was well known, but the origin of significant tetrapod features remained obscure for the lack of fossils that document the sequence of evolutionary changes — until Tiktaalik. 

While Tiktaalik is technically a fish, this fellow is as far from fish-like as you can be and still be a card-carrying member of the group. 

Interestingly, while Neil Shubin and crew were combing the icy tundra for Tiktaalik, another group was trying their luck just a few kilometres away. 

A week before the eureka moment of Tiktaalik's discovery, Tom Stewart and Justin Lemberg unearthed material that we now know to be a relative of Tiktaalik's. 

Meet Qikiqtania wakei, a fishapod and close relative to our dear tetrapods — and cousin to Tiktaalik — who shares features in the flattened triangular skull, shoulders and elbows in the fin. 

Qikiqtania (pronounced kick-kick-TAN-ee-ya)

But, and here’s the amazing part, its upper arm bone (humerus) is specialised for open water swimming, not walking. 

The story gets wilder when we look at Qikiqtania’s position on the evolutionary tree— all the features for this type of swimming are newly evolved, not primitive. 

This means that Qikiqtania secondarily reentered open water habitats from ancestors that had already had some aspect of walking behaviour. 

And, this whole story was playing out 365 million years ago — the transition from water to land was going both ways in the Devonian.

Why is this exciting? You and I descend from those early tetrapods. We share the legacy of their water-to-land transition and the wee bony bits in their wrists and paddles that evolved to become our hands. I know, mindblowing!

Thomas Stewart and Justin Lemberg put in thousands of hours bringing Qikiqtania to life. 

The analysis consisted of a long path of wild events— from a haphazard moment when it was first spotted, a random collection of a block that ended up containing an articulated fin, to a serendipitous discovery three days before Covid lockdowns in March 2020.

Both teams acknowledge the profound debt owed to the individuals, organizations and indigenous communities where they had the privilege to work — Grise Fiord and Resolute Bay— Ellesmere Island in Nunavut, the largest and northernmost territory of Canada. 

Part of that debt is honoured in the name chosen for this new miraculous species. 

Aerial View of Ellesmere Island

The generic name, Qikiqtania (pronounced kick-kick-TAN-ee-ya), is derived from the Inuktitut words Qikiqtaaluk and Qikiqtani which are the traditional place name of the region where the fossil was discovered. 

The specific name, wakei, is in memory of the evolutionary biologist David Wake — colleague, mentor and friend. 

He was a professor of integrative biology and Director and curator of herpetology at the Museum of Vertebrate Zoology at the University of California, Berkeley who passed away in April 2021. 

Wake is known for his work on the biology and evolution of salamanders and vertebrate evolutionary biology. 

If you look at the photo on the left you can imagine visiting these fossil localities in Canada's far north.

Qikiqtania was found on Inuit land and belongs to the community. Thomas Stewart and his colleagues were able to conduct this research because of the generosity and support of individuals in the hamlets of Resolute Bay and Grise Fiord, the Iviq Hunters and Trappers of Grise Fiord, and the Department of Heritage and Culture, Nunavut.

To them, on behalf of the larger scientific community — Nakurmiik. Thank you! 

Here is the link to Tom Stewart's article in The Conversation & paper in Nature:

• Stewart, Thomas A.; Lemberg, Justin B.; Daly, Ailis; Daeschler, Edward B.; Shubin, Neil H. (2022-07-20). "A new elpistostegalian from the Late Devonian of the Canadian Arctic". Nature. doi:10.1038/s41586-022-04990-w. ISSN 0028-0836.
• Stewart, Thomas. "Meet Qikiqtania, a fossil fish with the good sense to stay in the water while others ventured onto land" The Conversation. Retrieved 2022-07-20.

Image One: An artist’s vision of Qikiqtania enjoying its fully aquatic, free-swimming lifestyle. Alex Boersma, CC BY-ND

Image Two: A new elpistostegalian from the Late Devonian of the Canadian Arctic, T. A. Stewart, J. B. Lemberg, A. Daly, E. B. Daeschler, & N. H. Shubin.

A huge shout out to the deeply awesome Neil Shubin who shared that the paper had been published and offered his insights on what played out behind the scenes!

TETRAPODS AND THE VERTEBRATE HAND

The irresistable tetrapod Tiktaalik

In the late 1930s, our understanding of the transition of fish to tetrapods — and the eventual jump to modern vertebrates — took an unexpected leap forward. 

The evolutionary a'ha came from a single partial fossil skull found on the shores of a riverbank in Eastern Canada. 

Meet the Stegocephalian, Elpistostege watsoni, an extinct genus of finned tetrapodomorphs that lived during the Late Givetian to Early Frasnian of the Late Devonian — 382 million years ago. 

Elpistostege watsoni — perhaps the sister taxon of all other tetrapods — was first described in 1938 by British palaeontologist and elected Fellow of the Royal Society of London, Thomas Stanley Westoll. Westroll was an interesting fellow whose research interests were wide-ranging. He was a vertebrate palaeontologist and geologist best known for his innovative work on Palaeozoic fishes and their relationships with tetrapods. 

Elpistostege watsoni

As a specialist in early fish, Westoll was the perfect person to ask to interpret that single partial skull roof discovered at the Escuminac Formation in Quebec, Canada. 

His findings and subsequent publication named Elpistostege watsoni and helped us to better understand the evolution of fishes to tetrapods — four-limbed vertebrates — one of the most important transformations in vertebrate evolution. 

Hypotheses of tetrapod origins rely heavily on the anatomy of but a few tetrapod-like fish fossils from the Middle and Late Devonian, 393–359 million years ago. 

These taxa — known as elpistostegalians — include Panderichthys, Elpistostege and Tiktaalik — none of which had yet to reveal the complete skeletal anatomy of the pectoral fin. 

Elpistostege watsoni

None until 2010 that is, when a complete 1.57-metre-long articulated specimen was found and described by Richard Cloutier et al. in 2020. 

The specimen helped us to understand the origin of the vertebrate hand. Stripped from its encasing stone, it revealed a set of paired fins of Elpistostege containing bones homologous to the phalanges (finger bones) of modern tetrapods and is the most basal tetrapodomorph known to possess them. 

Once the phalanges were uncovered, prep work began on the fins. The fins were covered in wee scales and lepidotrichia (fin rays). The work was tiresome, taking more than 2,700 hours of preparation but the results were thrilling. 

Origin of the Vertebrate Hand

We could now clearly see that the skeleton of the pectoral fin has four proximodistal rows of radials — two of which include branched carpals — as well as two distal rows organized as digits and putative digits. 

Despite this skeletal pattern — which represents the most tetrapod-like arrangement of bones found in a pectoral fin to date blurring the line between fish and land vertebrates — the fin retained lepidotrichia (those wee fin rays) distal to the radials. 

This arrangement confirmed an age-old question — showing us for the first time that the origin of phalanges preceded the loss of fin rays, not the other way around.

E. watsoni is very closely related to Tiktaalik roseae found in 2004 in the Canadian Arctic — a tetrapodomorpha species also known as a Choanata. These were advanced forms transitional between fish and the early labyrinthodonts playfully referred to as fishapods — half-fish, half-tetrapod in appearance and limb morphology. 

Up to that point, the relationship of limbed vertebrates (tetrapods) to lobe-finned fish (sarcopterygians) was well known, but the origin of major tetrapod features remained obscure for lack of fossils that document the sequence of evolutionary changes — until Tiktaalik. While Tiktaalik is technically a fish, this fellow is as far from fish-like you can be and still be a card-carrying member of the group. 

Tiktaalik roseae

Complete with scales and gills, this proto-fish lacked the conical head we see in modern fish but had a rather flattened triangular head more like that of a crocodile. 

Tiktaalik had scales on its back and fins with fin webbing but like early land-living animals, it had a distinctive flat head and neck. He was a brawny brute. The shape of his skull and shoulder look part fish and part amphibian.

The watershed moment came as Tiktaalik was prepped. Inside Tiktaalik's fins, we find bones that correspond to the upper arm, forearm and even parts of the wrist — all inside a fin with webbing — remarkable! 

Its fins have thin ray bones for paddling like most fish, but with brawny interior bones that gave Tiktaalik the ability to prop itself up, using his limbs for support. I picture him propped up on one paddle saying, "how you doing?" 

Six years after Tiktaalik was discovered by Neil Shubin and team in the ice-covered tundra of the Canadian Arctic on southern Ellesmere Island, a team working the outcrops at Miguasha on the Gaspé Peninsula discovered the only fully specimen of E. watsoni found to date — greatly increasing our knowledge of this finned tantalizingly transitional tetrapodomorph. 

E. watsoni fossils are rare — this was the fourth specimen collected in over 130 years of hunting. Charmingly, the specimen was right on our doorstop — extracted but a few feet away from the main stairs descending onto the beach of Miguasha National Park. 

L'nu Mi’gmaq First Nations of the Gespe’gewa’gi Region

Miguasha is nestled in the Gaspésie or Gespe’gewa’gi region of Canada — home to the Mi’gmaq First Nations who self-refer as L’nu or Lnu. The word Mi’gmaq or Mi’kmaq means the family or my allies/friends in Mi'kmaw, their native tongue (and soon to be Nova Scotia's provincial first language). They are the people of the sea and the original inhabitants of Atlantic Canada having lived here for more than 10,000 years. 

The L'nu were the first First Nation people to establish contact and trade with European explorers in the 16th and 17th centuries — and perhaps the Norse as early as the turn of the Millenium. Sailing vessels filled with French, British, Scottish, Irish and others arrived one by one to lay claim to the region — settling and fighting over the land. As each group rolled out their machinations of discovery, tensions turned to an all-out war with the British and French going head to head. I'll spare you the sordid details but for everyone caught in the crossfire, it went poorly.

North America Map 1775 (Click to Enlarge)

Cut to 1760, the British tipped the balance with their win at the Battle of the Restigouche, the last naval battle between France and England for possession of the North American continent — Turtle Island. 

The bittersweet British victory sparked the American War of Independence. 

For the next twenty years, the L'nu would witness and become embroiled in yet another war for these lands, their lands — first as bystanders, then as American allies, then intimidated into submission by the British Royal Navy with a show of force by way of a thirty-four gun man-of-war, encouraging L'nu compliance — finally culminating in an end to the hostilities with the 1783 Treaty of Paris. 

The peace accord held no provisions for the L'nu, Métis and First Nations impacted. None of these newcomers was Mi'kmaq — neither friends nor allies.

It was to this area some sixty years later that the newly formed Geological Survey of Canada (GSC) began exploring and mapping the newly formed United Province of Canada. Geologists in the New Brunswick Geology Branch traipsed through the rugged countryside that would become a Canadian province in 1867. 

It was on one of these expeditions that the Miguasha fossil outcrops were discovered. They, too, would transform in time to become Miguasha National Park or Parc de Miguasha, but at first, they were simply the promising sedimentary exposures on the hillside across the water —  a treasure trove of  Late Devonian fauna waiting to be discovered.

In the summer of 1842, Abraham Gesner, New Brunswick’s first Provincial Geologist, crossed the northern part of the region exploring for coal. Well, mostly looking for coal. Gesner also had a keen eye for fossils and his trip to the Gaspé Peninsula came fast on the heels of a jaunt along the rocky beaches of Chignecto Bay at the head of the Bay of Fundy and home to the standing fossil trees of the Joggins Fossil Cliffs. 

Passionate about geology and chemistry, he is perhaps most famous for his invention of the process to distil the combustible hydrocarbon kerosene from coal oil — a subject on which his long walks exploring a budding Canada gave him a great deal of time to consider. We have Gesner to thank for the modern petroleum industry. He filed many patents for clever ways to distil the soft tar-like coal or bitumen still in use today.

He was skilled in a broad range of scientific disciplines — being a geologist, palaeontologist, physician, chemist, anatomist and naturalist — a brass tacks geek to his core. Gesner explored the coal exposures and fossil outcrops across the famed area that witnessed the region become part of England and not France — and no longer L'nu.

Following the Restigouche River in New Brunswick through the Dalhousie region, Gesner navigated through the estuary to reach the southern coast of the Gaspé Peninsula into what would become the southeastern coast of Quebec to get a better look at the cliffs across the water. He was the first geologist to lay eyes on the Escuminac Formation and its fossils.

In his 1843 report to the Geologic Survey, he wrote, “I found the shore lined with a coarse conglomerate. Farther eastward the rocks are light blue sandstones and shales, containing the remains of vegetables. In these sandstone and shales, I found the remains of fish and a small species of tortoise with fossil foot-marks.”

We now know that this little tortoise was the famous Bothriolepis, an antiarch placoderm fish. It was also the first formal mention of the Miguasha fauna in our scientific literature. Despite the circulation of his report, Gesner’s discovery was all but ignored — the cliffs and their fossil bounty abandoned for decades to come. Geologists like Ells, Foord and Weston, and the research of Whiteaves and Dawson, would eventually follow in Gesner's footsteps.

North America Map 1866 (Click to Enlarge)

Over the past 180 years, this Devonian site has yielded a wonderfully diverse aquatic assemblage from the Age of Fishes — five of the six fossil fish groups associated with the Devonian including exceptionally well-preserved fossil specimens of the lobe-finned fishes. 

This is exciting as it is the lobe-finned fishes — the sarcopterygians — that gave rise to the first four-legged, air-breathing terrestrial vertebrates – the tetrapods. 

Fossil specimens from Miguasha include twenty species of lower vertebrates — anaspids, osteostra-cans, placoderms, acanthodians, actinopterygians and sarcopterygians — plus a limited invertebrate assemblage, along with terrestrial plants, scorpions and millipedes.

Originally interpreted as a freshwater lacustrine environment, recent paleontological, taphonomic, sedimentological and geochemical evidence corroborates a brackish estuarine setting — and definitely not the deep waters of the sea. This is important because the species that gave rise to our land-living animals began life in shallow streams and lakes. It tells us a bit about how our dear Elpistostege watsoni liked to live — preferring to lollygag in cool river waters where seawater mixed with fresh. Not fully freshwater, but a wee bit of salinity to add flavour.  

• Photos: Elpistostege watsoni (Westoll, 1938 ), Upper Devonian (Frasnian), Escuminac formation, Parc de Miguasha, Baie des Chaleurs, Gaspé, Québec, Canada. John Fam, VanPS
• Origin of the Vertebrate Hand Illustration, https://www.nature.com/articles/s41586-020-2100-8
• Tiktaalik Illustration: By Obsidian Soul - Own work, CC BY 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=47401797

References & further reading:

• From Water to Land: https://www.miguasha.ca/mig-en/the_first_discoveries.php
• UNESCO Miguasha National Park: https://whc.unesco.org/en/list/686/
• Office of L'nu Affairs: https://novascotia.ca/abor/aboriginal-people/
• Cloutier, R., Clement, A.M., Lee, M.S.Y. et al. Elpistostege and the origin of the vertebrate hand. Nature 579, 549–554 (2020). https://doi.org/10.1038/s41586-020-2100-8
• Daeschler, E. B., Shubin, N. H. & Jenkins, F. A. Jr. A Devonian tetrapod-like fish and the evolution of the tetrapod body plan. Nature 440, 757–763 (2006).
• Shubin, Neil. Your Inner Fish: A Journey into the 3.5 Billion History of the Human Body.
• Evidence for European presence in the Americas in AD 1021: https://www.nature.com/articles/s41586-021-03972-8

TUSKED TITANS OF THE ARCTIC: WALRUS ᐊᐃᕕᖅ

A lazy walrus lounges on an ice floe, its massive, blubbery body shimmering under the low Arctic sun. 

With a deep, rumbling sigh, it shifts its weight and scratches an itch on its side—more out of habit than necessity. Life, for this marine titan, moves at the pace of the tides.

Odobenus rosmarus, the walrus is the only surviving member of the family Odobenidae, a once-diverse group of pinnipeds that includes extinct relatives such as Dusignathus and Pontolis. 

Fossil remains place their lineage back to the late Miocene, around 10–11 million years ago. Early odobenids first appeared in the North Pacific and were more varied than the tusked, bottom-feeding walrus we know today—some had shorter tusks or none at all, and many hunted fish rather than clams.

These ancient walruses belonged to a broader superfamily, the Pinnipedia, which also includes seals and sea lions. Genetic and fossil evidence suggests pinnipeds split from terrestrial carnivores roughly 25–30 million years ago, likely from bear-like ancestors that took to the water during the Oligocene. Odobenids evolved later, perfecting their specialization as suction feeders. 

Their powerful tongues can vacuum soft-bodied mollusks straight from their shells—a skill that defines modern walrus diets.

Today, walruses inhabit the icy Arctic and subarctic waters of the Northern Hemisphere, with two recognized subspecies: the Atlantic walrus, O. r. rosmarus, found in the Canadian Arctic and Greenland, and the Pacific walrus, O. r. divergens, ranging from the Bering Sea to the Chukchi Sea. They prefer shallow continental shelf regions where bivalves abound and haul out on sea ice or rocky shores in vast, noisy colonies.

Despite their ponderous appearance, walruses are powerful swimmers and social creatures with intricate communication and hierarchy systems. Their tusks—elongated canines present in both males and females—serve for dominance displays, hauling out, and defense. 

To Arctic peoples, walruses have long been vital for food, hides, and ivory, woven into traditional lifeways and mythology.

In Inuktitut, the word for walrus is “aiviq” (ᐊᐃᕕᖅ). It’s pronounced roughly eye-vik or ay-vik, depending on the dialect. The plural form is “aiviat” (ᐊᐃᕕᐊᑦ). The walrus, aiviq, holds deep cultural and spiritual importance in Inuit communities, long valued for its meat, ivory, and hide—vital resources for survival in the Arctic.

From Miocene shores to the modern polar ice, the walrus story is one of adaptation and endurance—a lineage that has survived shifting seas and ice ages, still scratching its ancient itch beneath the northern sun.

ANCIENT ELEGANCE: UINTACRINUS SOCIALIS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That, to me, is pure magic.

CHEERFUL CHICKADEES: WASHINTON'S TINY WINTER SONGBIRD

On a frosty Washington morning, when mist clings to the Douglas firs and frost paints the ferns silver, a flit of motion catches your eye—a small, round bird with a bold black cap and curious, sparkling eyes. 

It lands on a branch covered in ice crystals, flicks its tail, and calls out its name: chick-a-dee-dee-dee! 

Few sounds are as heartening in the Northwest woods as the song of the chickadee, a reminder that even in the quiet cold of winter, life hums along in cheerful defiance.

Chickadees are some of the most beloved birds in Washington State. Two species are especially common: the Black-capped Chickadee (Poecile atricapillus), found in lowland forests, parks, and backyards, and the Chestnut-backed Chickadee (Poecile rufescens), a fluffier cousin that prefers the damp coniferous forests of the coast and Cascades. Both species are year-round residents—tiny nonmigratory survivors who somehow endure the state’s wet winters and brief, brilliant summers.

Despite weighing less than a dozen paperclips, chickadees are bold, curious, and surprisingly fearless. Birdwatchers often find them among the first to visit feeders, snatching a seed and darting off to store it for later. They can remember the locations of hundreds, even thousands, of hidden food caches—an astonishing feat of memory for such a small creature.

Their name, “chickadee,” comes from their signature call, which varies in tone and number of “dees” depending on what’s happening. A few soft notes mean “all is well,” while a flurry of dee-dee-dees can signal alarm. The more “dees,” the greater the threat—almost like a feathery Morse code. Researchers have discovered that chickadees use an intricate communication system that rivals those of parrots or crows in complexity.

Chickadees thrive in Washington because of their incredible adaptability. They’re found from the Olympic Peninsula’s moss-draped rainforests to the dry ponderosa pine country east of the Cascades. In winter, they fluff their feathers to trap heat and can even lower their body temperature at night to conserve energy—a form of regulated hypothermia called torpor.

They feed on insects, seeds, and berries, often gleaning tiny larvae from bark crevices or pecking open fir cones for seeds. In summer, they shift toward a high-protein diet of caterpillars and spiders, feeding their chicks a steady stream of wriggling meals.

Each spring, chickadees begin their courtship with soft calls and playful chases through the trees. They’re cavity nesters, meaning they prefer to raise their young in holes—often old woodpecker nests or natural tree cavities. Sometimes they’ll even excavate a soft-rotted snag themselves, a remarkable feat for such a small bird.

Once a site is chosen, the female lines the nest with moss, fur, and feathers, creating a cozy chamber for her eggs. Typically, she lays 6–8 small white eggs, which she incubates for about two weeks. Both parents take part in feeding the chicks, bringing in insects almost constantly until the young fledge and venture into the world.

In Washington, chickadees are more than just a common backyard bird—they’re a symbol of resilience and cheer. Their constant movement and lively chatter seem to bring warmth even to the dampest winter days. Many Washingtonians hang feeders of black oil sunflower seeds or suet to attract these tiny visitors, rewarding them with a flurry of acrobatics and music.

If you’re out hiking in Mount Rainier National Park or walking through Seattle’s Green Lake Park, listen for that bright, whistled fee-bee or the classic chick-a-dee-dee-dee. You may find a black-capped chickadee tilting its head curiously at you from a low branch, unbothered by your presence.

Chickadees, like all modern songbirds, trace their lineage deep into the fossil record—back to the Miocene, around 23 to 5 million years ago, when the ancestors of the family Paridae (which includes chickadees, titmice, and tits) first appeared in Europe and Asia. 

These early perching birds evolved from small, insect-eating passerines that diversified rapidly after the extinction of the dinosaurs, filling the forests of the world with song. Fossil evidence from sites in Europe, such as the famed Miocene deposits of Germany, shows small tit-like birds already possessing the short, stout bills and agile feet that characterize today’s chickadees. 

Over time, these adaptable birds spread across the Northern Hemisphere, eventually colonizing North America through Beringia during cooler Pleistocene glacial periods. The Washington State chickadees we see today—bold, intelligent, and winter-hardy—carry within them the ancient legacy of these pioneering songbirds that once flitted through prehistoric forests millions of years ago.

In the heart of Washington’s wild landscapes—beneath towering cedars, beside mountain streams, or even outside your kitchen window—the chickadee sings. Unfazed by rain or snow, this tiny bird embodies the wild spirit of the Pacific Northwest: curious, enduring, and always full of life.

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.

ICELAND'S BLACK SAND BEACH

Reynisfjara, Iceland's Black Sand Beach

Imagine a beach covered with impossibly smooth black stones. In site of the shore, stand tall black basalt sentinels and a cliff of basalt behind you. 

This dreamlike setting is Iceland’s famed black-sand shores. Wind, rain, puffins and surf—a bucket-list moment. 

The beach—Reynisfjara, a wind-scoured sweep on the island’s southern edge—unfurls beneath a sky bruised with storm light and salted mist. 

Each wave rushes in with a roar that rolls through your ribs. When the water drains back, it draws away over sand so dark it behaves like a mirror, reflecting the cloud-washed sky in long silver ribbons.

Iceland sits astride the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, a tectonic boundary where the North American and Eurasian plates pull apart at a geological snail’s pace—an inch or two each year. 

Rising beneath this rift is a mantle plume, a column of hot rock that feeds Iceland’s remarkable volcanism. Eruptions here are not rare; they are a defining rhythm of life.

When lava from the island’s volcanoes meets the frigid North Atlantic, it shatters almost instantly. 

Sea Stacks, Reynisfjara, Iceland

Thermal shock fractures the molten rock into fine, glassy fragments—tiny shards of basalt, magnetite-rich minerals, and volcanic glass called tachylite. 

Over centuries, these microscopic pieces are tumbled smooth by tide and storm, accumulating into endless black expanses that gleam like obsidian under low Arctic sun.

Just above the surf line rises a natural marvel so striking it feels engineered: a vast wall of columnar basalt, known as Hálsanefshellir. 

At first glance it looks like an organ pipe gallery fit for a storm god. In truth, it is the architecture of cooling lava. Even with the inclement weather, it was being fully explored by waves of tourists. 

When a thick basaltic flow slowly cools, it contracts and fractures along geometric planes. The result is a forest of hexagonal pillars—mathematical, precise, and impossibly ordered for something born of chaos. 

The Cave at Reynisfjara, Iceland

These columns stack and curve like ribs along the cliff face, forming a cavern whose acoustics mimic a cathedral. 

The cave, carved by relentless Atlantic weathering, feels ancient yet alive. Each winter storm pries loose boulders from the upper wall; each summer’s calm polishes the stones below.

The sound inside the cave is a chorus: wind whistling through basalt corridors, waves booming like drums, and the occasional cry of seabirds nesting along the ledges. 

Even the light behaves differently here—broken and refracted into soft geometric shadows.

Offshore stand Reynisdrangar, three jagged sea stacks rising like dark sentinels from the foam. I risked getting close to them to feel the incredible power of the surf, but also kept an eye on it as I had arrived on a rising tide.

The scene was moody and dreamlike. The silhouettes shift with the tide and light—sometimes harsh and angular, sometimes softened into mythic silhouettes. Legend says they were once trolls turned to stone by the rising sun. Geology tells a different story.

Reynisdrangar are the remnants of an ancient volcanic plug—stubborn harder rock that resisted erosion long after surrounding cliffs surrendered to the sea. As waves undercut the basalt headland, fractures widened into arches, arches collapsed into towers, and the towers now endure as lonely paragons of erosion’s slow sculpting hand.

Their basalt cores are layered with volcanic ash and pillow lavas, hinting at a prehistoric eruption beneath ice or water. 

Seabirds—guillemots, kittiwakes, and Atlantic puffins—wheel around them in summer, decorating their cliffs with life and movement. I was sad to miss the puffins, but I will return to these shores again in the Spring. 

Reynisfjara is beautiful, but it is also powerful—and unpredictable. Sneaker waves, born from distant storms off Antarctica, surge higher than expected, racing up the sand with startling speed. 

They are a reminder that this coast is shaped by forces vast and ongoing: plate tectonics, glacial history, volcanic fire, and a restless ocean with no memory of the day before.

This is Iceland at its most iconic: stark, sculptural, and alive. It delivered all the feels I was looking for. It also delivered some wonderful palm-sized souvenirs that were inspected with interest as I moved through Customs on the way home.

URSUS CURIOUS: TLA'YI

A young Black Bear cub, Ursus americanus, tip-toes toward a frisky (and very startled) Striped Skunk, Mephitis mephitis — two wonderfully charismatic neighbours here in southern British Columbia.

Skunks, despite their reputation as the great olfactory villains of the mammal world, are actually closer to Old World stink badgers than to true polecats. 

Their infamous spray comes from paired anal scent glands capable of delivering a sulphur-rich chemical cocktail with uncanny accuracy — up to three metres, cross-wind. 

A single blast contains thiols so potent that predators learn, very quickly, that curiosity is overrated. Well… most predators. This wee bear clearly didn’t get the memo.

Black Bear cubs are, by nature, little bundles of kinetic joy and overwhelming inquisitiveness. Born in mid-winter, blind and tiny (weighing little more than a can of soup), they spend their first months cozied up in the den. 

By spring, though? Trouble. Pure, adorable trouble. Cubs stay with their mothers for about two years, learning every essential skill — how to climb, what to eat, what not to poke — but sometimes a particularly irresistible mystery will lure one a few metres away for a solo investigation.

Skunks, meanwhile, are far more than their signature scent. They’re accomplished insectivores with surprisingly strong forelimbs, adapted for rooting out beetle larvae, grubs, and other soil-dwelling goodies. 

They’re also bold. A skunk will usually stomp its feet, click its teeth, and arch its tail in a dramatic “Don’t make me do it” warning display. 

And yet — miracle of miracles — nobody got skunked. A karmic win for everyone involved.

This charming moment is also a reminder of the rich biodiversity we’re blessed with on the rugged west coast of British Columbia, where coastal rainforests shelter everything from salmon-loving black bears to nocturnal, grub-snuffling skunks.

Bears and skunks also have deep, fascinating roots in the fossil record. The lineage leading to modern skunks (Mephitidae) first appears in the Oligocene, roughly 30–32 million years ago, with early forms like Promephitis showing many of the skeletal hallmarks — and likely the scent-gland superpowers — of their modern cousins. 

Bears (Ursidae), meanwhile, trace their ancestry back even further. Their earliest known relatives emerge in the late Eocene, around 38 million years ago, with small, doglike proto-bears such as Parictis and later the hemicyonids, sometimes called “dog-bears,” bridging the evolutionary steps toward the true bears we know today. 

By the Miocene, both families were well established across North America, sharing ancient forests and floodplains just as their modern descendants do today — though hopefully with just as few skunk-related mishaps.

In the Kwak'wala language of the Kwakwaka'wakw First Nations of the Pacific Northwest, this playful black bear is t̕ła'yi — a name that captures both its spirit and its place within these lands. 

A perfect word for a perfect little explorer with an arguably questionable sense of danger.