OWLS: MASTERS OF THE HUNT

They move through the night as if stitched into it, seamless and soundless. You don’t hear an owl arrive. 

You feel it—the brief shift in the air above your head, a whisper of movement. It always feels me with a sense of awe. 

The silence is part of the hunt. Each feather, soft-edged and velvet-fringed, pulls the air apart without letting it stitch back into a sound. It is the most refined stealth technology evolution ever produced.

Out of the dusk they come, low and spectral. A heart-shaped face turns like a satellite dish, searching, mapping the world not with sight but with sound—every rustle of vole or beetle sketched in invisible lines. 

In Kwak’wala, the language of the Kwakwaka’wakw peoples of northern Vancouver Island, both an owl and a carved owl mask are called, Da̱xda̱xa̱luła̱mł, (though I have also heard them called Gwax̱w̱a̱lawadi, names that carries deep layers of meaning within their sounds. 

Snowy Owl

Amongst the Kwagu’ł and cousin Kwakwaka’wakw First Nations (those who speak Kwak'wala), the owl is often regarded as a messenger between worlds—a being that moves freely between the realm of the living and the spirit world. 

Its nocturnal calls are heard as sounds of the forest but also messages from ancestors, guiding, cautioning, or reminding listeners of their connection to those who came before. 

The owl’s ability to see in darkness and to travel silently through the night makes it a symbol of perception, transformation, and spiritual awareness, woven into the ceremonial stories and teachings that link human life to the greater cycles of nature and the unseen.

The Barn Owl, Tyto alba, pale as old linen and light as breath, drifts over stubble fields and meadows on a night wind. Its back is mottled with gold and grey, a shimmer of faded ochre dusted with starlight, while its underparts are moon-pale, unmarked. To see one cross a field in darkness is to glimpse a ghost that has learned to eat.

Barn Owls wear the night differently from their kin. Where they are gold and ivory, the Great Grey Owl, Strix nebulosa, is a storm of silver mist and charcoal, all rings and ripples of smoke. The Snowy Owl, Bubo scandiacus, gleams white as an Arctic sunbeam, each feather edged in ink like frost-shadow on snow. 

The Tawny Owl, Strix aluco, one of my favourite woodland companions, takes the colour of leaf litter and bark, warm brown and russet, perfectly disguised against a tree trunk’s skin. 

The diversity of owl plumage tells the story of their worlds—the open field, the frozen tundra, the dense woodland—and of their mastery of concealment. 

Every pattern is a negotiation with light and habitat, a balance between being unseen and seeing everything.

The eyes, of course, are what we remember. They are not round but tubes, locked in place by bone, forcing the head to turn instead. Two great wells of amber, gold, or black glass, evolved to harvest every drop of night. Behind them, the facial disc funnels sound to asymmetrical ears—one higher than the other, tuned to triangulate the faintest scurry in the dark. 

An owl hears in three dimensions; it knows precisely not just where a mouse is, but how far beneath the snow or under the leaf mould it crouches. 

The result is a predator with seemingly supernatural powers. The flight is the confirmation.

Yet for all their modern perfection, owls are ancient creatures. Their lineage stretches far back into the Oligocene and beyond. 

The earliest fossils we can confidently call owls—members of the order Strigiformes—appear around 60 million years ago, just after the age of dinosaurs gave way to the age of mammals. 

One of the oldest known is Ogygoptynx wetmorei, found in the Paleocene deposits of Colorado, a time when tropical forests spread across what is now the Rocky Mountain region. 

Slightly later, in the early Eocene, we meet Berruornis from France and Primoptynx from Wyoming—owls large and powerful, already showing the curved talons and forward-facing eyes that mark their descendants.

The fossil record reveals that the ancestors of modern owls were even larger and, in some cases, more diurnal than today’s secretive forms. 

The Miocene produced giants like Ornimegalonyx oteroi of Cuba—standing nearly a metre tall, possibly flightless, stalking prey through forest shadows. Europe once hosted Strix intermedia, and North America its share of extinct Tyto species, some with wingspans rivaling modern eagles. 

By the Pleistocene, many of the owl forms we know today had already arrived: Snowy Owls gliding over Ice Age steppes, Barn Owls haunting caves where mammoth bones lay.

Those caves, in fact, preserve some of our best records of owl life. Owls, being generous regurgitators, leave behind pellets—compressed bundles of fur and bone that fossilize beautifully in dry shelters. 

Through these, we reconstruct vanished ecosystems: field mice of species long extinct, voles that once roamed British lowlands before the sea cut us from the continent. Each pellet is a time capsule, the residue of a meal but also of a habitat. These little truth revealing pellets are a delight to find (don't be squeamish!) and pull apart as they tell us as much today as they do from the past. 

There’s something wonderfully contradictory about owls in prehistory: creatures so adapted to darkness, yet so enduring in stone. The silent of their wings does not fossilize, but echoes persist in bone and pellet and in the gouge marks of their claws on ancient prey. 

In the fossil layers of Rancho La Brea in California, the tar pits have trapped the remains of owls that hunted across the Late Pleistocene grasslands—Barn Owls and Great Horned Owls (Bubo virginianus) caught in the sticky legacy of bitumen. 

In Europe, the famous Messel Pit of Germany has yielded exquisite Eocene specimens, complete with impressions of feathers and talons—evidence that the essential owl form has changed little in 50 million years. Once you are perfect, evolution tends to leave you alone.

Their success lies in specialisation: asymmetrical hearing, silent flight, low metabolic rate, unmatched night vision. Yet their story is also one of vulnerability. The very silence that serves them in the wild renders them invisible to us until they are gone. Barn Owl numbers have fallen in much of Europe as hedgerows vanish and grasslands are ploughed. 

In contrast, urban owls like the adaptable Great Horned Owl have expanded their ranges, turning city parks into hunting grounds. Some species are reclaiming ancient territories; others fade into absence, leaving only their echoes and fossils behind. Where I live on Vancouver Island, I can hear their call in the night and early morning as they send out their plaintive calls for a mate.

So much of what makes an owl remarkable—the hush of its wings, the glimmer of its eyes, the shape of its face—seems almost designed for myth. We have read them as omens, messengers, symbols of wisdom or death. But the truth, as the fossil record reminds us, is simpler and deeper. 

Owls are survivors, engineers of silence that have watched the world change for sixty million years. When one glides over a moonlit field, I stand in humility watching its perfect design and adaptation to this world and its connection to realms I can only dream of.

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.

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.

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

HAIDA GWAII: MISTY SHORES AND DAPPLED LIGHT

Misty shores, moss-covered forests, dappled light, and the smell of salt air—these are my memories of Haida Gwaii, a land where ancient stories are written in stone.

Formerly known as the Queen Charlotte Islands, the archipelago of Haida Gwaii lies at the far western edge of Canada, where the Pacific Ocean meets the continental shelf. 

These islands—steeped in the rich culture of the Haida Nation—are not only a cultural treasure but a geologic and paleontological wonderland.

Geologically, Haida Gwaii is part of Wrangellia, an exotic tectonostratigraphic terrane that also includes parts of Vancouver Island, western British Columbia, and Alaska. The region's complex geological history spans hundreds of millions of years and includes volcanic arcs, seafloor spreading, and the accretion of entire landmasses.

The Geological Survey of Canada (GSC) has long been fascinated with these remote islands. 

Their geologists and paleontologists have led numerous expeditions over the past century, documenting the diverse sedimentary formations and fossiliferous beds. 

Much of the foundation for this work was laid by Joseph Frederick Whiteaves, the GSC’s chief paleontologist in Ottawa during the late 19th century.

In 1876, Whiteaves published a pioneering paper on the Jurassic and Cretaceous faunas of Skidegate Inlet. This work firmly established the paleontological significance of the archipelago and cemented Whiteaves’ reputation as a global authority in the field. His paper, "On the Fossils of the Cretaceous Rocks of British Columbia" (GSC Report of Progress for 1876–77), remains a key early reference for West Coast palaeontology.

Later, Whiteaves would go on to describe Anomalocaris canadensis from the Burgess Shale—an “unlike other shrimp” fossil that would later be recognized as one of the most extraordinary creatures of the Cambrian explosion.

Whiteaves' early work on the fossil faunas of Haida Gwaii, particularly in the Haida Formation, created a foundation for generations of researchers to follow.

One of our most memorable fossil field trips was to the Cretaceous exposures of Lina Island, part of the Haida Formation. We considered it one of our “trips of a lifetime.” 

With great sandstone beach exposures and fossil-rich outcrops dating from the Albian to Cenomanian, Lina Island offered both scientific riches and stunning natural beauty.

Haida Fossil Fauna

Our expedition was supported and organized by John Fam, Vice Chair of the Vancouver Paleontological Society, and Dan Bowen, Chair of the British Columbia Paleontological Alliance and the Vancouver Island Paleontological Society. 

Their dedication to fostering collaborative research and building relationships with local Haida communities was key. 

We were warmly welcomed, and field trips to fossil sites were arranged in partnership with community members and cultural stewards.

The Haida Formation yielded beautifully preserved specimens embedded both in bedding planes and in concretions—hard, rounded nodules that often house exceptionally preserved fossils. 

Collecting in the mists along the foreshore, our finds included:

• Douvilleiceras spiniferum
• Brewericeras hulenense
• Cleoniceras perezianum
• Fossil cycads, evidence of rich Cretaceous plant life

These fossils offered a rare glimpse into an ancient marine ecosystem that once teemed with life. Douvilleiceras, a spiny ammonite, is particularly striking. 

Douvilleiceras spiniferum, Haida Gwaii

This genus, first identified by Whiteaves from Haida Gwaii, ranges from the Middle to Late Cretaceous and has been found across Asia, Africa, Europe, and the Americas.  

The Haida specimens, from the early to mid-Albian, to my eye are the most beautiful—and beautifully preserved.

  Douvilleiceras is one of my favourite ammonites of all time and I was blessed to find several good examples of that species from our expeditions to these fossil-rich outcrops.

All of the fossils I collected from Haida Gwaii have been skillfully prepped and donated to the Haida Gwaii Museum in Skidegate, British Columbia. 

It is a privilege to contribute in a small way to the scientific and cultural understanding of these extraordinary islands.

References and Further Reading:

Whiteaves, J.F. (1876). On the Fossils of the Cretaceous Rocks of British Columbia. Geological Survey of Canada, Report of Progress.

Jeletzky, J.A. (1970). Paleontology of the Cretaceous rocks of Haida Gwaii. Geological Survey of Canada, Bulletin 175.

Haggart, J.W. (1991). New Albian (Early Cretaceous) ammonites from Haida Gwaii. Canadian Journal of Earth Sciences, 28(1), 45–56.

Haggart, J.W. & Smith, P.L. (1993). Paleontology and stratigraphy of the Cretaceous Queen Charlotte Group. Geological Survey of Canada Paper 93-1A.

Carter, E.S., Haggart, J.W., & Mustard, P.S. (1988). Early Cretaceous radiolarians from Haida Gwaii and implications for tectonic setting. Micropaleontology, 34(1), 1–14.

WINTER LIGHT: NUSFJORD, LOFOTEN

Nusfjord, Lofoten, Norway

In the soft blue twilight of a Lofoten winter, the village of Nusfjord sits cradled between mountains that rise like frozen waves. 

Wooden rorbuer—those classic red fishermen’s cabins—hug the harbour, their walls creaking softly in the cold. 

A sharp, salty breeze drifts through the village, carrying with it the unmistakable tang of drying cod—rich, briny, and threaded with the cold bite of the Arctic sea.

The air is crisp with the scent of the sea and cod drying on wooden racks, rows of fish stiff as boards in the Arctic wind. 

Gulls wheel overhead, their cries echoing off the fjord walls, while beneath the surface, the North Atlantic swirls dark and ancient, shaped by ice, fire, and time. The gulls know a meal is at hand if they can catch you unaware.

Nusfjord, one of Norway’s best-preserved fishing villages, tells a story of the rugged people who live here, the sea and its bounty but also a great geological drama. The stone on which it rests—gneiss and schist—was forged nearly 3 billion years ago, among the oldest rocks in Europe. These are remnants of Earth’s early continental crust, once buried miles below the surface. 

Over eons, tectonic collisions folded, pressed, and recrystallized them, transforming simple sediments into the gleaming banded rocks you see today.

The rugged backdrop of the Lofoten Islands owes its shape to the Caledonian Orogeny, a mountain-building event that occurred some 400 million years ago, when the ancient continents of Laurentia and Baltica collided. The pressures of that collision thrust deep crustal rocks upward, forming mountains that once rivaled the Himalayas. 

Time, glaciers, and relentless coastal erosion have since sculpted those peaks into the steep, knife-edged forms that now cradle Nusfjord like the walls of a stony amphitheatre.

During the last Ice Age, glaciers carved deep U-shaped valleys through these hard rocks, leaving behind the fjords we know today. As the ice retreated roughly 10,000 years ago, the sea flooded these valleys, creating a perfect natural harbour—sheltered from storms, yet open to the rich fishing grounds of the Norwegian Sea. It was this unique geography that first drew Norse fishermen here more than a thousand years ago, setting the stage for Nusfjord’s long relationship with cod.

While the fish still hang to dry each winter—a ritual unchanged for centuries—the rocks whisper stories of an even older world. Every granite ridge and polished outcrop is a page from the deep-time chronicle of our planet. It is icy poetry by all accounts and one of my favourite parts of the world.

In Nusfjord, geology and human history intertwine as seamlessly as sea and sky: a place where the bones of the Earth rise through ice and salt air, and the past is written in both stone and scales.

A DELIGHTFUL VISIT AND UNEXPECTED METASEQUOIA

Metasequoia sp., collection of Judy Hill

There is something deeply comforting about encountering a familiar fossil in the company of wonderfully engaging friends.

Yesterday delivered both gifts at once. I wandered into the Judy Hill Gallery on Vancouver Island—a place I enjoy visiting to soak in its stunning collection of Pacific Northwest Coast art and to chat with the gallery’s warm, knowledgeable team.

As we talked, Judy Hill brought out a remarkable treasure: a beautifully preserved Metasequoia fossil.

Its story is as intriguing as the specimen itself. Originally collected under the assumption it might be a petroglyph—its true origins a mystery—it was entrusted to Judy for safekeeping.

Of course it was. Judy is the heart and soul of the Judy Hill Gallery in Duncan, British Columbia, a family-run haven that has championed Indigenous art for more than 30 years. She is as lovely as she is learned, known not only for her expertise but for the kindness, generosity, and deep respect she brings to every relationship.

Perhaps because of this, people bring their curiosities, their heirlooms, and their unusual finds to her, knowing they will be honoured and protected.

And so, in the quiet magic of an impromptu morning visit, this Metasequoia sp. fossil came into view—another beautiful piece of natural history finding its way, as so many treasures do, to Judy’s caring hands. 

Metasequoia, McAbee Fossil Beds

The fossil is an ancient cousin to one of the many native trees on Vancouver Island and BC's mainland, the lovely conifer Metasequoia glyptostroboides — the dawn redwood. 

Of this long lineage, the sole surviving species in the genus Metasequoia and one of three species of conifers known as redwoods, is Metasequoia glyptostroboides. 

Metasequoia are the smaller cousins of the mighty Giant Sequoia, the most massive trees on Earth. 

As a group, the redwoods are impressive trees and very long-lived. The President, an ancient Giant Sequoia, Sequoiadendron giganteum, and granddaddy to them all has lived for more than 3,200 years. While this tree is named The President, a worthy name, it doesn't really cover the magnitude of this giant by half.   

This tree was a wee seedling making its way in the soils of the Sierra Nevada mountains of California before we invented writing. It had reached full height before any of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, those remarkable constructions of classical antiquity, were even an inkling of our budding human achievements. 

It has outlasted them all save the Great Pyramid of Giza, the oldest and last of those seven still standing, though the tree has faired better. Giza still stands but the majority of the limestone façade is long gone.

Aside from their good looks (which can really only get you so far), they are resistant to fire and insects through a combined effort of bark over a foot thick, a high tannin content and minimal resin, a genius of evolutionary design. 

While individual Metasequoia live a long time, as a genus they have lived far longer. 

Like Phoenix from the Ashes, the Cretaceous (K-Pg) extinction event that wiped out the dinosaurs, ammonites and more than seventy-five percent of all species on the planet was their curtain call. The void left by that devastation saw the birth of this genus — and they have not changed all that much in the 65 million years since. Modern Metasequoia glyptostroboides looks pretty much identical to their late Cretaceous brethren.

Dawn Redwood Cones

They are remarkably similar to and sometimes mistaken for Sequoia at first glance but are easily distinguishable if you look at their size (an obvious visual in a mature tree) or to their needles and cones in younger specimens. 

Metasequoia has paired needles that attach opposite to each other on the compound stem. 

Sequoia needles are offset and attached alternately. Think of the pattern as jumping versus walking with your two feet moving forward parallel to one another. 

Metasequoia needles are paired as if you were jumping forward, one print beside the other, while Sequoia needles have the one-in-front-of-the-other pattern of walking.

The seed-bearing cones of Metasequoia have a stalk at their base and the scales are arranged in paired opposite rows which you can see quite well in the visual above. Coast redwood cone scales are arranged in a spiral and lack a stalk at their base.

Although the least tall of the redwoods, it grows to an impressive sixty meters (200 feet) in height. It is sometimes called Shui-sa, or water fir by those who live in the secluded mountainous region of China where it was rediscovered.

Fossil Metasequoia, McAbee Fossil Beds

Metasequoia fossils are known from many areas in the Northern Hemisphere and were one of my first fossil finds as a teenager. 

And folk love naming them. More than twenty fossil species have been named over time —  some even identified as the genus Sequoia in error — but for all their collective efforts to beef up this genus there are just three species: Metasequoia foxii, Metasequoia milleri, and Metasequoia occidentalis.

During the Paleocene and Eocene, extensive forests of Metasequoia thrived as far north as Strathcona Fiord on Ellesmere Island and sites on Axel Heiberg Island in Canada's far north around 80° N latitude.

We find lovely examples of Metasequoia occidentalis in the Eocene outcrops at McAbee near Cache Creek, British Columbia, Canada. I shared a photo here of one of those specimens. 

Once this piece dries out a bit, I will take a dental pick to it to reveal more of the teaser fossils peeking out.

The McAbee Fossil Beds are known for their incredible abundance, diversity and quality of fossils including lovely plant, insect and fish species that lived in an old lake bed setting. 

While the Metasequoia and other fossils found here are 52-53 million years old, the genus is much older. It is quite remarkable that both their fossil and extant lineage were discovered in just a few years of one another. 

Metasequoia was first described as a new genus from a fossil specimen found in 1939 and published by Japanese paleobotanist Shigeru Miki in 1941. Remarkably, the living version of this new genus was discovered later that same year. 

Professor Zhan Wang, an official from the Bureau of Forest Research was recovering from malaria at an old school chum's home in central China. His friend told him of a stand of trees discovered in the winter of 1941 by Chinese botanist Toh Gan (干铎). The trees were not far away from where they were staying and Gan's winter visit meant he did not collect any specimen as the trees had lost their leaves. 

The locals called the trees Shui-sa, or water fir. As trees go, they were reportedly quite impressive with some growing as much as sixty feet tall. Wang was excited by the possibility of finding a new species and asked his friend to describe the trees and their needles in detail. 

Emboldened by the tale, Wang set off through the remote mountains to search for his mysterious trees and found them deep in the heart of  Modaoxi (磨刀溪; now renamed Moudao (谋道), in Lichuan County, in the central China province of Hubei. He found the trees and was able to collect living specimens but initially thought they were from Glyptostrobus pensilis (水松). 

A few years later, Wang showed the trees to botanist Wan-Chun Cheng and learned that these were not the leaves of s Glyptostrobus pensilis (水松 ) but belonged to a new species. 

While the find was exciting, it was overshadowed by China's ongoing conflict with the Japanese that was continuing to escalate. With war at hand, Wang's research funding and science focus needed to be set aside for another two years as he fled the bombing of Beijing. 

When you live in a world without war on home soil it is easy to forget the realities for those who grew up in it. 

Zhan Wang and his family lived to witness the 1931 invasion of Manchuria, then the 1937 clash between Chinese and Japanese troops at the Marco Polo Bridge, just outside Beijing. 

That clash sparked an all-out war that would grow in ferocity to become World War II. 

Within a year, the Chinese military situation was dire. Most of eastern China lay in Japanese hands: Shanghai, Nanjing, Beijing, Wuhan. As the Japanese advanced, they left a devastated population in their path where atrocity after atrocity was the norm. Many outside observers assumed that China could not hold out, and the most likely scenario was a Japanese victory over China.

Yet the Chinese hung on, and after the horrors of Pearl Harbor, the war became genuinely global. The western Allies and China were now united in their war against Japan, a conflict that would finally end on September 2, 1945, after Allied naval forces blockaded Japan and subjected the island nation to intensive bombing, including the utter devastation that was the Enola Gay's atomic payload over Hiroshima. 

With World War II behind them, the Chinese researchers were able to re-focus their energies on the sciences. Sadly, Wang was not able to join them. Instead, two of his colleagues, Wan Chun Cheng and Hu Hsen Hsu, the director of Fan Memorial Institute of Biology would continue the work. Wan-Chun Cheng sent specimens to Hu Hsen Hsu and upon examination realised they were the living version of the trees Miki had published upon in 1941. 

Hu and Cheng published a paper describing a new living species of Metasequoia in May 1948 in the Bulletin of Fan Memorial Institute of Biology.

That same year, Arnold Arboretum of Harvard University sent an expedition to collect seeds and, soon after, seedling trees were distributed to various universities and arboreta worldwide. 

Today, Metasequoia grow around the globe. When I see them, I think of Wang and all he went through. He survived the conflict and went on to teach other bright, young minds about the bountiful flora in China. I think of Wan Chun Cheng collaborating with Hu Hsen Hsu in a time of war and of Hu keeping up to date on scientific research, even published works from colleagues from countries with whom his country was at war. 

Deep in my belly, I ache for the huge cost to science, research and all the species impacted on the planet from our human conflicts. Each year in April, I plant more Metasequoia to celebrate Earth Day and all that means for every living thing on this big blue orb.  

References: 

• https://web.stanford.edu/group/humbioresearch/cgi-bin/wordpress/?p=297
• https://humboldtredwoods.org/redwoods

Lead Photo Credit: This lovely Metasequoia sp. is in the collections of Judy Hill—gallery owner, connector, and a steadfast advocate for Indigenous artistry. To visit the gallery virtually, head to: https://www.judyhillgallery.net. Or stop by her Duncan, BC., location. It is a visual feast!

WADI AL-HITAN: VALLEY OF THE WHALES

Fossil Whale Skeleton, Wadi Al-Hitan

Egypt’s Eocene limestones captivate geologists and paleontologists from around the world. 

These pale, fossil-rich rocks hold the story of an ancient sea and the remarkable creatures that once swam through it.

Modern fieldwork in the Fayum Depression, Wadi Al-Hitan — the Valley of the Whales — and the outcrops near Giza and Cairo is revealing how the shoreline of the Tethys Ocean shifted over tens of millions of years — and how life adapted as land and sea traded places again and again.

Researchers from the Egyptian Geological Museum, the University of Michigan, and Cairo University are combining cutting-edge tools with time-honored field methods. Satellite imaging and drone photogrammetry provide sweeping, high-resolution views of the fossil beds, while detailed stratigraphic logging, sediment sampling, and fossil excavation bring the story into focus layer by layer.

Fossil Whale from Wadi Al-Hitan

The work reveals a stunning environmental transformation. 

The lower rock units record shallow marine deposits packed with Nummulites, corals, and mollusks — life that thrived in the warm, clear waters of the early Eocene Tethys. 

Above these layers, the sediments change in both color and character, grading upward into deltaic and freshwater deposits filled with the fossils of turtles, crocodiles, and early land mammals. It is a geological diary of Egypt’s slow emergence from sea to land.

Wadi Al-Hitan — The Valley of the Whales

Wadi Al-Hitan — The Valley of the Whales

Nestled deep in Egypt’s Western Desert, about 150 kilometers southwest of Cairo, lies Wadi Al-Hitan, one of the world’s most extraordinary fossil sites. 

Once part of the vast Tethys seaway, this now-arid valley was a shallow coastal lagoon some 40 to 50 million years ago, during the Eocene.

Here, teams of paleontologists meticulously map and preserve the articulated skeletons of ancient whales — including Basilosaurus isis and Dorudon atrox — whose bones often lie exactly where the animals came to rest on the seafloor. 

Over time, they were entombed in fine-grained sandstone and limestone, preserving everything from vertebrae and skulls to delicate ribs and vestigial hind limbs.

The surrounding rocks tell a parallel story. Their alternating layers of sandstone, marl, and limestone record shifts in sea level and climate — tidal flats giving way to open marine conditions, then to lagoons choked with vegetation and early mangroves. 

Geochemists analyze the isotopic composition of these sediments to reconstruct ancient seawater temperatures and salinity, while microfossil specialists examine foraminifera and ostracods under the microscope to determine just how deep and warm the waters once were.

Wadi Al-Hitan — The Valley of the Whales

Wadi Al-Hitan’s fossil bounty extends beyond whales. 

The valley has yielded remains of sharks, sawfish, rays, sea cows (Sirenia), turtles, crocodiles, and even early land mammals, offering a vivid snapshot of an ecosystem in transition — one of the last great marine habitats before North Africa began its slow drift toward desert.

The Valley of the Whales is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, protected both for its breathtaking fossil record and its haunting desert beauty. 

Walking through it feels like time travel: the sandstone cliffs glow golden in the sun, and the bones of whales lie half-exposed in the sand — silent witnesses to a vanished ocean. It is a peaceful place to visit. Bone dry, barren but with a rich history.

Fossil Whale from Wadi Al-Hitan

Every fossil, every layer of sediment adds a new brushstroke to the portrait of Egypt’s Eocene world — a subtropical paradise where whales swam through mangroves, coral reefs teemed with life, and the ancestors of modern elephants grazed along the shore.

Beneath the desert sands, these rocks still whisper the story of 50 million years of evolution, of seas that rose and fell, and of creatures that bridged the worlds of land and water — all written in stone.

Photo Credits: Wadi al-Hitan | Wikimedia Commons

THE GREAT PYRAMIDS OF GIZA

Aerial View of the Great Pyramids of Giza

From above, the Giza Plateau unfurls like a map of human ambition etched into the desert. 

Three monumental pyramids dominate the landscape — the great limestone giants of Menkaure, Khafre, and Khufu — their geometry so precise that even from orbit they align almost perfectly with the stars of Orion’s Belt.

To the south stands the smallest of the trio, the Pyramid of Menkaure, built for the grandson of Khufu. Its base once gleamed with granite casing stones — a mark of royal distinction. 

Just north of it rises the Pyramid of Khafre, easily recognized by the remnants of its original white Tura limestone casing that still clings to its summit. 

Great Sphinx of Giza

At its feet lies the enigmatic Great Sphinx, carved directly from the bedrock, guarding the necropolis for over four and a half millennia.

Towering above them all is the Great Pyramid of Khufu, or Cheops, the oldest and largest of the three — a structure so immense that it remained the tallest man-made monument on Earth for nearly 4,000 years.

Surrounding these colossal tombs are smaller queens’ pyramids, each one dedicated to the royal consorts who shared the pharaoh’s lineage and legacy. Scattered among them are mastabas — flat-topped rectangular tombs built for nobles, priests, and royal officials who served Egypt’s rulers in life and sought to rest eternally in their shadow. 

From the air, these secondary tombs form a vast honeycomb of stone, extending outward from each pyramid like satellites around a planet, all oriented toward the rising sun and the eternal life it symbolized.

Seen from above, Giza is both breathtaking and humbling — a city of the dead built to last forever, surrounded by desert sands that once lay beneath the warm waves of an ancient sea.

THE PYRAMIDS OF GIZA: FOSSILS IN BUILDING STONE

Built to endure the tests of time, the pyramids of Giza stand as some of the oldest and last remaining wonders of the ancient world. 

Rising from the desert sands of Egypt’s Giza Plateau, these monuments were constructed from a masterful blend of limestone, granite, basalt, gypsum mortar, and baked mud bricks—materials quarried both locally and from distant sites along the Nile, including the red granite of Aswan.

Their smooth, once-glimmering exteriors were clad in fine-grained white limestone quarried from Tura, just across the river. This stone was prized in antiquity for its purity and brilliant color, chosen for the facing stones of Egypt’s wealthiest tombs. 

But beyond its beauty lies a story much older than any pharaoh. The Tura limestone is made almost entirely of the fossilized shells of Nummulites—single-celled marine organisms whose remains whisper of Egypt’s ancient seas.

First described by Lamarck in 1801, Nummulites are large foraminifera—amoeba-like protists with calcareous, chambered shells (or “tests”). In life, they resembled tiny white discs, their interiors patterned like concentric rings of a sliced tree or the cross-section of a shell. 

During the early Cenozoic, millions of these creatures thrived in the warm, shallow waters of the Tethys Sea. When they died, their calcium carbonate shells settled to the seafloor, accumulating over millennia. Layer upon layer, they were compacted and cemented by time and pressure into limestone—the same rock later quarried to build the tombs of kings.

Nummulites Foraminifera Fossil

It is astonishing to imagine that the Great Pyramid of Khufu (or Cheops), the largest and oldest of the Giza pyramids, built during Egypt’s Fourth Dynasty around 2560 BCE, is composed largely of the fossilized remains of microscopic life forms that lived some 50 million years earlier. 

The pyramid itself—a monument to human ambition—is, quite literally, built from the remains of ancient seas.

Nummulites are commonly found in Eocene to Miocene marine rocks across southwest Asia and the Mediterranean region, including the fossil-rich Eocene limestones of Egypt. In life, they ranged in size from a mere 1.3 cm (0.5 inches) to an impressive 5 cm (2 inches), and in some Middle Eocene species, up to six inches across—astonishingly large for single-celled organisms. 

Their size reflects an evolutionary adaptation: by expanding their surface area, they enhanced diffusion, allowing for more efficient nutrient exchange across the cell membrane. Many also harbored symbiotic algae, much like modern reef-dwelling foraminifera, further fueling their growth through photosynthesis.

Nummulites Foraminifera Fossil

These fossils, once the inhabitants of the ancient Tethys, later became both material and metaphor for Egyptian civilization. Nummulite shells were sometimes used as coins, and their very name—derived from the Latin nummulus, meaning “little coin”—speaks to this connection between life, economy, and art.

The Great Pyramid’s inner chambers tell a different geological story. The central burial chamber housing the pharaoh’s sarcophagus was constructed from massive blocks of reddish-pink granite transported from Aswan, nearly 900 kilometers upriver. This stone, denser and stronger than limestone, helped support the immense weight of the pyramid’s structure.

In 2013, archaeologists made a discovery that breathed life back into these ancient logistics: a 4,600-year-old papyrus scroll found in a cave some 700 kilometers from Giza. 

The document—addressed to Ankh-haf, half-brother of Pharaoh Khufu—records the journey of a 200-man crew tasked with transporting limestone from the Tura quarries to the Giza Plateau. After loading the stone blocks onto boats, the workers sailed down the Nile, where as many as 100,000 laborers waited to haul the two- to three-ton blocks up earthen ramps toward the construction site. It is a rare and poetic glimpse into one of humanity’s most ambitious building projects—and into the transformation of fossil limestone into enduring architecture.

Even in antiquity, the project stirred strong opinions. Writing centuries later, the Greek historian Herodotus visited Egypt and chronicled Khufu’s reign in his Histories. He described Khufu as a cruel tyrant who closed temples, oppressed his people, and forced them into servitude. According to Herodotus, 100,000 men labored in three-month rotations to quarry and transport the stone, while another decade was spent constructing the grand causeway leading to the pyramid—a feat of engineering almost as impressive as the monument itself.

Modern estimates suggest that 5.5 million tonnes of nummulitic limestone, 8,000 tonnes of granite, and 500,000 tonnes of gypsum mortar were used to complete the Great Pyramid. Whether viewed as an act of divine devotion, human hubris, or cruel genius, its creation also represents one of the largest—and most extraordinary—paleontological extractions in history.

For within its weathered stones, the fossils of an ancient sea still rest, silent witnesses to both deep time and the enduring reach of human imagination.

BONES, BREATH AND BUFFALO: JOURNEY OF BISON BISON

Across the open grasslands, the earth trembles. A low rumble builds into a rolling thunder as a herd of bison surges across the plain—massive, shaggy, and magnificent. 

Their dark eyes glint beneath heavy brows, breath rising in clouds against the dawn. Each hoof step on the prairie is both ancient and new as the ever-evolving story of the bison unfolds.

The bison—Bison bison—are North America’s great survivors, the largest land mammals on the continent today. Once numbering in the tens of millions, they roamed from Alaska to Mexico, shaping entire ecosystems with their grazing patterns. Their wallows created microhabitats for wildflowers, insects, and birds, while their hooves churned the soil, spreading seeds and rejuvenating the grasslands.

But the story of the bison stretches far deeper into time. Their lineage reaches back more than two million years. Fossils of ancestral species such as Bison priscus, the steppe bison are found across the Pleistocene strata of North America, Europe, and Asia. 

These Ice Age giants crossed the Bering Land Bridge during glacial periods, eventually giving rise to Bison antiquus, a species that roamed the Great Plains alongside mammoths, mastodons, and saber-toothed cats. 

In places like Natural Trap Cave in Wyoming, Rancho La Brea in California, and the Old Crow Basin in Yukon, their bones tell stories of migration, climate change, and resilience.

When the last Ice Age faded, Bison antiquus evolved into the modern plains and wood bison we know today. 

For thousands of years, Indigenous Peoples have lived in relationship with these animals—honouring them as a source of food, clothing, tools, and shelter—and as sacred relatives. 

For many Plains Nations, the bison are central to Creation stories and cultural teachings, symbolizing abundance, respect, and balance with the natural world. 

Every part of the animal is used, and ceremonies of gratitude ensure the cycle of life continues in harmony.

Bison are once again returning to their ancestral lands. Through restoration projects and conservation efforts across North America, herds now graze protected grasslands and reserves. 

Restoration Projects in North America

In Canada, my home, we have both caribou and Bison Restoration Projects ongoing:

Poundmaker Cree Nation (Saskatchewan)

Poundmaker Cree Nation reintroduced plains bison (Bison bison bison) to their traditional territory in 2019. 

The herd represents both cultural renewal and food sovereignty, reconnecting community members to traditional practices and ceremonies involving the buffalo.

Tsuut’ina Nation (Alberta)

The Tsuut’ina Nation has long maintained a strong relationship with bison, working to conserve prairie grasslands and re-establish herds that support ecological balance and cultural revitalization. Their herd is used for both ceremonial and educational purposes.

Łutsel K’e Dene First Nation (Northwest Territories)

Łutsel K’e Dene Guardians work alongside Parks Canada to protect the Atsabya tué, or wood bison, Bison bison athabascae, populations within and around Thaidene Nëné National Park Reserve—an Indigenous Protected and Conserved Area (IPCA).

Piikani Nation & Kainai (Blood Tribe), Blackfoot Confederacy (Alberta)

Members of the Blackfoot Confederacy are deeply involved in the Iinnii Initiative, an international partnership to restore iinnii (bison) to their ancestral range on both sides of the US–Canada border. Their work reconnects land, language, ceremony, and ecological stewardship.

Saulteau and West Moberly First Nations (British Columbia)

These Nations co-lead the Klinse-Za Caribou and Bison Restoration initiatives in the Peace Region. Their conservation leadership helped bring the local wood bison population back from near extinction through habitat protection and collaborative management.

Our neighbours to the south in Montana, South Dakota and Wyoming are making considerable restoration efforts. To all who are doing this important work, I raise my hands in thanks.

SAILS OF THE PERMIAN: REIGN OF DIMETRODON

Dimetrodon by Daniel Eskridge

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

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

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

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

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

Dimetrodon by Daniel Eskridge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DRIFTWOOD CANYON FOSSIL BEDS

Puffbird similar to Fossil Birds found at Driftwood Canyon 

Driftwood Canyon Provincial Park 

Driftwood Canyon Provincial Park covers 23 hectares of the Bulkley River Valley, on the east side of Driftwood Creek, a tributary of the Bulkley River, 10 km northeast of the town of Smithers in northern British Columbia. 

Driftwood Canyon is recognized as one of the world’s most significant fossil beds. 

It provides park users with a fascinating opportunity to understand the area’s evolutionary processes of both geology and biology. The day-use area is open from May 15 to September 2. There is a short, wheelchair-accessible interpretative trail that leads from the parking are to the fossil beds. Pets are welcome on leash. Signs along the trail provide information on fossils and local history. 

Wet'suwet'en First Nation

The parklands are part of the Traditional Territory of the Wet'suwet'en First Nation which includes lands around the Bulkley River, Burns Lake, Broman Lake, and François Lake in the northwestern Central Interior of British Columbia. 

The Wetʼsuwetʼen are part of the Dakelh or Carrier First Nation, and in combination with the Babine First Nation are referred to as the Western Carrier. They speak Witsuwitʼen, a dialect of the Babine-Witsuwitʼen language which, like its sister language Carrier, is a member of the Athabaskan family.

Their oral history or kungax recounts a time when their ancestral village, Dizkle or Dzilke, once stood upstream from the Bulkley Canyon. This cluster of cedar houses on both sides of the river was said to be abandoned because of an omen of impending disaster. The exact location of the village has been lost but their stories live on. 

The neighbouring Gitxsan, collectively the People of Smooth Waters—the Gilseyhu Big Frog Clan, the Laksilyu Small Frog Clan, the Tsayu Beaver Clan, the Gitdumden Wolf and Bear Clan and the Laksamshu Fireweed and Owl Clan—each phratry or kinship group calling the Lax Yip home—33,000 km2 of land and water in northwestern ​British Columbia along the waters of the Skeena River and its tributaries—have a similar tale—though the village in their versions is referred to as Dimlahamid or Temlahan depending on which house group or wilp is sharing the tale—as well as where they are located as dialects differ. 

Gitksan speak Sim'algax—the real or true language. Within the Gitxsan communities there are two slightly different dialects. The Gyeets (Downriver) dialect spoken in Gijigyukwhla (Gitsegukla), Gitwangax, and Gitanyow—and the Gigeenix (Upriver) dialect is spoken in Ansbayaxw (Kispiox), Sik-E-Dakh and Gitanmaax.

Driftwood Canyon Fossil Beds

Driftwood Canyon's Fossil Beds record life in the earlier portion of the Eocene when British Columbia — and indeed our world — was much warmer than it is today. This site was discovered in the beginning of the 20th century and is now recognized as containing significant fossil material. 

I was speaking this week with a friend and classmate recently from a Traditional Ecological Knowledge course through the University of Northern British Columbia, Jessy, about Driftwood Canyon and the fossil resources found here.

The fossils are tremendous—and their superb preservation—provide a fascinating opportunity to understand the area’s evolutionary processes of both geology and biology over the past fifty million years or so. The fossils themselves are 51.7 million years old and look remarkably like many of the species we recognize today. 

The fossil beds are on the east side of Driftwood Creek, C’ide’Yikwah in Witsuwit’en, which has its headwaters in the main, southwest facing basin of the Babine Mountains. The park that contains these beautiful fossils is fifty-seven years old. 

It was created in 1967 by the generosity of the late Gordon Harvey (1913–1976). He donated the land to protect fossil resources that he truly loved and wanted to see preserved. How Harvey came to be in a position to donate lands once part of a First Nation Traditional Territory will need to be explored deeper. I will share as I learn more about this as I learn more from locals and the local history museum in the coming weeks and months.

Metasequoia, the Dawn Redwood

Exploring the region today, we see a landscape dominated by conifers blanketing the area. 

Forests teem with the aromatic Western Red Cedar, Pacific Silver Fir with its many medicinal properties, the tall and lanky Subalpine Fir with its soft, brittle and quickly decaying wood, the slender scaly Lodgepole Pine, the graceful and slightly forlorn looking Western Hemlock. 

Across the landscape you see several species of Spruce, including the impressive Sitka, Picea sitchensis, the world's largest spruce tree who live up to an impressive 800 years. 

The stands of mature Sitka standing here today were just being established in this ground back in 1921 when Smithers was designated as the first incorporated village in British Columbia. They are slow to establish and get going, but once embedded are amongst the fastest growing trees we see on the western edge of Canada, colonizing glacial moraines with their cold resistant stock centuries ago when the glaciers that once covered this land eventually retreated.

Some of the tallest on view would have been mere seedlings, colonizing the glacial moraines centuries ago when the glaciers retreated. Collectively, these conifers tell the tale of the region's cool climate today. 

The Gitsan territory boasts seven of the 14 biogeoclimatic zones of the province—the Alpine Tundra, Spruce-Willow-Birch, Boreal White and Black Spruce, Sub-Boreal Pine-Spruce, Sub-Boreal Spruce, Engelmann Spruce-Subalpine Fir and Interior Cedar-Hemlock. 

The fossil material we find here speaks to a warmer climate in this region's past. We find fossil plants, fish—including specimens of salmon, suckerfish and bowfin, a type of air breathing fish—and insect fossil here—wasps and water striders—fossil plants including Metasequoia, the Dawn Redwood, alder—and interesting vertebrate material. Bird feathers are infrequently collected from the shales; however, two bird body fossils have been found here.

In 1968, a bird body fossil was collected in the Eocene shales of the Ootsa Lake Group in Driftwood Canyon Provincial Park by Pat Petley of Kamloops. 

Pat donated the specimen in 2000 to the Thompson Rivers University (TRU) palaeontology collections. This fossil bird specimen is tentatively identified as the puffbird, Piciformes bucconidae, of the genus Primobucco.

Primobucco is an extinct genus of bird placed in its own family, Primobucconidae. The type species, Primobucco mcgrewi, lived during the Lower Eocene of North America. It was initially described by American paleo-ornithologist Pierce Brodkorb in 1970, from a fossil right-wing, and thought to be an early puffbird. However, the discovery of a further 12 fossils in 2010 indicate that it is instead an early type of roller.

Related fossils from the European Messel deposits have been assigned to the two species P. perneri and P. frugilegus. Two specimens of P. frugilegus have been found with seeds in the area of their digestive tract, which suggests that these birds were more omnivorous than the exclusively predaceous modern rollers. The Driftwood specimen has never been thoroughly studied. If there is a grad student out there looking for a worthy thesis, head on down to the Thompson Rivers University where you'll find the specimen on display.

Another fossil bird, complete with feathers, was collected at Driftwood Canyon in 1970, This one was found by Margret and Albrecht Klöckner who were travelling from Germany. Theirs is a well-travelled specimen, having visited many sites in BC as they toured around, then to Germany and finally back to British Columbia when it was repatriated and donated to the Royal British Columbia Museum in Victoria. 

I am not sure if it is still on display or back in collections, but it was lovingly displayed back in 2008. There is a new grad student, Alexis, looking at Eocene bird feathers down at the RBCM, so perhaps it is once again doing the rounds. 

This second bird fossil is of a long-legged water bird and has been tentatively identified by Dr. Gareth Dyke of the University of Southampton as possibly from the order Charadriiformes, a diverse order of small to medium-ish water birds that include 350 species of gulls, plovers, sandpipers, terns, snipes, and waders. Hopefully, we'll hear more on this find in the future.

A Tapir showing off his prehensile nose trunk

Tapirs and Tiny Hedgehogs

The outcrops at Driftwood Canyon are also special because they record a record of some of the first fossil mammals ever to be found in British Columbia at this pivotal point in time. 

Wee proto-hedgehogs smaller than your thumb lived in the undergrowth of that fossil flora. They shared the forest floor with an extinct tapir-like herbivore in the genus Heptodon that looked remarkably similar to his modern, extant cousins (there is a rather cheeky fellow shown here so you get the idea) but lacked their pronounced snout (proboscis). I am guessing that omission made him the more fetching of his lineage.

In both cases, it was a fossilized jaw bone that was recovered from the mud, silt and volcanic ash outcrops in this ancient lakebed site. And these two cuties are significant— they are the very first fossil mammals we've ever found from the early Eocene south of the Arctic.

How can we be sure of the timing? The fossil outcrops here are found within an ancient lakebed. Volcanic eruptions 51 million years ago put loads of fine dust into the air that settled then sank to the bottom of the lake, preserving the specimens that found their way here — leaves, insects, birds, mammals.

As well as turning the lake into a fossil making machine—water, ash, loads of steady sediment to cover specimens and stave off predation—the volcanic ash contains the very chemically inert—resistant to mechanical weathering—mineral zircon which we can date with uranium/lead (U/Pb). 

The U/Pb isotopic dating technique is wonderfully accurate and mighty helpful in dating geologic events from volcanic eruptions, continental movements to mass extinctions. This means we know exactly when these lovelies were fossilized and, in turn, their significance.

Know Before You Go

If you fancy a visit to Driftwood Canyon Park, the park is accessible from Driftwood Road from Provincial Highway 16. You are welcome to view and photograph the fossils found here but collecting is strictly forbidden. 

Driftwood Canyon is recognized as one of the world’s most significant fossil beds. It provides park users with a fascinating opportunity to understand the area’s evolutionary processes of both geology and biology. The day-use area is open from May 15 to September 2. There is a short, wheelchair-accessible interpretative trail that leads from the parking are to the fossil beds. Pets are welcome on leash. Signs along the trail provide information on fossils and local history. 

Below a cliff face at the end of the trail is a viewing area that has interpretive information and viewing area overlooking Driftwood Creek.

This park proudly operated by Mark and Anais Drydyk

Email: kermodeparks@gmail.com / Tel: 1 250 877-1482 or 1 250 877-1782

Palaeo Coordinates: Latitude: 50° 51' 59" N / Longitude: 116° 27' 37" W

Lat/Long (dec): 50.86665,-116.46042 / GUID: d3a6bd3e-68d6-42cf-9b2c-d20a30576988

Driftwood Canyon Provincial Park Brochure: 

https://bcparks.ca/explore/parkpgs/driftwood_cyn/driftwood-canyon-brochure.pdf?v=1638723136455

Sheila Peters: Driftwood Creek – and the ways we cross it; here Sheila Peters shares a wonderful lived history which I have not had the pleasure to yet fully explore as of 09 February 2025. I do recommend you checking out her post as it contains information and photographs worthy of a newcomers visit to the area.

Link: https://sheilapeters.com/tag/peavine-harvey/