The Rise and Fall of the Dinosaurs Page 12

  As sauropods suffered, smaller plant-eating ornithischians blossomed, becoming ubiquitous midsize herbivores in ecosystems around the world. Most famous of these is surely Iguanodon, one of the very first fossils to be called a dinosaur, after it was discovered in the 1820s in England. Iguanodon was about thirty feet (ten meters) long and weighed a few tons. It had a spike on its thumb for defense and a beak at the front of its mouth for snipping plants, and it could switch between walking on all fours and sprinting on its hind legs. Its line would eventually go on to produce the hadrosaurs, or duck-billed dinosaurs, the group of amazingly successful herbivores that thrived at the very end of the Cretaceous, alongside their nemesis, T. rex. That was still many tens of millions of years in the future, but those seeds were planted in the Early Cretaceous.

  While the iguanodons were stepping in for the smaller sauropods, there were also changes afoot among ground-feeding herbivores. The plate-backed stegosaurs went into long-term decline, gradually wasting away until the last surviving species succumbed to extinction sometime in the Early Cretaceous, snuffing out this iconic group once and for all. Replacing them were the ankylosaurs, freakish creatures whose skeletons were covered in armor plates, like a reptilian Panzer. They had originated back in the Jurassic and remained marginal understudies in most ecosystems, but they exploded in diversity as stegosaurs regressed. Ankylosaurs were some of the slowest, stupidest dinosaurs of all, but they made a living happily chomping ferns and other low-lying vegetation, their body armor making them impervious to attack. Not even the sharpest-toothed predator could get in a good chomp when it had to bite through several inches of solid bone.

  Then there were the meat-eaters. With so much going on with their herbivore prey, it’s no surprise that theropods experienced their own drama as the Jurassic turned into the Cretaceous. A much greater diversity of small carnivores appeared, and some of them started to experiment with weird diets, trading in meat for nuts, seeds, bugs, and shellfish. One group, the scythe-clawed therizinosaurs, even went full vegetarian. On the other end of the size spectrum, a weird clan of large theropods called spinosaurids evolved sails on their backs and long snouts full of cone-shaped teeth, and moved into the water, where they started behaving like crocodiles and eating fish.

  However, as is usually the case when it comes to theropods, the most gripping story line concerns the apex predators. Like their smaller brethren, the top-of-the-food-chain supercarnivores also experienced massive upheaval across the Jurassic-Cretaceous boundary. These species are some of my favorites, because the very first dinosaurs that I studied—as an undergraduate working with Paul Sereno, during those same summers we dug up Late Jurassic sauropods in Wyoming—were giant theropods from the Early Cretaceous of Africa.

  WHEN I WAS a teenager, I watched movies and listened to music and went to baseball games—the normal stuff—but my hero wasn’t some athlete or actor. He was a paleontologist. Paul Sereno, the National Geographic Explorer in Residence, dinosaur hunter extraordinaire, leader of expeditions all over the world, and one of People magazine’s 50 Most Beautiful People, in the issue with Tom Cruise on the cover. I was a dinosaur-obsessed high schooler, and I followed Sereno’s work like a rock star’s groupie. He taught at the University of Chicago, not too far from where I lived, and he grew up in Naperville, Illinois, a suburb where some of my cousins were from. He was a local kid who did good, who became a celebrity scientist and adventurer, and I wanted to be like him.

  I met my hero when I was fifteen years old, when he was lecturing at a local museum. I’m sure Paul was used to meeting fanboys, but I upped the weird factor when I shoved a manila envelope in his face, so full of photocopied magazine pages that it couldn’t be sealed shut. You see, I was also a budding journalist at the time, or at least I thought I was, and I was churning out articles for amateur paleontology mags and websites at a pace that bordered on the creepy. Many of them were about Paul and his discoveries, and I wanted him to see the things I had written about him. My voice cracked as I handed him the envelope. It was awkward. But Paul was very nice to me that afternoon, and after a long chat, he told me to keep in touch. I met him a few more times over the next couple of years. We exchanged a lot of e-mails, and when I decided to put journalism aside and dive into paleontology as a career, there was only one college that I wanted to attend: the University of Chicago, so I could learn under Paul.

  Chicago accepted my application, and I enrolled in the autumn of 2002. During freshman week, I met with Paul and begged him to let me work in his basement fossil lab, where his newest treasures from Africa and China were being revealed, entirely new dinosaurs coming into focus as sand grains were scrubbed away from the bones. I would do anything—even wash the floors or clean the shelves. Thankfully, Paul channeled my enthusiasm elsewhere. He began by teaching me how to conserve and catalog fossils, and then one day he had a surprise. “How would you like to describe a new species of dinosaur?” he asked while leading me to a row of cabinets.

  Spread in front of me, in drawer after drawer, were fossils of Early to middle Cretaceous dinosaurs that Paul and his team had recently brought back from the Sahara Desert. About a decade earlier, after concluding his wildly successful expeditions to Argentina that netted the primitive dinosaurs Herrerasaurus and Eoraptor, Paul shifted his attention to northern Africa. At the time, little was known about African dinosaurs. A few excursions led by Europeans during the colonial period had found some intriguing fossils in places like Tanzania, Egypt, and Niger, but once the colonizers left, so too did most interest in collecting dinosaurs. Not only that, but some of the most important African collections—made by the German aristocrat Ernst Stromer von Reichenbach, from the Early to mid Cretaceous rocks of Egypt—weren’t around anymore. They had the great misfortunate of being kept in a museum just a few blocks from Nazi headquarters in Munich and were destroyed by an Allied bombing raid in 1944.

  When Paul turned his focus to Africa, all he had to go by were some photographs, a few published reports, and a smattering of bones in those European museums that weren’t blitzed during the war. That didn’t stop him, though. He mounted a reconnaissance trip to Niger, in the heart of the Sahara, in 1990. His team found so many fossils that they returned again in 1993, 1997, and several times after that. These were arduous trips—proper Indiana Jones–style expeditions, often lasting for several months and afflicted by the occasional bandit attack or civil war. As something of a break, they took a year off and visited Morocco in 1995. There, too, they uncovered a bounty of bones, including the gorgeously preserved skull of a giant flesh-eater called Carcharodontosaurus, a dinosaur that Stromer had originally named based on a partial skull and skeleton from Egypt that were among those fossils incinerated in the Munich museum. All told, Paul’s African expeditions collected some one hundred tons of dinosaur bones, many of which still sit in a warehouse in Chicago, waiting to be studied.

  Those dinosaurs not in the warehouse are inventoried at Paul’s lab, and these were the bones laid out before me. Some belonged to a weird sauropod called Nigersaurus, a plant-inhaling machine with hundreds of teeth packed into the front edge of its jaws. There were several elongate vertebrae of the fish-eating spinosaurid Suchomimus—the bones that supported the tall sail that extended along its back. Nearby was the gnarly-textured skull of a carnivore called Rugops, which probably scavenged carcasses as much as it hunted.

  And these fossils weren’t only dinosaurs. There was the man-size cranium of the forty-foot-long crocodilian Sarcosuchus—appropriately nicknamed SuperCroc by the media-savvy Sereno—and the wing bones of a large pterosaur, and even some turtles and fish. All of these fossils came from rocks that formed over some ten to fifteen million years of the Early to middle Cretaceous, in river deltas and along the shores of warm tropical seas fringed by mangrove forests, back when the Sahara was a steamy swampy jungle instead of a desert.

  As my eyes darted among the fossils, the cast of characters expanding as each drawer opened, Paul sto
pped and picked up a bone. It was part of the face of a huge-meat eating dinosaur that looked to be almost as big as T. rex. There were other things in the same drawer: a piece of a lower jaw, some teeth, and a fused mass of bones from the back of the skull, which would have surrounded the brain and ears. Paul recounted how he’d discovered the specimens a few years back in a desolate part of Niger called Iguidi, just west of a desert oasis, in red sandstones left by a river between 100 and 95 million years ago. He could tell that they were similar to the Carcharodontosaurus bones that he’d collected in Morocco, but the match wasn’t perfect. He wanted me to figure out the discrepancy.

  I was nineteen years old, and this was my first taste of the detective work that goes into identifying dinosaurs. It was intoxicating. I spent the remainder of the summer scrutinizing the bones, measuring and photographing them, comparing them with other dinosaurs. I concluded that the bones from Niger were indeed very similar to the Moroccan skull of the species Carcharodontosaurus saharicus but found that there were also so many differences that the two could not have belonged to the same species. Paul agreed, and we wrote up a scientific paper describing the Niger fossils as a new dinosaur, a close but distinct relative of the Moroccan species. We called it Carcharodontosaurus iguidensis. It was the alpha predator of those humid seaside ecosystems of mid-Cretaceous Africa, a forty-foot-long, three-ton beast that lorded over all of the other dinosaurs that Paul had been trawling out of the Sahara.

  There was a whole group of dinosaurs like Carcharodontosaurus that lived throughout the world during the Early to middle Cretaceous. They are named, perhaps unoriginally, the carcharodontosaurs. Among the family album are three species—Giganotosaurus, Mapusaurus, and the hauntingly named Tyrannotitan—all from South America, which during the Early to middle Cretaceous was still connected to Africa. Other siblings lived farther afield: Acrocanthosaurus in North America, Shaochilong and Kelmayisaurus in Asia, and Concavenator in Europe. And there’s also another one from the Sahara, called Eocarcharia, which Paul and I described based on some skull bones he found on another expedition to Niger. It was about 10 million years older than Carcharodontosaurus, and only about half the size. It was about as brutish as a dinosaur could get, with a gnarled knob of bone and skin above each eye that gave it an evil scowl and may have even been used to head-butt prey into submission.

  These carcharodontosaurs fascinated me. They were basically doing what tyrannosaurs would do many tens of millions of years later: supersizing their bodies, developing an arsenal of predatory weapons, and terrorizing every living thing from their undisputed perch at the top of the food pyramid. Where did they come from? How did they spread around the world and become so dominant? And then what happened to them?

  There was only one way to answer these questions. I needed to build a family tree. Genealogy is a key to understanding history, which is why so many people, me included, are obsessed with our own family trees. Knowing the connections among kin helps to untangle how our families have changed over the centuries: when and where our ancestors lived, when a migration or an unexpected death occurred, how the family merged with others through marriages. The same with dinosaurs. If we can read their family tree—or their phylogeny, as paleontologists technically call it—we can use it to illuminate their evolution. But how do you make a family tree for dinosaurs? Carcharodontosaurus doesn’t have a birth certificate, and the ancestor of Giganotosaurus wasn’t granted a visa when it left Africa for South America. But there is another type of clue coded in the fossils themselves.

  Evolution causes change over time, particularly in the appearances of organisms. When two species diverge from each other, usually only minor differences separate them, and you may have a hard time telling them apart at a glance, but as time ticks on and the two lineages go their separate ways, they become more and more different from each other. It’s the same reason that I look a lot like my father but barely resemble my third cousins. The other thing evolution occasionally does is produce new things—an extra tooth, or a horn sticking out of the forehead, or a mutation that causes a finger to be lost. These novelties will be inherited by the descendants of the first critter to develop them, but they won’t be seen in cousins that had already split off and started evolving down their own path. I’ve inherited all kinds of things from my parents, and my children will then inherit those things from me. But if my cousin suddenly goes weird and grows a set of wings, they can’t be passed on to me, because there is no direct line of descent between us. That means, thankfully in this case, that none of my children get those wings either.

  Genealogy, therefore, is written into the way we look. On the whole, dinosaurs with similar skeletons are probably more closely related to each other than to other species that look drastically different. But if you want to know if two dinosaurs truly are close brethren, you need to look out for those evolutionary novelties, because animals that possess a newly evolved feature like an extra finger must be more closely related to each other than to ones that don’t have it. That’s because they must have inherited that novelty from a common ancestor, which developed the feature and started an evolutionary domino effect of passing it down the bloodline, generation by generation. Any species with that extra finger is part of the bloodline; anything without it is likely on another side branch of the family tree. So to build a genealogy of dinosaurs we need to pore over their bones, find a way to assess how similar and different they are, and identify evolutionary novelties and which subsets of the dinosaurs in question share them.

  When I became intrigued by carcharodontosaurs, I began to track down as much information on each species as I could. I visited museums to study skeletons firsthand, and I gathered photographs, drawings, published literature, and notes for some of the more exotic fossils in faraway places that were inaccessible to an unfunded undergraduate. The more I looked, I recognized features of the bones that varied among species. Some carcharodontosaurs had deep sinuses surrounding their brain, others did not. The giant ones like Carcharodontosaurus had massive, bladelike teeth that kind of resembled those of sharks (hence its name, which means “shark-toothed lizard”), but the smaller species had much daintier chompers. The list went on and on, until I had come up with ninety-nine different ways that some of these predators differed from others.

  Now it was time to make some sense out of this information. I turned my list into a spreadsheet: each row a species, each column one of the features of the anatomy, each data cell filled with a 0, 1, or 2 denoting the different versions of each feature seen in that species. Dainty teeth in Eocarcharia, 0; sharky teeth in Carcharodontosaurus, 1. Then I opened the spreadsheet in a computer program that uses algorithms to search through the maze of data and generate a family tree. It pinpoints which anatomical features are novelties and then identifies which species share them. This may sound trivial, but the computer is necessary because the distribution of novelties can be complicated. Some are seen in many species—those big sinuses around the brain are present in most carcharodontosaurs. Others are much rarer, like the shark-mimic teeth, which are seen only in Carcharodonosaurus, Giganotosaurus, and their closest kin. The computer is able to take all of this complexity and recognize a Russian doll pattern. If two species share many novelties between only themselves, they must be each other’s closest relatives. If those two species share other novelties with a third animal, those three must be more closely related to one another than to the remainder of the dinosaurs. And so on, until a complete family tree has been drawn. This whole process is what we in the business call a cladistic analysis.

  My family tree of carcharodontosaurs helped me unravel their evolution. First, it clarified where these colossal carnivores came from and how they rose to glory. They got their start in the Late Jurassic and are very close relatives of that most terrifying predator of the Jurassic, the Butcher itself, Allosaurus. In effect, they evolved from a legion of hypercarnivores that was already incumbent in the apex predator niche, and then they escalated t
hings further by becoming larger, stronger, and fiercer when their ancestors went extinct at the end of the Jurassic, 145 million years ago, during that long night of environmental and climate change. Did they drive these other allosaurs to extinction or take advantage when they succumbed for other reasons? We don’t yet know the answer. In either event, the carcharodontosaurs found a way to usurp the place of their forebears and, as the Cretaceous dawned, the kingdom was now theirs. For the next 50 million years or so, deep into the middle Cretaceous, the carcharodontosaurs ruled the world.

  The genealogy also gives insight into something else: why these flesh-gouging monsters lived where they did. Because they originated when most of the continents were still connected during the Late Jurassic, the first carcharodontosaurs easily spread around the world. As time went on and the continents fragmented further, different species became isolated in different areas. The structure of their family tree shows this—it reflects the motion of the continents. Some of the last carcharodontosaurs to evolve were a clan of South American and African species. (South America and Africa remained connected to each other long after links with North America, Asia, and Europe were severed.) Isolated south of the equator, the members of this clan—Giganotosaurus, Mapusaurus, and the Carcharodontosaurus from Niger that I studied with Sereno—grew to sizes previously unheard of for meat-eating dinosaurs.

  Nevertheless, as ferocious as these carcharodontosaurs were, they wouldn’t stay on top forever. Living alongside them, in their shadows, was another breed of carnivore. Smaller, faster, brainier. Their name, the tyrannosaurs. They would soon make their move and begin a new dinosaur empire.