The Rise and Fall of the Dinosaurs Read online

  Balaur bondoc was the top dog of the Late Cretaceous European islands. Less tyrant than assassin, Balaur would employ its arsenal of claws to subdue the cow-size sauropods and mini-duckbills and armored dinosaurs marooned in the middle of the rising Atlantic. As best we can tell, it was the largest carnivorous dinosaur on the islands. Who knows what fossils Mátyás will find next, but it seems fairly certain he’ll never come across a giant tyrannosaurish carnivore. After a century of searching, after the collection of thousands of fossils—of not only bones but also eggs and footprints, and not only dinosaurs but also lizards and mammals—not a single scrap of a big flesh-eater has ever turned up. Not even a tooth. That absence is probably telling us something: the island was too small to support giant bone-crunching monsters, so it was the feisty little guys like Balaur that topped the food chain—another sign of just how unusual these most stupendous of dinosaur ecosystems were during the closing years of the Cretaceous.

  The foot of Balaur, the tiny top predator of the latest Cretaceous Transylvanian island.

  Photograph by Mick Ellison.

  ON ONE OF my trips to Transylvania, we took the afternoon off from fossil hunting and headed into the hills. Mátyás stopped the car outside a castle, near a small village called Săcel. It must have been grand once, but now it was falling to ruin, abandoned long ago. Most of the bright green paint on the outside had faded, exposing the bricks. The windows were all busted, the wooden floors were decaying, and the plaster was sprayed with graffiti. Feral dogs wandered about like zombies. Dust clung to every surface. But somehow, as if defying the laws of gravity and the ravages of time, a gilded chandelier hung proudly from the ceiling in the foyer. We walked underneath it, nervously, as we climbed a set of creaking stairs. Upstairs, more squalor was spread before us: an echoing chasm of a room, with a gaping hole where there used to be a bay window.

  It was here—a hundred years ago, when it was a library—where Baron Nopcsa sat and read about dinosaurs, learning the nuances of their bones, theorizing about why the fossils he was finding on the grounds outside were so strange. This castle was Nopcsa’s home, the seat of his family’s dynasty for centuries. Many generations of Nopcsas lived here, and when the baron himself was at the height of his achievement—when he was spying on the Albanians for his empire and lecturing about dinosaurs to packed audiences all over the continent—it probably seemed that many generations more would follow.

  So, too, it was with the dinosaurs. Toward the end of the Cretaceous—when T. rex and Triceratops were fighting in North America, carcharodontosaurs were hunting gigantic sauropods throughout the south, and a parade of dwarfs had colonized the European islands—dinosaurs seemed invincible. But like castles, like empires, and like genius noblemen with a flair for the dramatic, the great dynasties of evolution can also fall—sometimes when least expected.

  8

  Dinosaurs Take Flight

  Archaeopteryx

  Chapter Title art by Todd Marshall

  THERE IS A DINOSAUR OUTSIDE my window. I’m watching it as I write this.

  Not a photo on a billboard, or a copy of a skeleton from a museum, or one of those obnoxious animatronic things you see in amusement parks.

  A real, honest-to-goodness, living, breathing, moving dinosaur. A descendant of those plucky dinosauromorphs that emerged on Pangea 250 million years ago, part of the same family tree as Brontosaurus and Triceratops, and a cousin of T. rex and Velociraptor.

  It’s about the size of a house cat, but with long arms tucked against its chest, and a much shorter pair of twiggy legs. Most of its body is the crisp white of a bridal gown, but the edges of its arms are gray, and the tips of its hands are jet black. As it stands stiff-legged on my neighbor’s rooftop, its head arching proudly upward, it cuts a regal profile against the darkening clouds of eastern Scotland.

  When the sun breaks through for a moment, I catch a glint reflecting from its beady eyes, which start to dart back and forth. No doubt this is a creature of keen senses and high intelligence, and it’s onto something. Maybe it can tell that I’m watching.

  Then, without warning, it yawns open its mouth and emits a high-pitched screech—an alarm to its compatriots, perhaps, or a mating call. Or maybe a threat directed my way. Whatever it is, I can hear it clearly through the double glazing, thankful now that there is a pane of glass between us.

  The fluffy-coated critter becomes silent again and swivels its neck so that it’s now staring directly at me. It definitely knows I’m here. Expecting another shriek, I’m surprised when it closes its mouth, its jaws coming together to form a sharp, yellow beak, which hooks downward at the front. It doesn’t have any teeth, but this beak looks like a nasty weapon that could do a lot of damage. Mindful again that I’m indoors and safe from any harm, I give the glass a playful little tap.

  And then the creature makes its move. With a grace that I can only struggle to describe, it pushes its webbed feet off the slate tiles, extends its feathered arms outward, and leaps into the breeze. I lose sight of it as it disappears over the trees, probably on its way to the North Sea.

  THE DINOSAUR I’M watching is a seagull. There are thousands of them living around Edinburgh. I see them every day, sometimes diving for fish in the sea a couple of miles north of my house, but more often I watch in disgust as they pick at discarded burger wrappers and other waste on the streets of the Old Town. Occasionally I catch one of them dive-bombing an unsuspecting tourist, spearing a french fry or two with its beak before launching back into the sky. When I observe this type of behavior—the cunning, the agility, the nastiness—it’s easy to see the inner Velociraptor in an otherwise forgettable seagull.

  Seagulls, and all other birds, evolved from dinosaurs. That makes them dinosaurs. Put another way, birds can trace their heritage back to the common ancestor of dinosaurs, and therefore are every bit as dinosaurian as T. rex, Brontosaurus, or Triceratops, the same way my cousins and I are Brusattes because we trace our lineage back to the same grandfather. Birds are simply a subgroup of dinosaurs, just like the tyrannosaurs or the sauropods—one of the many branches on the dinosaur family tree.

  It’s a notion that’s so important, it bears repeating. Birds are dinosaurs. Yes, it can be hard to get your head around. I often get people who try to argue with me: sure, birds might have evolved from dinosaurs, they say, but they are so different from T. rex, Brontosaurus, and the other familiar dinosaurs that we shouldn’t classify them in the same group. They’re small, they have feathers, they can fly—we shouldn’t call them dinosaurs. On the face of it, that may seem like a reasonable argument. But I always have a quick retort up my sleeve. Bats look and behave a whole lot differently than mice or foxes or elephants, but nobody would argue that they’re not mammals. No, bats are just a weird type of mammal that evolved wings and developed the ability to fly. Birds are just a weird group of dinosaurs that did the same thing.

  And just so there is no confusion, I’m talking about birds—real, true birds. This has nothing to do with another favorite cast member of the Age of Dinosaurs, the pterosaurs. Often referred to as pterodactyls, these were reptiles that glided and soared through the air on long, skinny wings anchored by a stretched fourth finger (the ring finger). Most were about the size of average birds today, but some had wingspans wider than small airplanes. They originated around the same time as dinosaurs in the Pangean days of the Triassic, and died out with most dinosaurs at the end of the Cretaceous, but they were not dinosaurs, and they were not birds. Instead, they were close cousins of dinosaurs. Pterosaurs were the first group of vertebrates (animals with backbones) to evolve wings and fly. Dinosaurs—in the guise of birds—were the second.

  This means that dinosaurs are still among us today. We’re so used to saying that dinosaurs are extinct, but in reality, over ten thousand species of dinosaurs remain, as integral parts of modern ecosystems, sometimes as our food and our pets, and in the case of seagulls, sometimes as pests. Indeed, the vast majority of dinosaurs died 6
6 million years ago, when that latest Cretaceous world of T. rex versus Triceratops, of the giant Brazilian sauropods and Transylvanian island dwarfs, was plunged into chaos. The reign of the dinosaurs ended and a revolution followed, forcing them to cede their kingdom to other species. But a few stragglers made it through, a few dinosaurs that had what it took to endure. The descendants of these remarkable survivors live on today as birds, the enduring legacy of over 150 million years of dinosaur domination, of a dead empire.

  THE REALIZATION THAT birds are dinosaurs is probably the single most important fact ever discovered by dinosaur paleontologists. Although we’ve learned much about dinosaurs over the past few decades, this is not a radical new idea pushed by my generation of scientists. Quite the opposite: it’s a theory that goes back a long way, to the era of Charles Darwin.

  The year was 1859. After two decades of sitting around and stewing over the observations he made as a young man sailing the world on the HMS Beagle, Darwin was finally ready to go public with his startling discovery: species are not fixed entities; they evolve over time. He even had a mechanism to explain evolution, a process he called natural selection. That November, he laid it all out in the Origin of Species.

  This is how it works. All populations of organisms are variable in their features. For instance, if you look at a bunch of rabbits in nature, they will have slightly different fur colors, even if they all belong to the same species. Sometimes one of those variations confers a survival advantage—say, darker fur that helps a rabbit camouflage itself better—and because of that, the individuals with that feature have a better chance of living longer and reproducing more. If that variation is heritable—if it can be passed on to offspring—then over time it will cascade throughout the population so that the entire rabbit species is now dark-haired. Dark hair has been naturally selected, and the rabbits have evolved.

  This process can even produce new species: if a population is somehow divided and each subset goes its own way, evolving its own naturally selected features until the two subsets are so different that they’re unable to reproduce with each other, they have developed into separate species. This process has brought into being all of the world’s species over the course of billions of years. It means that all living things—modern and extinct—are related, cousins on one grand family tree.

  Elegant in its simplicity, so far-reaching in its implications, today we regard Darwin’s theory of evolution by natural selection as one of the fundamental rules underpinning the world as we know it. It’s what produced the dinosaurs, what molded them into such a fantastic variety of species that were able to rule the planet for so long, adapting to drifting continents, shifting sea levels, changes in temperature, and the threats from competitors hoping to snatch their crown. Evolution by natural selection is also what produced us, and don’t be mistaken, it continues to operate right now, constantly, all around us. It’s why we’re so worried about superbugs that evolve resistance to antibiotics, why we’re always in need of new medicines to stay a step ahead of the bacteria and viruses that will do us harm.

  Some folks still dispute the reality of evolution today—and I won’t say any more about that—but whatever disagreements we have now pale in comparison to what was happening in the 1860s. Darwin’s book—written in beautiful, accessible prose for public consumption—sparked a fury. Some of society’s most cherished notions about religion, spirituality, and humankind’s place in the universe suddenly seemed up for debate. Evidence and accusations flew back and forth, and both sides were on the lookout for a trump card. For many of Darwin’s supporters, the ultimate proof of his new theory would be “missing links,” transitional fossils that capture, like a freeze frame, the evolution of one type of animal into another. These would not only demonstrate evolution in action, but could visually convey it to the public in a way that no book or lecture ever could.

  Darwin didn’t have to wait long. In 1861, quarry workers in Bavaria found something peculiar. They were mining a type of fine limestone that breaks into thin sheets, which was used at the time for lithographic printing. One of the miners—now nameless to history—split open a slab and found a 150-million-year-old skeleton of a Frankenstein creature inside. It had sharp claws and a long tail like a reptile but feathers and wings like a bird. Other fossils of the same animal were soon found in other limestone quarries that sprinkled the Bavarian countryside, including a spectacular one that preserved nearly the entire skeleton. This one had a wishbone, like a bird, but its jaws were lined with sharp teeth, like a reptile. Whatever this creature was, it seemed to be half reptile, half bird.

  This Jurassic hybrid was named Archaeopteryx, and it became a sensation. Darwin included it in later editions of the Origin of Species as evidence that birds had a deep history which could be explained only by evolution. The strange fossil also caught the eye of one of Darwin’s best friends and most vociferous supporters. Thomas Henry Huxley is perhaps best remembered as the man who came up with the term agnosticism to describe his uncertain religious views, but in the 1860s he was popularly known as Darwin’s Bulldog. It was a nickname he gave himself, because he was unrelenting in his defense of Darwin’s theory, taking on anyone—in person or in print—who maligned it. Huxley agreed that Archaeopteryx was a transitional fossil, linking reptiles and birds, but he went one step further. He noticed that it bore an uncanny resemblance to another fossil discovered in the same lithographic limestone beds in Bavaria, a small flesh-eating dinosaur called Compsognathus. So he proposed his own radical new idea: birds descended from dinosaurs.

  Debate continued for the next century. Some scientists followed Huxley; others didn’t accept the link between dinosaurs and birds. Even as a deluge of new dinosaur fossils emerged from the American West—the Jurassic Morrison dinosaurs like Allosaurus and its many sauropod compatriots, the Cretaceous Hell Creek congregation of T. rex and Triceratops—there didn’t seem to be enough evidence to settle the question. Then, in the 1920s, a book by a Danish artist made the simplistic argument that birds couldn’t have come from dinosaurs because dinosaurs apparently didn’t have collarbones (which birds fuse into wishbones), and although it may sound a little absurd, that viewpoint held sway until the 1960s (and today we realize that dinosaurs did indeed have collarbones, so the point is moot). As Beatlemania swept the globe, protesters marched for civil rights in the American South, and war raged in Vietnam, the consensus was that dinosaurs had nothing to do with birds. They were just very distant cousins that looked kind of similar.

  The feather-covered skeleton of Archaeopteryx, the oldest bird in the fossil record.

  Photo courtesy of the author

  That all changed in 1969, that tumultuous year of Woodstock. Revolution was afoot, as societal norms and traditions were being challenged throughout the West. That spirit of rebellion also percolated into science, and paleontologists started to see dinosaurs differently. Not as the dim-witted, dull-colored, slow-moving wastes of space that defined a pointless era of prehistory, but as more active, dynamic, energetic animals that ruled their world through talent and ingenuity, creatures that were very similar in many ways to living animals—particularly birds. A new generation—led by an unassuming Yale professor named John Ostrom and his rambunctious student Robert Bakker—completely reimagined dinosaurs, even making the argument that dinosaurs lived together in herds, had keen senses, cared for their young, and may have been warm-blooded like us.

  The dromaeosaur (raptor) Velociraptor locked in combat with the primitive horned dinosaur Protoceratops, from the Gobi Desert of Mongolia. Photograph by Mick Ellison, with assistance from Denis Finnin.

  Photo courtesy of the author

  The catalyst for this so-called Dinosaur Renaissance was a series of fossils unearthed a few years before, in the mid-1960s, by Ostrom and his team. They were out in far southern Montana, close to the border with Wyoming, prospecting in colorful rocks formed on a floodplain during the Early Cretaceous, some time between 125 and 100 million ye
ars ago. They found over a thousand bones of a dinosaur—a dinosaur that was astonishingly birdlike. It had long arms that looked almost like wings and the lithe build indicative of a fast-running dynamo of an animal. After a few years of studying the bones, Ostrom announced them in 1969 as a new species: Deinonychus, a raptor. It was a close cousin of Velociraptor, which was discovered in the 1920s in Mongolia and described by Henry Fairfield Osborn (the New York aristocrat who named T. rex), but in these pre–Jurassic Park times, it had yet to become a household name.

  Ostrom realized the enormous implications of his find. He used Deinonychus to resurrect Huxley’s idea that birds evolved from dinosaurs, which he argued in a series of landmark scientific papers in the 1970s, a lawyer making his case by meticulous presentation of incontrovertible evidence. Meanwhile, his flamboyant former student Bakker went a different route. The cowboy-hatted, hippie-haired child of the Sixties became an evangelist. He preached the dinosaur-bird connection—and the new image of dinosaurs as warm-blooded, big-brained evolutionary success stories—to the public with a Scientific American cover story in 1975 and a wildly successful book in the 1980s, The Dinosaur Heresies. Their contrasting styles caused considerable friction between them, but together Ostrom and Bakker revolutionized how everyone viewed dinosaurs. By the end of the 1980s, most serious students of paleontology had come around to their way of thinking.