Dinosaur Hunter: The Ultimate Guide to the Biggest Game (Open Book Adventures)

by Steve White

  There are other larger types that inhabit the open woods and high plains; these are solitary animals that are much rarer and seem taxonomically close to Montanoceratops. Around 8ft in length, they avoid the open plains and meadows during the dry season, spending most of their time in open woodlands and riverine forests; however, when the rains arrive and the new growth provides better cover, they will move out into more exposed environs. They are predominantly low-browsers, but are also aggressive scavengers and have been known to actively prey on small and juvenile dinosaurs, including young Tyrannosaurs.

  STEGOCERAS

  Approximately 7ft long and weighing around 80lbs, this rather striking dinosaur belongs to the domed-headed Pachycephalosaurs. Relatively common, it inhabits the lowland forests and woods, and the upland riverine forests, rarely venturing into open habitats. Easy to recognize because of its domed head and back mane of high, densely packed quills, Stegoceras travels in small single-gender herds that only come together into larger aggregations during the mating season.

  The sexes are dimorphic, the manes and domes of the males brightly coloured; they are also generally larger than the females, whose domes are not as well-developed as the males, giving them a more flatheaded appearance. Despite its quite fearsome appearance, the dome is rarely used to ward off large predators; speed is the most common defensive strategy and while not exactly fast, they can generally outrun the larger Tyrannosaurs. Smaller predators, however, can be handled with a sudden charge and butt to the flank.

  The mating season is when the dome comes into play the most, used to settle disputes over females. Usually, one bachelor herd will join up with a single group of females, but usually only the biggest and boldest in the group get to mate. Battles can also erupt if a second bachelor herd tries to steal the females. In this case, serious brawls can erupt between a dozen or more males.

  Once the mating is done, the exhausted males return to their nomadic existence. The females nest colonially; when the eggs hatch, a number will stay behind to guard the young while the other females leave to browse. Any food brought back is distributed amongst all the young. This seems to be a strategy to encourage only the strongest to feed; the larger or more belligerent hatchlings will bully the smaller ones away.

  The babies are born flatheaded, the dome developing only as they approach sexual maturity. They are also precocial and leave the nest soon after hatching, the infants forming a single crèche escorted by all the females. The smaller, less well-developed young are left behind or fall behind, so that the females are able to invest what parental care they can in the stronger, more healthy juveniles.

  However, once they reach sub-adult status, the young are abandoned; they usually separate into single-sex herds that stay in dense forest until they attain adulthood and begin to frequent more open habitats.

  STRUTHIOMIMUS

  These elegant and athletic dinosaurs are the fastest in the reserve. They are built for speed, with their lower legs much longer than their thighs, which are well muscled, to provide power when running.

  The number of species in the Park is unclear; there appear to be two types, one very common on the high plains and mountain foothills, the other frequently found in the lowland open woods and meadows. These could be separate genus, perhaps Ornithomimus and Struthiomimus, or perhaps two members of the same genus, in this case, Struthiomimus. The problem is that they are both very similar physiologically except in colouration. Both species are around the same size, around 12ft in length and weighing over 300lbs, but, in the upland type, females are distinguishable by their almost golden down which darkens in the wet season; the lowland females have a barred plumage of white and dark grey. Both types are also dimorphic; the males of the upland type have white bodies but with long golden and orange down on their neck and the long vanes of their forearms. The lowland males are black with red faces and legs. Where their territories overlap, they seem quite comfortable in each other’s presence. Whatever the result of this taxonomic conundrum, these are strikingly beautiful dinosaurs.

  Struthiomimids are habitual omnivores, eating whatever the season has to offer, and can be handled by their toothless beaks. At the start of the wet season, they feed on the glut of nuts and fruits, new shoots and flowers, and the insects and small vertebrates they attract. In the dry season, they will use the three long, clawed fingers of their long forearms to scrabble for seeds and tubers, insect grubs, burrowing mammals and lizards; they will also tear at dead logs, breaking open the bark and wood to feed on the many small creatures to be found in them.

  Conversely, Struthiomimids are popular prey for many small-to medium-sized predators, especially the gracile young Tyrannosaurs, and in particular Albertosaurs. However, they have to be caught first, and the appropriately named ‘ostrich mimics’ have been clocked at over 35mph on open ground. Naturally they stay away from more confined habitats, except during the breeding season. They also travel in small flocks. When feeding, one member is always on sentry duty; Struthiomimids have large eyes and excellent vision, and it is hard to take them by surprise. As a result, the most that many predators see of these fleet dinosaurs is a disappearing cloud of dust.

  Courtship for both Struthiomimids begins at the end of the dry season. There is usually one male per flock and he must fight off all other suitors who may try to supplant his authority. Usually, the matter can be settled with a strutting display to the interloper, but should that fail, males will fight, using pecks and powerful kicks from their hind feet, which are tipped with long but blunt claws; these can inflict serious injuries (and can be used against small predators).

  The successful male mates with all the females in the flock, who nest close together, if not actually colonially. They feed up at the start of the wet season and fast while awaiting the hatching of the young. Around 10–15 eggs are laid in a mounded nest of vegetation constructed by each female. The young are precocial at birth and leave it very soon after hatching; the females time their laying so that all the members of the flock hatch together. They then convene into a single crèche protected by all the females and the male, who may even have other sexually immature males in attendance. These young bachelors are chosen by the male and one of them will supplant him should he die or become too old (the latter quite unlikely…).

  The young grow very rapidly and stay with the flock; mortality is high and the survivors leave or are driven off at the start of the next mating season. These sub-adults usually form their own flocks.

  HYPSILOPHODONTS

  These small Ornithopods are a common sight in Dinosaur Park; it is easy to shoehorn them into the ecological niche of small mammalian herbivores such as gazelle or deer. They are, like their mammalian counterparts, usually very fast and often travel in small flocks (or herds); however, their powerful hind legs are not just for running; combined with long, stout forearms, they are effective burrowers. Upland species such as Orodromeus burrow around high-altitude lakes and soda flats. They usually live in pairs or small family flocks; the burrow is abandoned at the start of the wet season and nesting occurs above ground, colonially. The precocial young are then gathered in a single crèche and the herd descends onto the high plains and woods, moving and feeding together for mutual protection until the start of the dry season. Then the herd disbands into the small family units who return to their upland burrows to see out the worst of the dry season, scratching out a living on seeds, nuts, tubers and even insects.

  In the lowlands, the powerful hypsilophodont foot has been put to a use other than propelling the animal at high speed. In Parksosaurus, the toes splay out to support the animal on the soft ground of the marshes and swamps that it inhabits. Like its upland relatives, it too is a burrower, digging into the banks created by tangles of cypress tree roots and even commandeering old crocodilian burrows. The males are particularly brightly coloured.

  CROCODILIANS

  As with any Mesozoic environment, crocodilians are an ever present threat should a hunter vent
ure close to the water.

  The most common types are the alligatoid Albertochampsa and Leidyosuchus. These appear very similar to modern alligators, especially the former; the latter is more crocodile-like. They are both generalist hunters, although Albertochampsa tends to favour ambushing small to medium dinosaurs. Both grow to about 20ft or more, on average, but much larger specimens have been seen. Both should also be considered dangerous.

  The other ‘crocodilians’ are the Champsosaurs; there are numerous species in the Park, although they rarely exceed 10ft in length and most don’t grow beyond 5ft. These reptiles are not actually related to crocodilians but belong to an order known as the Choristodera. Physically, they closely resemble gharials, and they seem to be fulfilling the same ecological niche in the Campanian of Laramidia as that of crocodilian piscivores. They are generally harmless unless provoked.

  There is also one other type of true crocodilian that should be considered, especially if in estuarine areas. Deinosuchus is rare in the reserve, generally inhabiting the more southern deltas, but it does occasionally appear further north, favouring the deltas and bayous of river estuaries. Deinosuchus is a monster, growing to as long as 40ft; its incredibly powerful jaws sport huge conical teeth that are quite capable of crushing the skull of the largest Tyrannosaur and its prey includes the biggest duckbills and horned dinosaurs. It is also a ‘salty’; it can be found in the coastal waters of the Western Interior Seaway where it will eat large marine turtles and other reptiles; it also uses these coastal waters as a highway along the Laramidia coastline.

  Although an effective swimmer, Deinosuchus has large bony scutes on its back that not only provide armoured protection but also serve as anchor points for muscles and connective tissue that bear the load of the croc’s massive frame. This enables it to move on land; it is not particularly fast and it is not really capable of terrestrial hunting – it’s too big and cumbersome for that. However, it will happily come ashore to scavenge, should the opportunity arise.

  It goes without saying that a human close to the water’s edge in areas known to be frequented by Deinosuchus is at risk; you may appear little more than a snack but it pays to stay clear of coastal waters where possible.

  CONCLUSION

  There can be little doubt that Dinosaur Park offers the richest, most colourful selection of dinosaurs in any of the MHC® Reserves, and hosts some of its most awe-inspiring sights in spectacular scenery. But it is also perhaps the most dangerous of MHC®’s hunting reserves; there are not just two exception predators, in the Tyrannosaurid shapes of Albertosaurus and Daspletosaurus, but a number of smaller carnivores and very aggressive omnivores and herbivores. Be warned!

  THE HIDE

  (Written by Nicci Holmes for the ebook collection, Green Inferno, edited by Jack Shannon. Used with permission.)

  Our greatest failing that day was that we were nothing but tourists. We were simply in love with the place and with the idea of hunting there. Enamoured as such, we forgot so many fundamentals, made so many mistakes. All the training, all the lectures and simulations, it all came to nothing and Cassandra died. The biggest predator I’d ever faced was a lion. With the best will in the world, TIT can’t prepare you for something as devastating as a Daspletosaurus up close. Seeing it in the flesh, smelling that dead meat smell, looking into the casually indifferent amber-coloured eye … it freezes your finger on the trigger…

  Of course, the lesson I’d love to pass on is listen to those who know better. We had woken early, too excited to sleep. I’d unzipped the tent and we’d stepped out into the morning. There was a dawn chorus, bird songs I’d never heard, birds whose wings may have sported claws and whose beaks may have been lined with teeth.

  Not that it mattered. We couldn’t see for shit. The fog was thick and the rain was heavy. Nested safely amongst the sentinel trunks of giant sequoias, we were just dripped on steadily, but out beyond the umbrella of the canopy, we could see the mist swirling of its own volition, as there was no breeze to speak of, and the rain was falling straight down.

  We didn’t care. We were about to enjoy our first day in Dinosaur Park. We nibbled a quick breakfast, checked the guns, and slung on the ghillie suits. Then we checked in with the FOB Good Mother. Their protests were even more persistent than the rain. Vis was for shit, they said. The coverage from the drones was one eye blind. The Pink Team didn’t like it. The hard deck was as low as the canopies of the tallest trees was high. Intakes suddenly clogged with leaves and branches, they could auger in before they knew it. Then where would we be?

  I pointed out that they would still get paid whether we died or not. Good Mother’s commander replied that the reason why the FOB crews were paid up front for the full four weeks was because so many rich assholes arrived in the Mesozoic and chose to forget everything they were taught. Killers they may have been in the boardrooms; generals they may have been on the movie set or in the fashion house, supping champagne whilst ordering their minions about like they were parachuting into Normandy, but generally Theropods were unimpressed by stock portfolios or star billing. High-handed and arrogant, CEOs died quick and violent deaths. So, the crews started asking for the money up front.

  It was all very valid and salient, but come on, we were in the Campanian. We were like Neil Armstrong taking his one giant leap for mankind. He didn’t have top cover. He’d just done the Right Thing. He had the Right Stuff. And so did we.

  And so, the Pink Team stayed grounded. The choppers were hot-cocked and ready to rock on alert five. The aircrews were no doubt watching our camera feeds with disinterest or disdain, but Cassie and I convinced ourselves they were ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice – that moment when we’d naively wander into trouble, by which time it would almost certainly be too late anyway. As it turned out, it was.

  I had my pads and my pencils in my Bergen. I could have drawn constantly. Sometimes the clouds would thin enough for weak sunlight to turn glades into fairyland dells. The redwood forest towered over us, cypress and maples and katsura gathered around them like children around a mother’s apron. This was one of the last stands of forest at the eastern edge of the high plains; head west and you met the flats and foothills of the Magmatic Arc; to the east, the long, slow drop to the lowland river deltas and then the blue of the Cretaceous Inland Seaway. Cycads, Dicksonia, the great spreading fronds of Gunnera, a verdant skirt of ferns and flowers, billowed over the ground and we waded through it. Sunflowers burst amongst the green. Creeping ferns and vines laden with grapes strangled deadfalls and upturned roots.

  It made me think of Conrad. ‘Trees, trees, millions of trees, massive, immense, running up high; and at their foot, hugging the bank against the stream, crept the little begrimed steamboat, like a sluggish beetle crawling on the floor of a lofty portico. It made you feel very small, very lost, and yet it was not altogether depressing, that feeling.’

  I felt like that steamboat.

  We picked up a stream that gurgled playfully as it skipped over its bed of smooth pebbles. The rocks were green with algae but the water was cool and clear, perhaps meltwater from the Magmatic Arc. I was tempted to bend down and take a mouthful. But then I remembered the alien-killing creatures that swarmed and multiplied in a single drop and thought better of it.

  We didn’t move like hunters. More like ramblers. All we needed was a Labrador. We trudged along the stream’s edge, spongy with club mosses, liverwort and water chestnut, bur reeds and moss, filigree-covered horsetails. Ponds grew from the side of the stream and were roofed with water cabbage and lily pads and Pistia. Willows and fruit-laden plane trees gathered around them, boxwood spilling about them.

  Here was a place where it was easy to fall in love with green. I forgot to be a hunter and became a naturalist. It was strange to imagine a place where there was no sign of people. You could walk in the woods of home, the deepest woods, and you’d still find a rusting can or an abandoned shopping cart. An old fire surrounded by beer bottles and cigarette b
utts. Here there was nothing but the footprints Cassie and I left in the soft ooze as we studied the surrounding forest, not with field craft eyes but with those of a child at Christmas, bug-eyed with wonder.

  The stream made a slow descent north-eastward. As it progressed, it split, split again, split once more. The great redwoods gave way to woodland and thick, dense shrubs. Out of the overcast leant by the sequoia, the cypresses and ginkgoes and podocarps spread out wide and there were dense beds of flowers, meadows of cinnamon ferns. If there were dinosaurs, we didn’t see them. Maybe it was fog or the unrelenting rain but it was unnerving because there was a rich symphony of sounds. Some were the booming and braying of Hadrosaurs. We’d heard them during training. They were far distant. Others were close, the monkey chattering and argumentative songs of small animals engaged in the battle to survive. If conditions such as these were common, sound was probably the only way to attract a mate or pick a fight. I’m sure many were asking, ‘How you doin’?’ or saying ‘Get the hell off my property.’ But there was not a slither or a scurry to be seen, and at last my nerve began to fail. I took a long draw on the rebreather then waved Cassie, on point, back to me. We took a knee.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ I whispered.

  She pushed back the hood of her ghillie suit and ran a gloved hand through her bleached blonde, close-cut hair. It was strange seeing her without makeup.

  ‘We got about another two miles to the hide. And it starts thinning out from here.’

  She smiled and hefted her shotgun. ‘We’ll be fine.’

  As is so often true in the politics of denial, her breezy confidence enabled me to ignore my nagging fears.