The recognition that birds came from dinosaurs raised a provocative question. Maybe, Ostrom and Bakker surmised, some of the most familiar features of modern birds first evolved in dinosaurs. Perhaps raptors like Deinonychus—so birdy in their bones and body proportions—even had that one thing that is most quintessentially “bird”: feathers. After all, because birds evolved from dinosaurs, and because the half-dinosaur half-bird Archaeopteryx was found covered in fossilized feathers, feathers must have developed somewhere along their evolutionary lineage—maybe in a dinosaur long before birds came onto the scene. Moreover, if some dinosaurs did have feathers, that would be the final jab in the gut to the few old-blood holdovers who didn’t accept the connection between dinosaurs and birds.
The problem, though, is that Ostrom and Bakker couldn’t be sure if dinosaurs like Deinonychus had feathers. All they had were bones. Soft bits like skin, muscles, tendons, internal organs, and yes, feathers, rarely survive the ravages of death, decay, and burial to become fossilized. Archaeopteyx—which Ostrom and Bakker considered the oldest bird in the fossil record—was a lucky exception, having been buried quickly in a quiet lagoon and rapidly turned to stone. Maybe they would never be able to tell one way or another. So they waited, hopeful that somebody, somewhere, somehow would find feathers on a dinosaur.
Then in 1996, as his career was drawing to a close, Ostrom was at the annual meeting of the Society of Vertebrate Paleontology in New York, where fossil hunters from around the world congregate to present new discoveries and discuss their research. While milling about the American Museum, Ostrom was approached by Phil Currie, a Canadian who was part of that first post-1960s generation raised on the idea that birds are dinosaurs. The theory so fascinated Currie that he spent much of the 1980s and 1990s hunting for small birdlike raptors in western Canada, Mongolia, and China. He had, in fact, just returned from one of his trips to China. While he was there, he caught wind of an extraordinary fossil. He took a photograph of it out of his pocket and showed it to Ostrom.
There it was, a small dinosaur surrounded by a halo of feathery fluff, immaculately preserved as if it had died yesterday. Ostrom began to cry. His knees got weak, and he almost fell to the floor. Somebody had found his feathered dinosaur.
The fossil Currie showed Ostrom—later named Sinosauropteryx—was only the start. Scientists sprinted to the Liaoning region of northeastern China, where it was found, with the mad ambition of prospectors on a gold rush. But the true authorities were the local farmers. They knew the land intimately and understood that even a single prime specimen, when sold to a museum, could bring them more money than a lifetime of toiling in the fields. Within a few years, farmers from all over the countryside had reported several other feathered dinosaur species, which were given names like Caudipteryx, Protarchaeopteryx, Beipiaosaurus, and Microraptor. Today, some two decades later, more than twenty such species are known, and these are represented by thousands of individual fossils. These dinosaurs had the great misfortune to live in a dense forest surrounding a wonderland of ancient lakes, a landscape that was periodically obliterated by volcanoes. Some of these eruptions spewed out tsunamis of ash, which combined with water to flood the landscape in a viscous ooze that buried everything in sight. The dinosaurs were captured going about their everyday business, preserved Pompeii-style. That’s why the details of the feathers are so pristine.
Ostrom was a guy who waited hours for a bus, only to have five come along at once. He now had a whole ecosystem of feathered dinosaurs, which proved him right: birds really did arise from dinosaurs, an extension of the same family as T. rex and Velociraptor. The feathered dinosaurs of Liaoning are now among the most celebrated fossils in the world, and rightly so. When it comes to new dinosaur discoveries, nothing in my lifetime approaches their significance.
ONE OF THE greatest privileges I’ve had in my career is studying many of the feathered dinosaurs of Liaoning, in museums all over China. I’ve even had the chance to name and describe a new one, the raptor Zhenyuanlong that we met back in the first few pages of this book, that mule-size creature with wings. These Liaoning dinosaurs are gorgeous fossils—as suited for an art gallery as a natural history museum—but they’re so much more than that.
They are the fossils that help us untangle one of the biggest riddles of biology: how evolution produces radically new groups of organisms, with restyled bodies capable of remarkable new behaviors. The formation of small, fast-growing, warm-blooded, flying birds from ancestors that looked like T. rex and Allosaurus is a prime example of this sort of jump—what biologists call a major evolutionary transition.
You need fossils to study major transitions, because they’re not the sort of thing we can re-create in the lab or witness in nature. The Liaoning dinosaurs are an almost perfect case study. There are a lot of them, and they exhibit great diversity of body size, shape, and feather structure. They run the gamut from dog-size plant-eating ceratopsians with simple porcupine-style quills, to thirty-foot-long primitive cousins of T. rex coated in hairlike fuzz (like Yutyrannus, which we also met a few chapters ago), to raptors like Zhenyuanlong with full-on wings, and even to crow-size weirdos with wings on both the arms and the legs, something not seen in any modern birds. Each is a snapshot, and when stitched together and placed on a family tree, they provide something of a running film of an evolutionary transition in action.
Most fundamentally, the Liaoning fossils confirm where birds perch on the dinosaur family tree. Birds are a type of theropod; they are rooted in that group of ferocious meat-eaters that most famously includes T. rex and Velociraptor and also many of the other predators that we’ve come across: the herd-living Coelophysis from Ghost Ranch, the Butcher Allosaurus from the Morrison Formation, the carcharodontosaurs and abelisaurids that terrorized the southern continents. This is exactly what Huxley, and later Ostrom, proposed. The Liaoning fossils sealed the deal by verifying how many features are shared uniquely by birds and other theropods: not just feathers, but also wishbones, three-fingered hands that can fold against the body, and hundreds of other aspects of the skeleton. There are no other groups of animals—living or extinct—that share these things with birds or theropods: this must mean that birds came from theropods. Any other conclusion requires a whole lot of special pleading.
Among theropods, birds nest within an advanced group called the paravians. These carnivores break some of the stereotypes that many people still hold about dinosaurs, particularly theropods. They weren’t lumbering monsters like T. rex, but smaller, nimbler, smarter species, most of which were human-size or tinier. In effect, they were a subgroup of theropods that went on their own path, trading the brawn and girth of their ancestors for bigger brains, keener senses, and more compact, lightweight skeletons that permitted a more active lifestyle. Other paravians include Ostrom’s Deinonychus, Velociraptor, and my oh-so-birdlike Zhenyuanlong, along with all of the other dromaeosaurid raptor and troodontid species. These dinosaurs are the closest relatives of birds. They all had feathers, many of them had wings, and more than a few surely looked and acted like modern birds.
LEFT The feathered dromaeosaur (raptor) Sinornithosaurus from Liaoning, China. Photograph by Mick Ellison. RIGHT Close-ups of the simple filament-like feathers along the head (top) and longer, quill-type feathers along the forearm (bottom) of Sinornithosaurus.
Photograph by Mick Ellison.
Somewhere within this flock of paravian species lies the line between non-bird and bird. As with the division between non-dinosaur and dinosaur, way back in the Triassic, this distinction is blurry. And it’s getting less distinct with each new fossil from Liaoning. Truthfully, it’s just a matter of semantics: today’s paleontologists define a bird as anything that falls into the group that includes Huxley’s Archaeopteryx, modern birds, and all descendants of their Jurassic common ancestor. It’s more historical convention than a reflection of any biological distinction. By this definition, Deinonychus and Zhenyuanlong fall ever so slightly on the non-bird si
de of the border.
Let’s forget about that for a second. Definitions can distract from the story line.
Today’s birds stand out among all modern animals. Feathers, wings, toothless beaks, wishbones, big heads that bob along on an S-shaped neck, hollow bones, toothpick legs . . . the list goes on. These signature features define what we call the bird body plan: the blueprint that makes a bird a bird. This body plan is behind the many superskills that birds are so renowned for: their ability to fly, their hypercharged growth rates, their warm-blooded physiology, and their high intelligence and sharp senses. We want to know where this body plan came from.
The feathered dinosaurs of Liaoning give us the answer. And it’s remarkable: many of the supposedly signature features of today’s birds—the components of their blueprint—first evolved in their dinosaur ancestors. Far from being unique to birds, these features developed much earlier, in ground-living theropods, for reasons wholly unrelated to flight. Feathers are the best example—and we’ll return to them in a moment—but they are merely emblematic of a much bigger pattern. To see it, we have to start at the base of the family tree and move up.
Let’s begin with a central feature of the bird blueprint. Long, straight legs and feet with three skinny main toes—hallmarks of the modern bird silhouette—first appeared more than 230 million years ago in the most primitive dinosaurs, as their bodies were reshaped into upright-walking, fast-running engines that could outpace and outhunt their rivals. In fact, these hind-limb features are some of the defining characteristics of all dinosaurs, the very things that helped them rule the world for so long.
Then a little bit later, some of these upright-walking dinosaurs—the earliest members of the theropod dynasty—fused their left and right collarbones into a new structure, the wishbone. It was a seemingly minor change, which stabilized the shoulder girdle and probably allowed these stealthy, dog-size predators to better absorb the shock forces of grabbing prey. Much later, birds would co-opt the wishbone to serve as a spring that stores energy when they flap their wings. These proto-theropods, however, never could have known this would eventually happen, just as the inventor of the propeller had no idea the Wright Brothers would later put it on an airplane.
Many tens of millions of years down the line, a subset of these upright-walking, wishbone-chested theropods called maniraptorans developed a gracefully curved neck, for reasons unknown. I speculate it may have had something to do with scouting for prey. Meanwhile, some of these species were getting smaller in size, probably because their shrinking physiques gave them entry to new ecological niches—trees, brush, perhaps even underground caves or burrows that were inaccessible to giants like Brontosaurus and Stegosaurus. Later, a subset of these small, upright, wishboned, bobbing-necked theropods started to fold their arms against the body, probably to protect the delicate quill-pen feathers that were evolving around the same time. These were the paravians—a subgroup of the maniraptorans, and the immediate ancestors of birds.
These are just a few examples; there are many more. The point is, when I look at that seagull outside my window, many of the features that allow me to immediately recognize it as a bird are not actually trademarks of birds. They’re attributes of dinosaurs.
This pattern isn’t confined to anatomy, either. Many of the most notable behaviors and biological characteristics of living birds also have deep dinosaurian heritage. Some of the best evidence comes not from Liaoning but from another trove of spectacular fossils, found in the Gobi Desert of Mongolia. For the last quarter century, a joint team from the American Museum of Natural History and the Mongolian Academy of Sciences has been mounting annual summer expeditions to this desolate expanse of central Asia. The fossils they have collected—which date from the Late Cretaceous, between about 84 and 66 million years ago—provide unprecedented insight into the lifestyles of dinosaurs and early birds.
Leading the Gobi project is one of America’s most prominent paleontologists, Mark Norell, the head of the American Museum’s dinosaur collection and my former PhD supervisor. Mark grew up in Southern California, a long-haired surfer dude who worshipped Jimmy Page but at the same time had a nerdy obsession with collecting fossils. He did his graduate work at Yale, where Ostrom was one of his mentors, and was barely into his thirties when he was hired to Barnum Brown’s old curatorial post, widely regarded as the top dinosaur research job in the world.
Mark Norell using one of his signature tricks for collecting fossils in damp conditions: drenching the plaster jacket covering the fossil in gasoline and lighting it on fire.
Aino Tuomola.
An oviraptor buried while protecting its nest, collected by Mark Norell in Mongolia.
Photo courtesy of the author
The total opposite of a stuffy academic caricature, Mark travels the planet hunting for the two things he knows best: dinosaurs, obviously, but also his other infatuation: Asian art. The stories he’s accumulated along the way—in auction houses, Chinese dance clubs, Mongolian yurts, fancy European hotels, and seedy bars—often seem too outrageous to be true but make him one of the best raconteurs I’ve known. A few years ago, the Wall Street Journal published a hagiography of Mark, referring to him as “the coolest dude alive.” Mark does dress like a hipster version of Andy Warhol (another of his heroes), hold court in a majestic office overlooking Central Park, boast a collection of ancient Buddhist art that puts many museums to shame, and bring portable fridges into the desert so he can make sushi while doing fieldwork. Is it enough to qualify as the single coolest individual in the world? I’ll let others judge.
I do know that Mark is one of the world’s best advisors. He’s whip smart and thinks big, always urging his students to ask fundamental questions about how evolution works—for instance, how did a dinosaur turn into a bird? Never a micromanager or a credit stealer, he tries to attract motivated students, supplies them with kick-ass fossils, and then steps aside. That, and he never lets his students pay for beer.
I and many of Mark’s students have built our careers studying dinosaurs he wrested from the Gobi. Among them are skeletons entombed by flash storms that captured parent dinosaurs brooding their nests of eggs just like the birds we know today. They show that birds inherited their superb parenting skills from their dinosaurian antecedents, and that these behaviors go back at least to some of the small, winged, arch-necked maniraptoran species. Mark’s crews have also discovered a wealth of dinosaur skulls, including the well-preserved crania of Velociraptor and other maniraptorans. CAT scanning of these specimens—spearheaded by Mark’s former student Amy Balanoff, who we met a couple of chapters ago—has revealed that these dinosaurs had huge brains, with an expanded forebrain at the front. It is the large forebrain that makes modern birds so intelligent and acts as their in-flight computer, allowing them to control the complicated business of flying and navigating the complex 3-D world of the air. We don’t precisely know why these maniraptorans evolved such intelligence, but the Gobi fossils tell us that the ancestors of birds got smart before they took to the skies.
The list continues. Numerous theropods, found in the Gobi and elsewhere, had bones hollowed out by air sacs, which, as we learned earlier, are telltale signs that they had the ultra-efficient “flow through” lung that takes in oxygen during both inhalation and exhalation, a precious feature of birds that delivers the juice needed to maintain their high-energy way of life. The microscopic structure of dinosaur bones indicates that many species—including all known theropods—had growth rates and physiologies intermediate between slow-maturing, cold-blooded reptiles and the fast-growing, warm-blooded birds of today. Thus, we now know that a flow-through lung and relatively fast growth emerged more than 100 million years before birds took wing, as those first fast-running, long-legged dinosaurs were carving out a new livelihood as energetic live wires so different from the sluggish amphibians, lizards, and crocodiles they were battling. We even know that both the typical sleeping posture of birds and the way in which they mine
calcium from their bones for the shells of their eggs first arose in dinosaurs long before birds.
What we think of as the bird body plan, therefore, wasn’t so much a fixed blueprint as a Lego set that was put together brick by brick over evolutionary time. The same was true of the classic behavioral, physiological, and biological repertoire of today’s birds. And the same was true of feathers.
WHENEVER I VISIT China, I always make time to see Xu Xing. He’s a polite, mild-tempered man who grew up poor in Xinjiang, a politically disputed sweep of western China that was once crossed by the Silk Road. Unlike most children in the West, Xu had no interest in dinosaurs when he was young. He didn’t even know they existed. When he won a prestigious scholarship to go to college in Beijing, the government told him that he would study paleontology, a subject he had never heard of before. Xu complied and actually enjoyed it, and then he went on to train further under Mark Norell in New York. Today, he’s the world’s greatest dinosaur hunter. He’s named more than fifty new species, more than anybody else alive.
Compared to Mark’s presidential suite in the turret of the American Museum of Natural History, Xu’s office at the Institute of Vertebrate Paleontology and Paleoanthropology in Beijing is spartan. But it contains some of the most amazing fossils you’ll ever see. In addition to the dinosaurs that Xu finds himself, he is routinely sent bones that have been collected by farmers, construction workers, and various other people from all over China. Many of those are new feather-covered dinosaurs from Liaoning. Whenever I visit and stride up to Xu’s door, I feel the adrenaline of a kid running into a toy store.
The fossils I’ve seen in Xu’s office tell the story of how feathers evolved. More than any other part of a bird’s body or biology, feathers are central to figuring out where birds—and many of their unique abilities, like flight—came from. Feathers are nature’s ultimate Swiss Army knife, multipurpose tools that can be used for display, insulation, protection for eggs and babies, and of course, flight. Indeed, they have so many uses that it has been difficult to figure out which purpose they first evolved to serve and how they were modified into airfoils, but the Liaoning fossils are starting to provide an answer.
The Rise and Fall of the Dinosaurs Page 22