Paleontology Alyssa Pelish (bio) The excavation of Patagotitan mayorum, the largest dinosaur ever uncovered, took over eighteen months. The video that plays on a loop at the Museum of Natural History shows a swarm of paleontologists going at the pale red rock like workers in a quarry. They wield shovels and pickaxes and jack hammers and chisels. Some kind of crane-like machine, with blunt teeth, heaves mouthfuls of rock up from the site. One man uses a push broom to sweep debris from an enormous femur. Bulldozers are brought in to clear a road through the rocky, scrubby barrens of the Patagonian Desert to carry the bones off the site. In the lab, beneath the light of a magnifying lens, men apply what look like dental instruments—tiny drills, or maybe cleaning devices—to the fossilized bones. In the lab, notes the outback-voiced narrator, any remaining fragments of rock are chipped away. I like to think about this as I sit staring into the hull of the Patagotitan’s rib cage. Some 223 different sauropod bones were exhumed from layers and layers of sediment, the mudstone and sandstone chipped away from them, the dust brushed off. Eighty-four of the bones could be pieced together to form the titanic skeleton that rises as high as forty-six feet and extends for 120. I like to think about this. I don’t know, though, what Miles is thinking when he sits here on this black bench that, in the dim light, is almost invisible against the equally black wall striped with the shadows of the Patagotitan’s enormous ribs. He will sit here and stare for a while, sometimes a quarter of an hour, hunching his small body in the inexplicable cold of the room, his soft face solemn and close-lipped. Miles and I come here, to the museum, on Fridays. It’s marginally less crowded in the late afternoon of a weekday, after I’ve picked him up from preschool. He and I always enter the museum from the subway, which makes the whole trip seem somewhat covert, as if we are secret agents who must avoid the exposure of the streets. Miles and I step from the subway not out into the light of day and the enlightenment of knowledge promised on the Teddy Roosevelt memorial facade, but into the windowless basement of the museum and, then, by stepping into the vacuum tube of an elevator, toward the dinosaur bones. He and I sometimes visit the other halls, the other floors. The Hall of Reptiles and Amphibians on the third, Birds of the World on the second, North American Forests on the first. But we always drift back to the dinosaurs. Most days, that is the only place we go. Miles doesn’t say what it is he likes about the dinosaur bones. Is it the overwhelming scale of the big ones, the spookiness of their skeletal silhouettes, their [End Page 30] faint resemblance to the familiar characters in his picture books? Is it their silence? Miles has never quite stuck by my side in the museum. Even when I first brought him here, he wandered the saurischian and ornithischian halls on his own, and I followed at a tentative distance, like a one-person surveillance team. We enter the museum together—he knows he needs me to flash our members’ pass. We ride the elevator to the fourth floor together. We exit the elevator together, both of us turning right. But Miles enters the Hall of Saurischian Dinosaurs on his own, beneath the silent flock of seagulls suspended above. He might pause at the glass-encased skeleton of the Diatryma gigantea, a flamingo-like creature posed in profile, or at the gigantic skull of a T. rex, its hollows poured full of what looks like concrete. I follow, at a distance, careful not to appear obvious about it. Mostly, he seems indifferent to my presence, but if I get too close, make a conversational foray, his shoulders tighten and he soon wanders, silently, away, and I feel like a clumsy spy who has just been made. When we began coming here, I at first...
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