Bringing Up the Dead: Fossil Hunting in the Peace River Uncovers More Than Buried Bones

What is the fascination, really? Digging for old bones. Yuck! That's a fascination for 10-year-old boys. But I am neither 10 years old nor a boy. So what, as they say, "was a nice girl like me doing in a place like this?" That was exactly the question I wanted to know.

Although I love being outdoors and take every opportunity to experience new adventures, I'm not exactly a budding paleontologist. I'm also not keen on disturbing the natural habitat and certainly don't envision starting a collection of prehistoric body parts. Although I get downright apoplectic when discussing the plight of the manatee, my level of awareness and appreciation for prehistoric critters has been (until this experience) virtually nonexistent. But there I was, knee deep in the Peace River, sifting through pieces of gravel and inexplicably drawn to our finds. What I discovered that day surprised even me.

"Before I started digging for fossils, I was a publicity agent in Nashville," our fossil guide, Mark Renz, begins by way of introduction. Taking a leap of faith, in a way most only dream of, Renz dropped out of the rat race in 1990 to follow his passion. When prompted, he reluctantly mentions names like Garth (Brooks), Willie (Nelson) and Trisha (Yearwood) with a tone of bored defiance that dares one to be impressed. It's a life he left behind for a reason, and he's not much interested in discussing it. His passion, clearly, is fossiling.

And when the topic turns to digging up old bones, his voice comes alive. "I was searching for sharks' teeth with my brother when I turned up a prehistoric whale ear bone, and I've been hooked ever since," said Renz. A natural storyteller with a subtle sense of humor, you get the distinct impression that Renz--owner, operator and chief guide (along with his wife, Marisa) of Ft. Myers-based Fossil Expeditions--has many stories to tell, and they aren't all about fossiling.

Today, however, our mission will take us into the Peace River, just north of Arcadia. We gather at a city park, a mixed group of amateurs: George and Stacey are on vacation from their home in Greenville, N.C., George #2 is a chemical engineer from Virginia, and David--a serious amateur paleontologist--divides his time between homes in Florida and New Jersey.

Upon introduction, George #2 and David begin to compare notes. They are both wearing T-shirts that identify them as fossilers with more than a passing interest. Both are members of fossiling clubs in their hometowns, and both have just returned from a large fossiling convention in Maryland. Renz jokes that their paths likely crossed at the convention, but they would never know it for their intense focus on the fossils.

George #1 and his wife are somewhat less experienced but talk easily about fossiling at a quarry in North Carolina. "His fossiling collection occupies the space where my formal dining room should be," laughs Stacey. I am the least experienced in the group, receiving my introduction to the concept of fossiling two weeks earlier, when I dug my hand into the sandy beaches of the Peace River and came up with several small sharks' teeth.

"Today, we will find sharks' teeth and probably dugong fragments," Renz says of the manatee ancestor, assuring us with a confidence that comes from experience. Renz has been fossiling throughout Florida for more than 9 years. For the past 2 years, Fossiling Expeditions has been leading small groups of students, Boy Scouts and budding paleontologists into the rivers and streams of Florida in search of bones and teeth of ancient mammoths, mastodons, camels, sloths, horses, tortoises, jaguars, saber-toothed cats, capybaras, tapirs, giant armadillos, whales, dolphins and sharks. "People are always surprised when we say 'saber-toothed cats,'" said Renz, "but 'saber-toothed tigers' existed only on the Flintstones," he teases. "It's the mark of a real greenhorn."

Renz gathers us together to distribute our fossiling screens, shovels and plastic bags. "The bags are for pieces of trash and glass we find along the way," said Renz. He takes the soapbox for a moment to discuss the importance of respecting the river and dig sites. "Our objective," he continues, "is to always leave the site a little better than we found it."

Licensed by the State of Florida to guide fossiling expeditions into state-controlled rivers, Renz is a stickler when it comes to respecting the river, sites and finds. He stresses the distinction between paleontology (the study of the remains and/or imprints of once-living creatures) and archeology (the study of human civilization) and reminds us that our group will be working along the lines of paleontology. Searching for artifacts (archeology) is strictly governed, and all finds must be reported to the Division of Historical Resources.

Working closely with the Florida Paleontological Society and the Florida Museum of Natural History in Gainesville, Renz is a firm believer in the importance of amateurs and professionals working together. "When the relationship is working at its best, amateur paleontologists serve as the eyes and ears of the professional." Renz tells us that many of the major finds have been discovered by amateurs who subsequently shared their finds with professionals. He stresses the responsibility that amateurs have for understanding what they are looking for and taking the proper precaution--getting the professionals involved--if they come across a major find. He wrote a book called Fossiling in Florida (University Press of Florida, 1999) to help educate would-be fossilers on how to work properly with professionals. (It serves as a wonderful guide for beginners and includes lots of details regarding licensing and protocol.) And he suggests that the efforts of today's paleontologists (and their amateur counterparts) might provide the answers we need to save some of our endangered species from complete extinction.

Amateur paleontologists or not, we are a motley crew—dressed in old T-shirts, grubby shorts, hats and dirty tennis shoes or water sock—we slather on the sunscreen and apply one final coat of bug spray before heading out, tools in hand, along a well-worn footpath under the shade of live oaks, sabal palmetto palms and old-growth cypress trees. The scenery along the path conjures up an ancient image and sets the mood perfectly for digging into some of Mother Earth's ancient mysteries.

About a quarter-mile along the path, we drop our backpacks and, taking shovels and screens in hand, wade out into the tea-colored shallows of the gently flowing Peace River. Called "Talakchopcohatchee" or "River of Peas" by Native Americans, white settlers changed its name to Peace River. While a designated canoe trail on the river runs 67 miles in length from the U.S. Highway 98 bridge just east of Fort Meade and ends downstream at State Road 70 west of Arcadia, the river itself is 106 miles long, beginning in a swamp south of Highway 60 near Bartow and ending in Charlotte Harbor on the Gulf of Mexico. It is indeed a peaceful river, and whether canoeing, fossiling or simply sitting by its banks, it is one of the state's natural treasures.

Renz wades as if in search of something and then gathers us to demonstrate the ins and outs of effective fossiling. He digs his shovel into the sandy bottom. "Do you hear that?" he asks the group. Renz is referring to the sound of the shovel tip hitting gravel. "That's how we know we're in a good spot." Renz is digging in an established hole, perhaps 2 feet deep. He dumps the shovel's contents into a 12" square screen-bottomed tray. "Now, watch how we clean it," instructs Renz. He leans over and dips the screen into the gently flowing river. Chop, chop, pull, he shakes the tray, letting the current draw the small pieces of sand and clay downstream. When he raises the tray above the water, it is filled with small black beads of gravel. "There are 3 lemon shark teeth here," he says, listing the contents and sounding remarkably like a 10-year-old boy. "Bone, bone, bone, part of shark, ray tooth and look here: part of a mastodon tooth." The group spreads out and begins to explore independently. "Hey, Mark, what do you think this is?" George #1 asks hopefully. "Looks like a healthy helping of clay," says Mark. But it isn't long before someone strikes it rich. "That's an alligator tooth," says Renz. Another moment and someone spots a snaggle-tooth shark tooth. Lemon shark teeth--the size of small tacks--are common, and bits of bone, identified by the pock-marked cartilage, can be found in nearly every scoop.

It's well past noon before the group decides to stop for a quick break. As we eat, Renz continues to educate, showing us a large mastodon tusk he found just 10 miles from our site and pointing out a worn place on the tusk where the animal likely rubbed up to a tree. He brings out a cast of a giant sloth claw that once belonged to a giant herbivore. "He could have held us in a single paw," says Renz. And in succession, he produces a mammoth tooth, scutes (the protective armor pieces from giant glypotdonts) and a jaw from the equus (horse ancestor) as part of our lunchtime show and tell.

By this time, though, our real interest lies back at the site, and we waste little time in getting back to our dig. We return with an exhausted enthusiasm and continue our rhythmic search--gravel against metal followed by the staccato chop, chop, pull of our screens. It is nearly 3 p.m. before Renz calls it a day. As we make our way back to civilization, things feel different. There is a connection now that wasn't present when we started.

I've spent years exploring and honoring the earth and its creatures, but it was always from a slightly 3rd-party view. I have appreciated the environment, cried over the death of an injured manatee and gotten angry over the senseless slaughter of a shark. But the simple act of digging up some bones somehow made me realize that the damage we are doing to our environment isn't just about "them;" it will ultimately impact all living things on earth--including humans. Digging for bones of ancient animals made me understand that the loss of our manatees, our panthers or our scrub jays isn't just a matter of what will remain for our children to enjoy. It's bigger than that, and witnessing the abundance of remains within easy reach of our shovel tips made me understand how fragile life on this planet can be. I didn't take any fossils home with me that day. We decided I'm a finder, not a keeper. But I did leave with a better understanding of and appreciation for my place in the circle of life. And if a few hours in the Peace River can do that, I say ... dig in!

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