"Rise and shine!" Brett yells. "It's a glorious Cretaceous morning. Time's a-wasting."
You've slept the sleep of the dead thanks to the wilderness air. Then again, it might have something to do with yesterday's adrenaline and exertion. Ignoring your body's protests, you stand, stretch, and look around. Early morning sun streams through a scattering of cotton-puff clouds to greet the conical spires of the firs. On the far side of the lake, the sun's rays spear layers of low-lying mist, turning them into a patchwork of gold. From somewhere over there, a loon-like call rises a full octave before leaping up a second one. Moments later, a response comes.
Your friend pauses as she lights a fire and turns her head in the direction of the calls. "I've been keeping an eye out, but they're either well hidden in that mist or too small to spot. Sure would love to see our neighbors."
"Me too."
Brett goes to the water's edge and fills a gallon jug. Your thoughts return to yesterday's pterosaurs, including the two fliers circling in silence high above that nest. You had assumed that they were the equivalent of Cretaceous vultures. But they might as easily have been the offspring of the pterosaurs inhabiting the nest. Or the bigger one's additional mates? Then again, they could have belonged to another, unrelated species. You sigh with the realization that doing zoological fieldwork isn't exactly straightforward.
The call comes ringing across the lake once more. You break out your video camera to have it ready in case they take flight. In the meantime, you listen intently to the pitch and cadence as you debate whether a spot-on imitation will lure them out of hiding. That's a tall order unless you can be quite calm and precise when performing. In contrast, the simplest thing to do is to write up what you know and tape their cries. Then, too, if your eyesight is good and your hands are steady, you might have better luck scanning the mist-streaked shoreline with binoculars.