Back to work: By now, our cradle of rib bones, and a few others that are separate from the tangle, are ready for a protective jacket of plaster. Crew members mix a bag of plaster in water, cover burlap sheets with the thick goo, then slather the exposed bones with the sheets. After hardening, they deliver the final blow to the rock base, and the tightly-cast fossil breaks free.

That afternoon, Pfister guides us through the buttes and points out one of the striking realities of dinosaur fossils: What's been here for 65 million years might be gone tomorrow. The soft, brittle fossil bones don't hold up well in sun, wind and rain. Once exposed to the surface by erosion, they may only last a season before crumbling to dust. Bones exposed on the sides of eroded buttes often break off into trails of tiny bone fragments.

Another striking reality: Dinosaur bones are everywhere. In the fossil-rich stretches along the base of the hills, it's not uncommon to find the ground littered with chips of bone. "Pick up anything that looks different from the rock, and it's probably from a dinosaur," says Pladziewicz. (Pick it up, but put it back down: On federal lands like these, collecting vertebrate fossils without permission is prohibited by law.)

During the walk back to camp, the huge anvil-shaped storm clouds we saw in the western sky hours ago are upon us. As we reach camp, plumes of smoke are visible over the southern horizon from lighting-sparked grass fires. Several crew members drive off to help fight the fires, which are under control by the time they arrive.

Now for some real work
The final day of our trip is reserved for world-class intellectual work. The specimens, weighing anywhere from 60 to 130 pounds, are shaved of excess plaster and rock and carefully strapped into backpacks. Pfister volunteers for the 130-pounder. "Once it gets past 80 pounds, the weight doesn't really matter," he mutters. Once all the backpacks are filled and adjusted for weight distribution, we set our wobbly Conga line in motion.

I am strapped with a completely unglamorous load -- eight picks and shovels -- which keep shifting and whacking my skull as I plod ahead, weak-kneed under the relentless heat.

Better-heeled dino-dig crews would find us amusing. Some have flatbed trucks, generators and backhoes to mine their quarry. While some crews use helicopter lifts for the heaviest bones, this crew goes for junkyard tech. While most bones are strapped into packs and hauled off on foot, the biggest chunks are strapped to a salvaged truck hood, then pushed, pulled and dragged back to camp.

"When the landowner sees what we're doing, their first reaction is, 'my god, these guys are crazy,'" Pfister says. "The ranchers are extremely hard workers, so I think there's mutual respect for the work involved."

And digging for dinosaurs is only half the work. Federal permits require the crew to backfill every hole. Which means the crew will have to fill in their 35-foot long by 20-foot deep trench. That requires shoveling 700 tons of shale.

Although the work is physically draining and full of uncertainty, the rewards are profound. The 12 years of do-it-yourself dinosaur excavations sponsored by the UW-Madison Geology Museum have given it a small cache of paleontology prizes. Earlier digs enabled the museum to assemble and display an Edmontosaurus skeleton clocking in at 33 feet long. The T. rex and Triceratops are works in progress. Pfister says the work is gratifying, and the benefits to the museum are priceless. "I started as a volunteer at the museum, went on my first dig in Kansas in 1989, and every year I get a little more entrenched," Pfister says. "The motivation is the thrill of discovery. And you get to be a biologist, a paleontologist, a welder, a sculptor. It's a great way to make a living."

Want to dig up more about dinosaurs? Why not excavate our bibliography?

©1999, University of Wisconsin, Board of Regents.