You are in the forests of South America, 178 million years ago.

The air in the Jurassic Patagonia basin was thick and humid, smelling intensely of pine and damp earth. You were crouched behind a cluster of giant horsetails when the ground began to vibrate—a rhythmic, deep thudding that resonated in your chest more than your ears. Through the misty foliage, they appeared: a herd of Patagosaurus moving with surprising grace.

They were huge, perhaps 15 to 18 meters long, with slender, long necks sweeping the canopy. You held your breath as a mother Patagosaurus passed within twenty feet, her dark, pebbled skin textured like ancient armor. She didn't acknowledge you, her focus solely on the high branches, her long, graceful tail swaying gently behind her. A smaller juvenile lagged behind, making low, guttural humming noises that sounded surprisingly bird-like. For a moment, you were submerged in a sea of towering, graceful giants, a silent, awe-struck witness to a walking forest of meat and bone.