You are in the polar woodlands of Alaska, 73 million years ago.

The wind howling through the ancient conifers of the Arctic slope is sharp, but the forest floor is surprisingly lush. A low, vibrational grunting—like grinding rocks—reaches your ears before you see them. The mist parts, revealing a herd of dozens of Pachyrhinosaurus moving through and grazing in the forest. Their massive nasal bosses—smooth, thick pads of bone—gleam in the dim sunlight.

As they move, the herd communicates in low-frequency rumbles and deep, nasal snorts. The air smells of wet earth, bruised vegetation, and a musky scent akin to modern rhinoceroses. You catch a glimpse of their skin—deep, muted tones with rougher, thickened hide around the shoulders and neck, likely an adaptation for the brutal winter seasons they endure.

A large bull on the edge of the group pauses, lifting its head. The sunlight catches the top of its boss, revealing a pattern of skin-covered, rough bone. He stares directly toward your hiding spot for a long, heart-stopping moment, and snorts, a sound that vibrates in your chest.