Isla Nublar

With a whine, the rotors began to swing in circles overhead, casting shadows on the runway of San Jose airport. Grant listened to the crackle in his earphones as the pilot talked to the tower.

They had picked up another passenger in San Jose, a man named Dennis Nedry, who had flown In to meet them. He was fat and sloppy, eating a candy bar, and there was sticky chocolate on his fingers, and flecks of aluminum foil on his shirt. Nedry had mumbled something about doing computers on the island, and hadn't offered to shake hands.

Through the Plexi bubble Grant watched the airport concrete drop away beneath his feet, and he saw the shadow of the helicopter racing along as they went west, toward the mountains.

"It's about a forty-minute trip," Hammond said, from one of the rear seats.

Grant watched the low hills rise up, and then they were passing through intermittent clouds, breaking out into sunshine. The mountains were rugged, though he was surprised at the amount of deforestation, acre after acre of denuded, eroded hills. "Costa Rica," Hammond said, "has better population control than other countries in Central America. But, even so, the land is badly deforested. Most of this is within the last ten years."

They came down out of the clouds on the other side of the mountains, and Grant saw the beaches of the west coast. They flashed over a small coastal village.

"Bahia Anasco," the pilot said. "Fishing village." He pointed north. "Up the coast there, you see the Cabo Blanco preserve. They have beautiful beaches." The pilot headed straight out over the ocean. The water turned green, and then deep aquamarine. The sun shone on the water. It was about ten in the morning.

"Just a few minutes now," Hammond said, "and we should be seeing Isla Nublar."

Isla Nublar, Hammond explained, was not a true island. Rather, it was a seamount, a volcanic upthrusting of rock from the ocean floor. "Its volcanic origins can be seen all over the island," Hammond said. "There are steam vents in many places, and the ground is often hot underfoot. Because of this, and also because of prevailing currents, Isla Nublar lies in a foggy area. As we get there you will see-ah, there we are."

The helicopter rushed forward, low to the water. Ahead Grant saw an island, rugged and craggy, rising sharply from the ocean.

"Christ, it looks like Alcatraz," Malcolm said.

Its forested slopes were wreathed in fog, giving the island a mysterious appearance.

"Much larger, of course," Hammond said. "Eight miles long and three miles wide at the widest point, in total some twenty-two square Miles. Making it the largest private animal preserve in North America."

The helicopter began to climb, and headed toward the north end of the island. Grant was trying to see through the dense fog.

"It's not usually this thick," Hammond said. He sounded worried.

At the north end of the island, the hills were highest, rising more than two thousand feet above the ocean. The tops of the hills were in fog, but Grant saw rugged cliffs and crashing ocean below. The helicopter climbed above the hills, "Unfortunately," Hammond said, "we have to land on the island. I don't like to do it, because it disturbs the animals. And it's sometimes a bit thrilling-"

Hammond's voice cut off as the pilot said, "Starting our descent now. Hang on, folks." The helicopter started down, and immediately they were blanketed in fog. Grant heard a repetitive electronic beeping through his earphones, but he could see nothing at all; then he began dimly to discern the green branches of pine trees, reaching through the mist. Some of the branches were close.

"How the hell is he doing this?" Malcolm said, but nobody answered.

The pilot swung his gaze left, then right, looking at the pine forest. The trees were still close. The helicopter descended rapidly.

"Jesus," Malcolm said.

The beeping was louder. Grant looked at the pilot. He was concentrating. Grant glanced down and saw a giant glowing fluorescent cross beneath the Plexi bubble at his feet. There were flashing lights at the corners of the cross. The pilot corrected slightly and touched down on a helipad. The sound of the rotors faded, and died.

Grant sighed, and released his seat belt.

"We have to come down fast, that way," Hammond said, "because of the wind shear. There is often had wind shear on this peak, and… well, we're safe."

Someone was running up to the helicopter. A man with a baseball cap and red hair. He threw open the door and said cheerfully, "Hi, I'm Ed Regis. Welcome to Isla Nublar, everybody. And watch your step, please."

A narrow path wound down the hill. The air was chilly and damp. As they moved lower, the mist around them thinned, and Grant could see the landscape better. It looked, he thought, rather like the Pacific Northwest, the Olympic Peninsula.

"That's right," Regis said. "Primary ecology is deciduous rain forest. Rather different from the vegetation on the mainland, which is more classical rain forest. But this is a microclimate that only occurs at elevation, on the slopes of the northern hills. The majority of the island is tropical."

Down below, they could see the white roofs of large buildings, nestled among the planting. Grant was surprised: the construction was elaborate. They moved lower, out of the mist, and now he could see the full extent of the island, stretching away to the south. As Regis had said, it was mostly covered in tropical forest.

To the south, rising above the palm trees, Grant saw a single trunk with no leaves at all, just a big curving stump. Then the stump moved, and twisted around to face the new arrivals. Grant realized that he was not seeing a tree at all.

He was looking at the graceful, curving neck of an enormous creature, rising fifty feet into the air.

He was looking at a dinosaur.