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By Marshall Lee Weimer I was on the hunt for teeth. The rich, dark, wet earth forced itself under my fingernails as I scratched through roots and a few beetles. But no teeth. I needed those teeth. Or that’s what Clay Ecklund, my expedition leader, told our team of volunteer bone seekers recently on Isle Royale National Park. I squatted in the middle of a thick cedar swamp with John Warming and Lada Zednik. Nearby, Hal Hanson, another member of our group, sat behind a few downed trees, resting from an arduous hike through nearly unnavigable terrain. There was another presence. Or what remained of one. We were at a moose calf’s final resting place, trying to piece together its skeleton. All the bones were there, the mandibles, the metatarsus, parts of the skull. But no teeth. ....