The alarm went off at four. The men dressed quickly, piled into their vehicles, and drove to a lake in the mountains at the base of a massive rockfall. In the icy light of their headlamps, the limestone glowed like a cemetery of newly-risen ghosts. They opened the back of the van and together lowered her stiff body to the ground. She was naked save for the clear plastic in which she was wrapped. They had to hurry; the sun would be up soon.

When two park rangers rolled up an hour later, they could not believe what they were seeing. Four men in dark clothes were carrying what appeared to be a naked, spear-wielding woman above their heads as if regal pallbearers. Two others followed behind, burdened with lights and equipment. As the rangers approached, heavy clouds smeared the last stain of red from the dawn.

"Estás filmando una película?" the rangers asked.

Only one of the men knew Spanish. "No," he said. "Estamos trabajando en un artículo de National Geographic."

The rangers considered this a moment. "Tienes un permiso?"

The man said he had tried to get a permit, but the park office was closed when he called.

"Entonces, no puede estar aquí," they said.

And so it was that in April 2008, National Geographic Magazine's art director, executive editor, two photographers, two artists, and the world's first reconstructed female Neanderthal were evicted from Picos de Europa National Park in northern Spain.

Weeks later, the photography permit arrived. There was no need to go back. We had the shot (below).

Around our art department, "the eviction" has become the stuff of legend, showing just how far we will go for accuracy. The full tale actually began much earlier, in September 2006, when science editor Jamie Shreeve proposed a story on Neanderthals. For art, he envisioned a full-flesh reconstruction. The task demanded an artist who not only understood Neanderthal anatomy but also had enough connections with museums to gather bone casts—replicas modeled after authentic fossils. Based on other work they had done for us, Shreeve and art director Juan Velasco chose Kennis & Kennis, a team of twin brothers from the Netherlands.

To help the artists get started, Velasco bought a replica of a composite male skeleton for $8,000 on BoneClones.com, an online store specializing in "osteological reproductions." For an extra $95, he could've added a “Premium Carrying Case for Human Skulls,” but that seemed creepy.

New research suggested that female Neanderthals were hunting along with males, so Shreeve and Velasco decided to make the model female. To feminize the BoneClones skeleton, the Kennis brothers shaved a millimeter off each rib and vertebra, replaced the male pelvis with a female one from Israel, and added female skull parts from Belgium and Gibraltar. "It was an incredibly laborious process," says Velasco.

The Kennis brothers then articulated the skeleton into an aggressive hunting pose and fixed it in place with iron supports. With layers of clay, they sculpted muscle and skin. Once fleshed-out, the model was cast in silicone, painted, and topped with red hair from Scottish Highland cattle. After six months of construction, Wilma—as our cave-woman came to be known—was finally ready for her first photo shoot. "Of course, we couldn't just shoot her anywhere," Velasco often says when telling the story. "Being National Geographic, we had to take her to the cave in Spain, where many of the fossils were found."

It was a brisk April afternoon at the cave. Photographer Joe McNally and his assistant were busy setting up lights and reflectors. The Kennis brothers were fixing Wilma's makeup. Velasco and executive editor Bill Marr were still catching their breath. "We had Wilma in the van for as far as we could go," Velasco remembers. "But the area near the cave could only be reached on foot." Since Wilma weighs close to 150 pounds, including her metal platform and spear, it took four people to haul her across a half-mile of wet and hilly forest. "She was a bear to carry," Marr recalls. "But we never dropped her."

Once McNally started shooting, the team realized the vegetation near the cave was too lush; Neanderthals lived when the climate in Europe was much colder. For that kind of setting, they needed higher elevation, perhaps even snow. Velasco looked at a map and saw a mountainous national park nearby: Picos de Europa. It was settled; they would resume there at daybreak. They rewrapped Wilma, hauled her back through the woods, and drove to the nearby town of Villamayor for the night. By the time they reached the hotel, it was late. All went right to sleep. Meanwhile out in the van, beneath a canopy of ancient stars, Wilma lay on her side, eyes open, waiting for her first sunrise in 40,000 years.

—Oliver Uberti

[Last of the Neanderthals appeared in our October 2008 issue. Since the photo shoot, Wilma has traveled to Germany, Denmark, and Japan. She will be coming to our offices in Washington, D.C. this fall.]

Photos: Bill Marr

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